Drunkard's Walk Forums - Fenspace

Website Notice 10/27/2025

Mon, 27 Oct 2025 21:22:12 -0500

Hey gang, yeah I know it's been a while & we're mostly dormant but this is important.

I just got an email from our webmaster. Apparently LLM scrapers have been attacking fenspace.net with great ferocity, lots of bots hitting the site with 5 requests/sec.

(Given that there were like 30+ "Guests" watching the subforum when I started this post, I suspect they're here too.)

As the site owner I've authorized him to set up a bot-protection system that ought to keep the content-stealing techbro plagiarism gremlins at bay. That said, there is a catch; it'll effectively switch the site over to HTTPS, and that might - might - break some image links, templates etc.

So we're going to do this thing because frankly all of those goat molesters can go catch a bus with their teeth. But if you go look at FenWiki at any point and see something broken please let me know here. I will do my best to make sure FenWiki is working correctly.

--Mal

Compromised Account on Wiki

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 10:08:18 -0500

I just discovered that someone using BlackAeronaut's account on the Fenspace Wiki has posted a page containing 300K of what looks like link spam, including some very suspicious-looking links at the back end. It definitely doesn't belong on the site, and I have concerns that his account may be compromised.

Since I have the privileges to do so, I'm going to temporarily block BA's account; I will also delete the page in a few hours -- it's been there since 3/11, it's not going to hurt to leave it up long enough for someone else to look at it and tell me that I'm off base about it (as unlikely as I suspect that to be).

Editing ideas

Mon, 03 Feb 2025 11:37:20 -0500

I have some, but I would like to start with Crystal Millennium. Since France is a core region of Sailor Moon fandom, I think French should be spoken more as my first idea.

If this edit becomes a thing with other tools

"French was historically spoken by two distinct subgroups, both of whom idolize stories that are set in France, before French/French-speaking anime fen came to the Crystal Millennium en masse due to the magical girl genre being extremely popular in France. The first of these groups existed to celebrate stories such as Rose of Versailles and Sakura Taisen: Ecole de Paris, while the second were Fen who loved stories such as Noir. All of them merged together to an extent after the aforementioned newbie bump, along with the Age of Sail fen and/or Sammies who loved Hearts of Iron mods and who could also count as military fen helping out in French-language bureaucratic matters such as government offices."

Also, is Noir the anime with 26 episodes?

My suggestions for the Pellucidarans article

Mon, 09 Sep 2024 11:16:32 -0500

I would like to discuss Undertale and Deltarune on that article, since the first is about an underground kingdom, and it's its 9th anniversary coming up.

Are there ways of replicating the magic (and somewhat psychic, with the being able to communicate through magic blasts and the skeleton psychic powers) abilities of the Undertale universe version of the monsters, and the similar magical blast abilities of the Darkners from Deltarune?

What would a Mole vehicle vastly different from the typical pulp model and more like a creation of Alphys or Queen be like?

[Story]The difference is, a Lightbulb stops working...

Mon, 10 Jun 2024 14:33:32 -0500

A repost of some things posted previously - but now re-ordered into something resembling a story.

---

The booth had been designed to fit an average human - it hadn’t been designed to fit anything like Jet Jaguar. Even with her body mostly hidden by a fur-collared silver cloak, she still sat awkwardly, with her legs shifted to one side to block the leather bench beside her.

Only a glimpse of her feet revealed her true nature to anyone who could see her. Anyone who might care to look, had their eyes focused instead on the stage far below as the show built to its climax

Jet took the opportunity to slip a plastic document case out from under the table, placing the tube on the top of the table, between a glimmering candle and Kohran Li. A small holographic projector sat beside it, waiting for the third member of the group.

“Those’re the draft designs,” she said.

Kohran Li placed a gloved hand on the case, pulling it towards her.

“You printed them?”

Jet nodded. Kohran flipped the lid open, withdrawing a roll of white paper a few centimetres, before sliding it back in.

“Ye’re puttin’ Godzilla in a can…”

“It’ll work,” said Jet, turning her eyes away for a moment

“I ain’t comfortable with things that can run on a positive feedback loop.” Kohran added. “Especially things that’ll sterilise entire planetoids.”

“I know,” said Jet, her mind clearly not entirely in the room.

“Do you understand what the consequences of this thing getting out will be?”

“I do,” said Jet. In a moment, the look on her face changed and Kohran realised she’d been in the room the entire time. “I know how many people the last accident killed. I just don’t know who they are yet.”

“You’re not filling me with much confidence.”

“Everything else will either take too long, put up too many red-flags - or be even more dangerous.”

Jet didn’t read like a madgirl, locked into the one course that triggered her blue hair fascinations. Resigned, was the word that came to Kohran’s mind. Either unable, or afraid to think of another option.

A failure of imagination, was what came to mind.

A small light on the comm-link on the table flashed red once, twice and then a third time. A moment later, a hologram shimmered to life above it - an image of a dark sphere. Electric circuits flickered in a gridded pattern across its surface, all coalescing at a single staring red monoeye.

“Well hi everybody, I didn’t think you’d be here so early.”

“I’ve never been to this sort of show,” said Jet, showing a flash of a smile. Kohran realised it’d been the first time she’d seen her smile since she arrived. “I’d some time to spare.”

“So what’s the verdict?” Kohran asked.

The sphere revolved, its mono-eye glancing at each of the pair in turn.

“I have run multiple simulations - to account for all combinations of production tolerance and fuel loading scenarios,” Eddie said.”I’m sorry to say, there is a larger delay in stabilising action of the temperature coefficients than the Soviet designers thought.”

