Please help a Pinterest boy navigate this world

Hi I'm Zaphkiel. He/they. 16 (09). Enfp 7w8. I love listening to & finding music and going to dead malls. I sometimes draw. I'm maybe cursed.

My favourite colour? RED. My blood type? RED. My favourite cake flavour? RED VELVET and lemon cake.

DNI Zionists, columbiners, proshippers, loli/shotacons, tcc, and if you're just a creep.

Transformers (mainly tfa & tfp), history mainly 18th century, postal, Duke Nukem, Hellsing, in general old internet/ older brother core stuff just peaks my interest. I also love Soundwave, trains and Tuxedo Sam.

Industrial like kmfdm, assemblage 23*, kidneythieves, and one*. Limp bizkit. Finch, senses fail & armour for sleep.

*synthpop but I'm putting them together

IF THERE'S ONLY ONE A23 FAN IT'S ME IF THERE'S ZERO ASSUME I'M DEAD!!!!!

Thanks for visiting!!!

"…following cellular division. This way, telomere shortening is prevented and bodily efficiency is maintained almost indefinitely."

The quiet treading of your pen along the paper comes to a stop - cute, even after all these years spent tinkering with Cybertronian technology, you still preferred the comfort of pen and paper. A way to ground yourself in a world much bigger than your own, much faster, just more in every sense of the world. Gigantic, overwhelming.

You place the pen down, trying to ignore the way your hand trembles.

"So, you finally did it. Right, the code that has been cracked for years, but we had no real means to apply practical to theoretical. But now, the two worlds have collided," you cheer, of course you do, it's still your partner's accomplishment after all. You are proud of him, regardless of how it's going to affect you later on.

And considering this project was started, carried on and concluded with you as his primary focus, it does affect you quite largely. You, and your whole species.

"It was not all my doing. You have been a valuable partner alongside whom I've learned plenty." In his language, that means 'I wouldn't have made it without you, I'm glad you're here. I did all this for you. I love you I love you I love you.'

His bright optic scans you as if he expects you to say something. Add a statement about human nature - after all, you're the expert - or inquire more about how he finalized the project you two have been working on for years. You probably should. It's going to be revolutionary after all. Cellular renewal without telomere shortening. Immortality in a vial. Just an injection of nanoparticles, and the human DNA will be scripted with a brand new set of telomerases, polymerases and more caretaker genes that the natural course of evolution has had the ability to develop. All written in the bulk of notes that you and your partner have carefully crafted.

No cyberforming, no spark-induced cellular stasis. Just pure, old-school cellular immortalization.

You avert your gaze from his inquisitive optic, uneasy for some reason.

"You're acting peculiarly," he says, "your usual display of pride entrails at least a shift of your somatic panels."

"A smile, you mean?"

"Precisely."

Despite yourself, you give him a faint smile. His antennae rear back as a distinguish creak of his joints signals he's shifted to a more relaxed posture.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm proud. Really. Proud of you, of us, all we've accomplished and what we've created in the meantime," you gesticulate as you recall how your sentimental involvement started as a proxy of your workstation proximity, "it's just, it's hard to imagine. It's terrifying. We have what's basically divine power in our hands and all we have to do is publish the results to unleash it."

"It scares you." It's a statement.

"Yes. Of course it does."

"Is it the impact on the development of your species to, as you worded it, "terrify" you? Or is it the use it might be made of it?"

"I guess it's both." you pause, face between your hands, as your gaze shifts from him to the scribbles on your paper. "One always thinks about the results, but never their consequences."

"What do you suggest we do in order to keep said consequences under our control?"

You pause. He waits. You grab the pen and begin clicking its button. "Remind me why we started this project."

He stirs, antennae high. "Our main goal was to lengthen human lifespan to match cybertronian lifespan, in order to prevent losses between conjunxed interspecies couples."

You frown.

"So, if I stand correct, this would only be to the benefit of a restricted number of humans."

"Indeed, you stand correct."

"But this would be unjust to those humans who are not conjunxed."

"'Just' and 'unjust' are moral concepts which science does not entertain."

You point the pen at him. "You mean you don't entertain."

Then you slump back against your chair, sudden anger replaced by emptiness. "This is not something we can put out for the public to see and not expect a massive backlash. This… this is wrong."

You pinch the bridge of your nose, resolve gone. He stares at you with his single optic, focused and cold.

"I will admit a fallacy in my reasoning," his monotone voice cuts in.

"Which is?"

"I've been working on our project while focusing on the benefits of only one conjunx. My own."

It's your turn to stare at him. He closes the distance between the two of you and withholds the pen from your grip, replacing it with his own servo.

"Do not ask me for empathy which I do not possess," he continues. "If you ask, I will delete each and every excerpt, so that our work never leaves this laboratory."

He studies your hand as he talks, and you know he's scheming something.

"Our organic models all show promising results. However, would our last model fail and render our research null, it would simply pass as a possible consequence of the trial."

Something goes unsaid.

"Why would you let your last model fail?"

"It wouldn't. The trial would be a complete success, disguised as a fail. Its incongruences would go unnoticed even after the future human generation replaces the current one."

"You're suggesting lying to the press?"

"Precisely."

"What would you gain out of it?"

There's a heavy pause, in which he gathers both of your hands in his servos in an oddly sweet display of marital care.

"A conjunx whose lifespan matches my own, without the mediatic backlash you're terrified of."

A noise dies in the back of your throat, a whimper, maybe, but that you don't know. You cannot form words, cannot voice that this is unfair, unjust, for he can't grasp the concept of it.

"I trust you won't jeopardize our work."

Because the absence of morality isn't a fallacy.

"You wouldn't let me, would you?"

Neither is failure a possibility.