“How bad?” If the hologram had had a throat, Jet would’ve jumped down it.

Eddie’s monoeye turned to face her. “How much of a delay, depends on the reactor power, reactivity margin, coolant flowrate, quality of the fuel and the thermal interface between channel and core stack. Using a nanotube-reinforced graphene foam to provide a thermal interface between the zircalloy technical channels and the diamond lattice does significantly reduce the time constant for power correction.”

So, not that bad? An expression of hope entered Jet’s face.

“In some edge cases, there remains a potential for the positive void coefficient to trigger an explosive power increase before it is damped by the negative temperature coefficient. This can occur once in every five thousand reactor operating years”

“Damn,” Jet breathed, deflating into the chair. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

For a moment, she looked just like a child being told she couldn’t play with her favourite toy

“Plan C?” suggested Kohran.

“I have something in mind,” answered Eddie. “I am still trying to solve the proliferation issue in an elegant manner.”

It seemed to bug him that it’d taken more than a moment’s thought to come up with something. The tracings on the hologram began to glow as he dedicated more and more of himself to simulating different designs.

“Maybe the issue’s one of control,” suggested Jet. Her blues eyes moved between the pair, looking for support.

“AI systems,” Kohran added quickly, getting a little more comfortable with the idea of a system that couldn’t be corrupted by someone.

“A mind with well directed training would effectively eliminate the risk.” Eddie confirmed. “With a second system running a continuous look-ahead simulation of all possible reactor states from current. These can be fed back to the matrix to allow the mind to trial different solutions.”

Easy when you knew how.

“What kind of mind?” Asked Jet. Her face darkened, a visible discomfort filling her armour. Of course she’d feel more uncomfortable with a mind controlling a system, than with a system that could sterilise an asteroid if it malfunctioned. .

“Beta-class, with an Alpha specialisation would at least would be sufficient.” Eddie assured her. “I understand, of course, how you would feel about it, considering your brother, which is why I dismissed the option.”

And he samed most relieved that it was back on the table.

“You’re assuming things will go as smoothly on Frigga, as they would on the Forge.” Jet answered. “That doesn’t happen. Especially with handwavium.”

Her ice blue eyes dared Kohran, or Eddie, to disagree. Kohran sensed something beyond a punk’s natural spite in her voice - a rippling undercurrent of unease.

“I don’t see why not,” Eddie answered calmly.

“This is probably the biggest engineering project in space. The amount of work needed to do it is -” she stopped to search for the right word, “- immense - and it all has to be done right, on time, on schedule and be near perfect.” Jet took a breath “The people who’ve to do it have spent the last year being bitched at by grandstanding BNF’s on Venus whenever something didn’t go right. And that was before the reactor blew.”

Kohran heard a real anger cutting in her voice, the kind that - in the moment - reminded her of so many Boskone self justifications - the kind that seemed amazed nobody could sympathise with their petty reasons for evil.

“And then the whole universe took the chance to gloat about the idiots who blew up a reactor, rather than cheer the heroes who stopped an accident from becoming a disaster.”

“Are we talking about the people on Frigga, or you, Jet?”

The sharp look the cyber threw her direction gave Kohran her answer. Yes.

“All that negativity is going to poison any attempts to create any handwaved solution.” The cyber’s voice remained even.“You handwave afraid that it’ll fail, and what’ll happen?”

“I find your lack of faith disturbing.”

Kohran suspected Eddie meant it as a joke. His deadpan delivery dropped it flat on the table.

“People tell me we live in a world were technology and handwavium will solve all our human problems,” said Jet. “More and more it feels like I live in a world where they won’t.”

“This is not a project that can be completed by feelings and opinions.” Eddies voice took on a harder edge - something had irked him

“Which is why I want to keep the wave out of it,” Jet shot back.

Kohran had the sudden realisation that a shouting match between a cyborg and an AI would probably draw a little too much attention in the middle of a show.

“You really think handwavin’ this thang’ll be a disaster?”, she asked, keeping her voice as calm as she could. Her own natural accent twanged through despite herself.

Jet’s eyes locked with hers.

“Do yeh want to run the risk of a Paul Ritter living in the computer system having direct control over this thing?”

Kohran saw a pure, thoughtless terror flash across her face, right from the depths of the soul.

“That won’t happen.” Eddie reassured, aghast that anyone could possibly think otherwise. “We are the best at this.”

Kohran felt the air begin to simmer. Of course Eddie’s reassurances had struck a sour note.

“We could look at the helium cooled designs again.” she said - trying to change the subject. “They have none of the void coefficient issues, the neutron spectrum is ideal and the temperature is suitable for power generation.”

“Didn’t we have material problems with the alloys required?”

“I have solved all the problems.” Eddie answered with the same, cheerful confidence. “The required high-temperature alloys can be made in quantity.”

“Do you honestly think we can implement that? In the time we have.”

Jet didn’t even give it a thought. She just assumed it’d be completely beyond her capability.

“The Forge can.”

Of course it could. Eddie stated a fact. Jet took it as an insult. Eddie wasn’t stuck with her. Kohran was.

“And we’re back to shit that’ll work on the Forge but won’t work on Frigga.” Jet cut back. “You’re forgetting the people element. The one’s who’ve to run it, repair it and live with it”

Kohran drew on deep breath.

“We can argue over this for another six months and still be in the same place.” She rubbed at her temples. “We’ll take a break for a couple of days. I think that’s for the best.”

Let everyone stop being children. Maybe they’d cool off.

“Agreed,” said the holographic sphere. “Time for some to reconsider would be helpful”

Jet looked at her, a flash of anger on her face - almost like she’d been betrayed. It died as her conscious mind caught up, a flush of warm embarrassment reddening her cheeks.

In a moment, it disappeared in a pursed-lip pout worthy of any teenager who knew they’d done something wrong - and hoped they wouldn’t be called on it.

Kohran, of course, had a sense of diplomacy.

“How’s Mackie doing?”

The question, of course, caught a Jet who’d fully prepared to defend herself, completely off guard. The cyber sat for half a heartbeat as she swallowed the words that had been sitting in her throat.

The edge of her lips tweaked up into the first smile Kohran

“Last I heard - Gaige qualified with the Knight Witches.”

Taken aback. Kohran felt herself blink.

“That’s a five year contract.” she said, before her mind caught up. “With an all female unit.”

“Her decision,” said Jet, with a smile. “It was either that, or live the next five years under protective isolation.” she took a breath, looking down at the stage below. “She preferred freedom.”

Kohran settled herself back into her chair - recrossing her legs. Her hand settled on the plastic case of the reactor plans. Below them, the show continued.

In moments, Jet was lost in the lightshow.

Kohran decided to wait until the intermission, at least. It’d been a while since she’d watched her own show. It was the mark of a good Engineer to eat their own dogfood from time to time, and Makoto gave the Revue an entirely different colour of sparkle.

It’d be a shame to interrupt.

The auditorium moved to the beat of the show. Jet’s finger tapped out the rhythm on the glass surface of the table.

Kohran watched her get lost in the music.

Something about that felt wrong - like Grits and Maple syrup. It just didn’t fit the cyberpunk image, did it?

Kohran found herself musing on that, on how pigeonholed so many people could become, once their schtick had been decided. Few ever transcended what people expected of them.

AI’s expanded beyond their base image. Humans tended to contract towards their public image - until they became little else.

The thought lingered in her mind until the lights came up for the mid-show intermission. The crowd below shuffled out to stretch their legs, relieve the pressures of sitting for an hour at a time and replenish their glow sticks.

“That was good,” said Jet, after a moment. She settled back into the booth as much as her body allowed her to. For the first time, Kohran saw a real light in her eyes, a little spark of happiness.

“I can’t believe you’ve never seen one of these shows.”

“Never had the chance,” Jet answered. Naturally.

Kohran placed her hand on the case. Passions had cooled. No better time than now to ask the question

“Can you tell me Why’re you so dead set on this?” she said. “You really slammed the door on Eddie there. He was just trying to help.”

Jet looked at the plans, then at her

“Because this will work,” she answered. “It’s the best chance of working. With the fewest questions.”

“You know the risks?”

Jet gave a slow nod.

“A reactor explosion is a problem. An atomic explosion is a nightmare.” she said. “The wave has given me too many nightmares.I don’t want to risk another one.”

She meant it too. Kohran could see the fear in her face, a nip of panic that ran up her spine and widened her eyes. Something that could fester, given half the chance. The fear that always ended in suffering.

“Maybe you don’t need to do this.”

Her lips stiffened. “I do.”

Had Jet misunderstood?

“It is okay to step back and let someone else carry the torch. You’re not the only one who can make this project work.”

Kohran wore an earnest smile, hoping Jet’d agree. A chance to bow out without shame - to be something else for a while.

Jet looked at her again, then down at the reactor plans. “It’d be out of character for A.C.to do something like this - she comes up with the clever solutions. It’s far too close to ground zero to be done by anyone on Atalante and I don’t think Stellvia would be crazy enough to fund this - or have a need for that much power. The conspiracy only works on Frigga.”

Jet took a moment, before giving a thin smile.

“Thanks though.”

Of course, it all seemed logical to her, fear could make it seem logical. Mixed with a little pride and the comfort of an already solved problem. Everything from the basic principles of how it worked, to the worst possible failures - and their causes.

And even that, was a known quantity. In the real world, and in Fenspace.

There was comfort in the known. Kohran understood that, at least. Better the devil you know, no matter how evil the devil.

Kohrans eyes fell to the case with the plans.

“Not building a bomb, is so much harder than building one.”

---- (2)

Five waited in the corridor, each wearing the same anonymous disposable white overalls.

The door opened. Beyond it, the bright lights, timber wall panelling and floral patterned linoleum of the de-aerator corridor gave way to gloom and concrete, flaking Soviet-era paint transforming the corridor into something ominous and entirely unnatural.

The scent of damp concrete, mould and metal drifted on a cold breath from within.

A handheld meter alarm, followed by a second, then a third within a heartbeat

“What does the dosimeter say?” asked the tallest of the three.

“3.6 Roentgen,” said the second, a goofy grin plastered across their face. Her blond hair spilled from under the square white cap.

“3.6, Not Great, Not Terrible,” the third answered, before taking a photograph of his gamma-scout with his phone. All three giggled like schoolchildren, as if nobody’d ever shared an instagram post of a panicking gamma-scout at Chernobyl before.

‘Oh for fuck’s sake, thought Serhiy Kobrin. If the meters read anything, it was in microsieverts. Harmless for a short while. They wouldn’t allow tourists anywhere dangerous.

“Tourists,” he huffed in his own language

“They bring good money,” said Khem Starodumov - official plant tour-guide.”Especially with the anniversary.”

Serhiy raised his head in grudging agreement.

“Walk straight. Walk quickly. Do not touch the walls. We are approaching the control room of reactor four. Do not touch consoles or equipment. Photographs only. Everything is contaminated. If you are contaminated you will not be permitted to leave.”

Without being decontaminated, he didn’t say.. .

“I was on a Discovery Channel film crew twenty years ago. I touched a switch. Now I am a tour guide,” added Khem with a smile.

One wall of the original corridor had been damaged by the blast. A new one had been built along with the shelter object, guiding the small group through a turnstile, a radiation checkpoint, another doorway, and then into the new corridor, built alongside the run of the collapsed de-aerator corridor.

Even after ten years, the layout felt new to Serhiy - just that little bit wrong and unfamiliar compared to how he’d learned it..White LED light’s from the tourist’s phones lit the corridor ahead, throwing hard black shadows onto the walls. Steel pipes and cableways plunged into the darkness, inert and empty for four decades.

A new steel door stood where the Shift Supervisor’s desk had once been. The wall had been added to support the demolition of the shelter object.

Prior to that, the room had lay in state for twenty years - untouched like the city beyond the station.

Serhiy almost found himself wishing it’d remain that way. A monument to the moment a routine Saturday morning test became a life-long nightmare.

He watched the visitors move through the room from the doorway, making sure they disturbed nothing. Footsteps took a space

“A little bird told me you’re retiring,” said Khem, with a faint smirk on his lips.

“From Chernobyl,” Serhiy confirmed with a single nod. “Someone sent me a job specification.”

“Hmmm…” The silence begged for more information.

“A station blew a reactor last year. They’re replacing it with a fission reactor - an RBMK derivative. Which means someone experienced has to train them how to operate it.”

“Why would they build an RBMK?” Khem asked. He might’ve asked why they bothered sacrificing a living child on an altar for the look for shock on his face.

“God only knows. But it’ll pay better than this…”

Raised voices interrupted their quiet conversation, as the tourists played their roles.

“You’re delusional. RBMK reactors don’t explode.”

“Take him to the infirmary.”

Serhiy drew down a deep breath, watching them re-enact a re-enactment. “...I’ve no reason to stay anymore. And I’ll take any chance to run a reactor once more, rather than another tour group.”

“Ah…” said Khem, understanding everything.

And of course, they touched things. They snooped around the room, gamma-scouting for the hottest of hotspots - perhaps the tiniest mote of reactor fuel or graphite that’d settled in a crack to decay peacefully for four decades.

They seemed to revel in a danger long since passed.

Their flight to Ukraine would’ve registered a higher rating on their chirping counters, if they’d bothered to look.

His eyes closed for a moment. Somehow, he could still taste metal.

“Excuse me, Can I ask a question.”

She stood taller than him, and far thinner. A dustmask hid her face, but her brown eyes stared down at him in a way that made his skin crawl - as if maybe she thought he was nothing more than a tour guide - something beneath the contempt of one able to afford the tour. It rose up his back, crawling with a thousand legs, mingling with the taste of

He didn’t feel like holding back.

“I was a trainee operator in reactor room three. Yes, I was on duty. And I knew everyone in this room. Proskuryarkov and Kudryatsev were my friends, and I spent four months in Hospital Number Six because the ventilators were not switched off and I finished my shift in three. A year later they restarted the reactor, and here I am still. Is there anything else you would like to know?”

She blinked. For a moment he thought, maybe she got the point. Even behind the mask, he could see her scowl.

“We paid to be here you should treat your customers better - we have ‘gram accounts you know…I’ve over a thousand followers”

And then he understood. To her, Chernobyl was a TV show - a documentary - a word from a foreign country that’d become the latest Dark Tourist hit - another place where you could purchase your own personal fragment of a tragedy.

“I can’t do this any more,” he said, in his own language.

----

Spoiler

Another bit from Rei's point of view [Life of Drez]

Sun, 07 Apr 2024 11:53:15 -0500

This one has been simmering for a while. I made a couple passes through it to proof it, and decided to post it finally.

Luna Night...

Google's Gemini Chatbot knows about Fenspace

Sat, 16 Mar 2024 22:21:58 -0500

So I was just poking at Google's Gemini tonight, and asked it about a couple writing projects. It surprised me by knowing about Fenspace:

gemini-fenspace.png (Size: 44 KB / Downloads: 0)

And it had a surprising grasp of at least the broad strokes:

gemini-fenspace 2.png (Size: 74.48 KB / Downloads: 0)

hmmm

Wed, 06 Mar 2024 00:34:49 -0500

Should I post an unfinished fen space fic from 12 years ago?

[Artwork] Rei in a quiet moment

Fri, 22 Dec 2023 21:17:51 -0500

Like the title says, Rei in a quiet moment, when I'm not making her want to pull her hair out...

And someone pointed out, she looks like a cat-girl version of Gadget...
I'm still writing, but the holidays is making it hard to focus.

[GDocs] My Muse won't leave me alone... [Life of Drez]

Thu, 14 Dec 2023 23:01:38 -0500

Just like the title says... my Muse is still pestering me, so I'm going to post this one before she makes me start writing more.

Where Drez comes to grips with a hitchhiker and his new life in general.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1o8DT...sp=sharing

As always, comments welcome and appreciated.

Drezzer
The Guy in the Funny Black Hat

[RFC] Trying to find a slot

Wed, 06 Dec 2023 16:58:28 -0500

I've posted my intro which gets me Up, and now the eternal question of "Now What?". I have a few ideas and a direction to go in, but I wanted to see if there was anyone still actively writing, other than Dartz (whose ear I have been bending already), that I could tie into/work with/etc (delete as appropriate).

I figured a job as a courier would put food on the table in the meantime, and give me an excuse for why I might wind up somewhere. The wife is also wanting to join in, so that's one more possibly active writer.

[GDocs] Opening submission [Life of Drez]

Fri, 17 Nov 2023 19:16:38 -0500

Hello all, I'm Drez, and per my life, I'm 10 years late to the party. I found Fenspace a few years ago, and for the last year, I've been staring at the wall. Three days ago, my Muse finally grabbed hold of me and wouldn't let go until I had written my intro story. Then my Muse grabbed me again and made me write Rei's inception, from her point of view.

Up There (Intro Story)

Incept (Rei's POV)

Comments and suggestions are welcome. This is the first time I've written anything over about 2K characters.

Drezzer

[RFC] Retcon?

Thu, 13 Jul 2023 14:27:17 -0500

The title being, Retcon - not A Retcon

----

Jet remembered the day she’d fused herself with her hardsuit, and what’d finally sparked her into going ahead with trying the damned thing on.

It all came down to one man who insisted she didn’t need to mix oil in with her car’s petrol, and that she was absolutely going to ruin the car’s engine if she put it in there. Of course, he knew better, and didn’t let her try to educate him on the matter.

Her car needed two-stroke oil in the fuel to lubricate its seals.

And he droned on in depth on what oil, coolant and petrol were for, and warned that her husband would be fairly fucking angry if she wrecked his car on him.

In that moment, her temper boiled and she resolved to put on the damned suit and prove what she could do.

At the same time, she remembered making the story up as something to fill out a character - a moment in time that seemed worthless, but could give the spark life to a new identity - something she’d assumed would be normal for a ‘real’ woman who’d looked like her puppet it did.

A moment that could be equally cliche, but relatable by anyone. Car enthusiasts and women both sympathised immediately.

And then it had become real. Ten years after creating it, Jet could swear blind that it happened. She could smell the petrol tingling in her nostrils. She could hear the peculiar rattle of the fuel pump, sounding like a single stray marble was being whirled around inside it and the gurgle of the straw-coloured petrol pouring down the dark throat of the tank. The fingers of a cool spring breeze made her regret wearing such a short skirt and tights, rather than a decent pair of jeans or trousers. Heeled shoes clicked on the bricks of the garage forecourt and she walked to the shop to pay.

Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror, her hair darker and longer than it had become. A leather jacket clung tight to her torso - while somehow still given a view down at her cleavage for the lucky few who happened to be taller than her. She’d already gotten her wallet out of her pocket…

At that point Ford had told her that a woman who dressed like that would normally be carrying a handbag and purse - it’d be strange to have a wallet like that, or a pocket to put in.

Jet’s mind had patched the hole and it all made sense. She carried a wallet at the time - it went in a pocket. Her hand moved and it was gone.

In the moment, like a dream, it all made sense.The world in her mind worked the way she thought it would, rather than the way it did.

In reality, she’d been forced to learn the differences. Men wouldn’t always notice - women would. A few subtle tells which might only raise an eyebrow in public, could raise hell in hostile company. On their own, they’d become quirks. Together they poked holes in her cover, and made her seem less like the person she’d claimed to be.

The way she’d gotten into her car that day, would’ve given everyone on the garage forecourt a flash of her underwear. Jet hadn’t fully mastered the art until sometime after Mackie’s awakening.

Driving in high heels could be done, but not in a way that could slip beneath her notice.

She found herself home alone again, getting ready for that night, freshly showered with a towel around her waist. Long legs picked their way on tip-toes through a bedroom which looked like the aftermath of a bomber raid on a comic-book and hobby shop - one which’d blown up the nearby Penney’s as collateral damage, mixing old clothes in with half-finished kits, toolboxes and a snarl of power cables which gave life to a collection of old Hi-fi equipment.

The clothes hinted at the truth. They obviously didn’t belong to her.

Her wardrobe had nothing ordinary in it. Nothing for a lazy day or a comfortable evening. Nothing in the underwear drawer that could be called ‘plain jane’, for the days when all she needed was a barrier between her body and her clothes.

Nothing she could’ve actually afforded at the time.

In reality, it’d all been bought to fill out Sylia Stingray’s character as the successful businesswoman, who wasn’t afraid to dress like it. Some of the underwear had obviously been bought for a mission that required her to ‘fill in’ for one of the girls at Candy Apple Red’s. ‘Sylia’ had never needed any nightwear - she’d never truly slept.

It all fit. The garters had to be specially ordered due to the length of her legs - a reminder that her body didn’t exactly need to, and hadn’t be built to confirm to, the usual natural proportions.

The image in the mirror, confirmed as much. Her hands pressed against her chest, sharpening the textures of soft cotton and delicate lace in her mind’s eye. Electric sparks of sensation shivered inside her breasts, filling them out before shooting down her spin. She felt wire under the brassiere tighten as she breathed, rubbing against soft skin.

A scent of antiseptic and steel tinged nostrils, mingled with that lustrous, fruity perfume she always associated with A.C Peters, chased by the sensation that something was missing - a sense of detachment from the moment like she was watching a video from inside somebody else’s body.

The memory thinned out, like looking at a colour image, where one of the three colour channels had been muted right down.

The first time she’d worn that underwear, had been the first day she’d tried her puppet body on. Jet recalled the shock sensations of cold air on bare skin for the first time in years, tempered by the muted sensations of her own armoured body still lingering beneath the surface, acting as a ground.

She remembered how wrong it seemed at the time to see a naked woman mirroring her movements. Her mind’s rejection of the image, had been tempered by the presence of her self beneath it all. A little like wearing a VR headset in a game with a female avatar - she could still feel her true self underneath the image on screen.

It had been nice to be able to touch things again. Ford enjoyed that body.

Her thoughts shifted back to her first time with another woman, lying naked, her whole body shivering, like she’d contacted a live wire. The moment of ecstasy washed everything else out of her mind.

Her thoughts shifted to her first time with another man, with an altogether deeper sort of of pleasure from a figure who’s appearance was lost in shadows. All detail had evaporated beyond the sensation of her body moulding itself to accept what was now moving inside it.

Both were tainted by the same sense of detachment - like only half being there. A large part of herself, hadn’t been in the room on either night.

When she sat down and thought about it, both times had been with Ford, and both on her first night with that body. Once as an introduction, and then as an experiment. It had been Ford’s turn to try the prosthetic on. Or had that been with a Boskone operative, who’d needed to be distracted while Jet herself ransacked his computer?

Ford preferred the puppet - to her it felt more intimate, more genuine, more like both of them were taking part and less like assisted masturbation. Jet hated the sense of not being in the room, preferring her own body - her own self - even if it limited what either of them could do for the other. As much as Jet enjoyed a rotary polisher, there was only so much enjoyment her partner could get out of it

Ultimately, intimacy had become a sacrifice one had to make on behalf of the other. By the time they broke up, it added stress, rather than adding strength.

Jet had begun considering giving up her armour, for Ford’s sake. They broke up, before she could bring herself to talk about it. The chance of waking up slowly and feeling bedsheets again almost made her go for it anyway.

The puppet could never do that. Jet couldn’t remember a single night’s sleep she’d ever had, before she became Jet.

The reflection in the mirror had finished with its makeup. Nothing fancy, nothing aggressive - just enough to make it appear as if she was wearing none at all. Luscious red lipstick completed the look. Elegant, natural, and beautiful. A pair of pear earrings shone on both her ears.

Her blouse had one, singular strong button, that held it across her chest, giving a strong, deep neckline, and a tall, bare stomach. It balanced on the razor’s edge of being obviously high class, while still showing more bare skin thatn most people’s swimsuits.

It’d began as a power move by Sylia Stingray, to stand over and above those who worked in suits. It’d been backported to a weekday game of Pathfinder that happened years before Sylia’s identity was born on paper, where she stood out amongst a group of friends who’d come either in their most casual clothes, or straight from work in a factory jacket.

She didn’t belong. Something different had happened that night.

The party died in a tower, either crushed by falling bells, or dive-bombed by an angry Lamia. Jet thought she had the solution, but the GM insisted it would fail. The Boskone had used the same tactic against her and…

…they didn’t even exist at the time the game actually happened.

Frustration boiled over. She’d asked the players to wait, while she showed them what she’d been working on with the wave in the shed. They’d already suspected something. Some even suspected she’d used to wave on her body - nobody could naturally have a figure like that.

She remembered undressing herself, and the cold Autumn air nipping at her body. She recalled the dry scent of concrete mingling with acrid varnish and vaguely metallic taint of the Wave itself. She could feel the roughness of the floor beneath her bare feet.

The inner liner of the hardsuit had been built from a wetsuit. She recalled rolling it up her body, one leg at a time, and how aggressively tight it was. It crawled inside her body, reminding her of parts she’d long forgotten.

Of course the suit highlighted her bellybutton and nipples. It shouldn’t have been possible, but the rules of fanservice demanded it. A plastic gusset plate saved her embarrassment otherwise, while providing a connection point for any biological concerns.

Jet stood opposite the suit for the last time, aware of her reflection flowing across the polished surface and felt nothing but excitement thrilling in her body. Finally she could try it on.

She felt her feet slide against cold vinyl as her legs disappeared for the last time into the darkness of the suit itself. Armour clamped tight around her thighs and waist. She leant forward against the breastplate, plunging her arms down both sleeves.

One switch activated the suit, pulling her upright and closing it around her body for the final time.

She’d taken a breath, feeling her chest press against the gel lining, and couldn’t recall a time in her life when she’d felt more secure, or more powerful - while still being clearly a woman. She’d made a point to sculpt the armour to highlight that particular fact. Her whole body had begun to tingle with excitement, little currents of electricity sparking across her skin.

It wasn’t until the next morning, long after the party had been impressed by what she’d done with herself, that she realised the suit had permanently fused itself to her body.

Jet remembered explaining this all to A.C. Peters, shortly after Mackie had awakened. A.C had then played back her own voice from ten years previous, explaining how she’d gotten herself drunk, accidentally drank a bottle of the same ‘wave she made the hardsuit out of, blacked out and woke up inside the damn thing.

She recalled her mind’s utter rejection of her own voice - even while her soul knew it to be true. That moment of terror and dissociation passed over her, as she came to realise that she really had done damage to her very self, and it could never be undone.

Secretly Jet preferred the retconned version and wished it to be true. As much as it was wrong, it seemed less stupid - more respectable somehow.

The real mistake was the same. The Wave hadn’t been trained to make a hardsuit. It’d been trained to make a Knight Saber - a subtly different thing. When she, or he, or whomever had come along, they’d provided the final piece of the puzzle the Wave had been longing to finish.

The defining moment of her self had been the same. When asked who and what she was supposed to be, Jet could point to that moment where she first launched herself into orbit and took a selfie with the planet - that singular sensation of freedom and speed and the sense that she literally could go anywhere or do anything.

When Jet became Jet, and once the shock had died down, she’d felt perfectly fine with what she saw in the mirror - figure and face. The glint of light as it played across the curves of her armour - the way it flowed up over her hip in a way that echoed the underwear that should’ve been beneath.

She felt perfectly fine with her appearance, but still preferred to identify as Male. Another memory from her true self, and one that brought a smile to her face. She’d spoken to a counselor at the time, for a few sessions only, and been given a sort of colour map of her identity - a spectrum of her ‘self’ that matched how she felt.

It matched how truly alien that puppet had felt, and how uncomfortable it had been to wear it for more than a few hours at a time. Like wearing underwear a size to small, or a shoe with a small stone in it. Tolerable in the moment, but the longer it went on, the worst it got.

Years later, after Mackie’s awakening, she took the same test. The shape of the graph remained the same, but the tones had shifted. One whole colour channel had been cut cleanly out, with the other shifting themselves to compensate. A little bit of the depth of herself had gone.

Mackie needed a sister. The Wave found one in Jet. She’d remained the same person - just getting there by a different route.

She lost a part of her self, but gained a brother who she’d loved - and was loved by in return. A fair trade, she’d concluded. Life was better with him.

Who she was today, had come about as a sum of all her experience to that point, And who she was today, had recoloured those experiences, to match what the Wave needed her to be. It needed one line on her ID card to change so Mackie could have a sister.

But now he was gone, and she could be a sister to no-one - that one thread hung loose.

[RFC] Osh Kosh.

Tue, 28 Mar 2023 17:15:09 -0500

God it's a miserable old world outside, isn't it? War. Death. Pestilence. People who chew too loud. Sometimes, you need something to remind you it doesn't have to be that way.

----

It’d been described to her as the Fenspace Convention for aviation. Watching a gaggle of single-prop private aircraft land near-simultaneously on a series of multicouloured spots painted at regular intervals along a runway, Jet found it hard to disagree.

All made it without incident. After three days, there’d been no major accidents, and only a few minor incidents. A DC-3 blasted something called a Mooney off the runway while doing an engine runup, and someone got themselves a cockpit full of mashed goose-guts at the seaplane pier.

In the back of her mind, her muse monitored the traffic control - if only to see if anything interesting decided to show up. Fenspace relied on handwaved AI’s for traffic control at Con’ time. Competent professionals managed the traffic around Wittman field. Jet couldn’t tell what she preferred.

Antares loomed behind her, parked among the centerpieces of the corporately-sponsored Boeing Pavillion, with the flight-test 3-707 tucked safely beneath its wing. Perched on the back of the jumbo-jet stood the scorched form of the space shuttle Discovery - proudly watching over the milling crowd. An mirror-polished B-17 bomber - the Aluminium Overcast - kept an eye on the young ones.

“So, how does it feel being a capitalist stooge?”

The question came K.J. DuPree, down from Korelev, still dressed in his adapted X-Com flightsuit.

“Like being a cuckoo in a gold-plated nest,” Jet answered, quickly. “It’s like this thing is a whole ecosystem on its own, like one of those whales with the fishes following it.”

The fish got fed. The whale got cleaned. Everyone somehow won something out of it.

Antares fished for charter work to keep its fuel tanks filled. An eighty-ton space-shuttle orbiter on its back made a statement about it’s carrying capacity. From any welcoming airport, to any planet. Talk to Jet if you’re interested.

Artemis showed off one of its Three Grace’s, soliciting subscriptions, donations and missions, trading on the publicity and romance of the old Shuttle program to pave the way to the future of space exploration.

Boeing got to show off their work on Antares itself, decked out inside with a hagiography of the original 747 program. Discovery watched from above, having joined the Boeing family the moment Rockwell had been Borged. Illuminated by the halo of Boeing’s past accomplishments, the arrow-like 3-707 pointed to the future.

“But it really doesn’t really fit the whole Cyperpunk lowlife ethos, does it?”

K.J. said it with a smirk.

Jet gave a shrug, doing her best to hide how much it prickled under her armour. “Sylia Stingray owned a ten story building in the centre of Megatokyo.”

It wasn’t about finances, it was about attitude after all.

“Maybe. But I’m glad someone picked her up,” said K.J., still wearing a smile. “The idea of the last 747 ever built being left to rot unwanted in an Alaska boneyard because its Russian owners got sanctioned just stuck in some people’s craw, you know what I mean?”

Nobody realised how obsolete the 747 had truly become, until nobody put their hands up to buy the final one.

Jet looked at him, then over at a chromed Mustang making its way down to the runway, it’s engine popping and backfiring as the throttle was closed.

“Beautiful machine,” she said. It’s thrumming engine syncopated deep inside her chest, speaking to something primal in her soul. Flame-spitting open exhausts satisfied in the way few things ever could. The heavy scent of burnt tetraethyl lead, dioxanes and xylidene drifted on the wind in its wake - the smell of raw speed.

K.J. clasped his hands behind its back, watching the pilot feather at the brakes as she worked to get it stopped before the tarmac ran out. A beaming passenger squeezed into the space the auxiliary fuel tank had once been waved to the crowd with one hand, the other proudly holding a very full brown paper bag

“They’re offering rides,” he said.

A little thrill sparked inside her heart, before reality quenched it.

She forced a rueful smile. “Do I look like I’d fit?”

K.J. smirked. “No. But I will….”

Jet pursed her lips, swallowing a simmering sense of envy.

“Enjoy,” she said, pursing her lips tight.

The Mustang hurried from the runway, taxiing towards the warbird pavillion. A trio of V-tailed single-engined private aircraft in matching paintwork made their final approach - livery identifying them as being members of the Flying Physicians of Pasadena aero club.

They all survived the landing.

“Why didn’t yous pick her up?” Jet asked.

After all, Federation money and influence could open many doors. They were, after all, Good People. Arguably better than Jet. Everybody liked Star Trek.

“We’d have to deal with Boeing and Uncle Sam.” K.J. gave a shrug of his shoulders. “And of-course there’s the whole capitalist-imperialist agenda.”

“I know,” said Jet, with a shrug of her shoulders. “Never make a deal with a dragon.” The old Shadowrun adage applied to Governments as much as anything. She looked back at the Boeing, the airliner happily basking in the attention of the crowds. “I’ve already seen what the barkers are saying.”

KJ’s lips tightened into a thin. He took a breath.

“Save our children from the horrors of people who let them express who they really are.”

“And Boeing did business anyway.” said Jet. “Capital doesn’t give a shit who you are, so long as you have it. Corps don’t give a shit who you are, so long as the cost of the outrage from dealing with you, isn’t outweighed by the money they make in deal. They may be loud, but they’re not winning.”

“I don’t expect you to really understand.” he said. “You’re not from here. You don’t come from the same places they do ”

K.J’s eyes focused on a spot, just beyond the airport fence. Jet wondered for a moment if he could maybe see anything she couldn’t beyond the ring of trees surrounding the airport and aircraft holding at altitude over the lake.

“When they see they’re being left out and start playing the political interference card, or the great replacement card, or the space-paedos card or whatever.” He took a breath. “When they see what they’re missing out on, these are the sort of people who’ll come up and take it. Or destroy it, just to keep someone else from having it.” he paused a moment. “And even if they’re a minority, they're only an election away from setting the agenda.”

To provide context, Jet’s own muse merrily offered up a selection of local news stories, categorised and summarised according to their social consequences, election results and recently passed laws.

It didn’t take cybernetic assistance to understand why KJ had come, and not Kali.

Four thrumming radial engines of Douglas DC-6 ran up at the threshold of the runway, shaking the very earth beneath, exhausts beating against the inside of her breastplate. The airliner charged skyward, blowing hot flame from its exhaust.

Jet and KJ gleaned at each other, sharing a smile followed by a giddy giggle, momentarily forgetting the weight of the world beyond the airport fence.

“Ten thousand horsepower,”

“Easily,” Jet nodded.

Following it, a shining silver single-seater special with a silently spinning propeller. The cockpit had been set back into the tail, with a long nose reaching forward. A razor-thin pair of scimitar wings seemed almost too small to carry it skyward.

Everything between the pilot and the propeller had been given over to housing the powercells that’d propelled it to first place at the National Championships. The old warbirds had been shocked by the electric newcomer.

It launched with a whisper from a silenced propeller. The Experimental Aircraft Association had to live up to its name. Wave-derived technology had begun to trickle down to reality and become normal.

The world changed, but people remained the same.

“How do you even begin to deal with that?” Jet said.

“I was speaking to Mal about that,” said KJ, a knowing smirk crawling across his lips “After watching the news reports, we decided get our own heavy-lift capability.”

“Your own Seven Four?” Jet made the natural assumption. “I heard Artemis ordered two for the Graces, and O’Neill got his name down before Noah Scott could.”

A waiting list had begun to form.

KJ answered with a dismissive shrug. “Like I said, dealing with Boeing, Uncle Sam and the Capitalist agenda.”

“It’s a pain in the arse,” Jet admitted, taking along breath. “If not a Seven-Four?” she glanced around the airfield, as if looking for inspiration for the collection of parked aircraft. “I know there’s a stranded Antonov or two.”

“Those ones are still Russian-owned,” said KJ, killing the idea quick. “With liens on them.”

And they’re on the international shitlist. In the political boo-box. Bad Karma to openly deal with. At least as long as the cost of accepting public outrage, outweighed the profit to be made.

“Are you going to leave me in suspense?” Jet placed a hand on her hips.

“Ptichka had an old friend,” he answered.

Jet blinked owlishly. It took far too long for the penny to drop. “You’re shittin’ me?” she said, her eyes widening as the realisation finally took hold. “I know O’Neill asked but the door got slammed in his face.”

“A personal plea from Ptichka carries a surprising amount of weight.” KJ Chuckled. “Actually having a plan to rebuild her and put her to work in a way that benefited all parties, rather than using someone’s national treasure and symbol of reconstruction as a personal statement of obscene wealth helps”

Not being an arsehole opened far more doors than half a billion dollars.

“So when’s she going to be finished?”

“Do not mistake me for some Republic serial villain….” K.J. quoted, with a villainous flourish “She took off six hours ago.”

After three months, Antares had just become yesterday’s news. In the back of her mind, Jet privately had hoped those few moments in the sun might’ve lasted a little bit longer. The sense of being overshadowed and deposed stirred a simmering pot of jealous resentment

Jet pursed her lips for a moment, long enough to let the feeling come of the boil. That wasn’t how real people were supposed to feel or think.

She glanced back at the suits proudly talking up Antares as the next big thing, completely unaware of what was about to hit them.

“Boeing’s going to pissed at their carefully managed corporate event being upstaged,” she said, after a few seconds.

KJ smirked. “Mal’s idea.”

Jet raised an eyebrow

“Have to stick it to the capitalists and all that.” K.J explained.

“Ah….”

Jet took a breath.

The AI in her muse selected one transmission from the ordered chaos of AirVenture ATC as worthy of her interest, filtering by recent conversations and known interests.

“Wittman Approach, Alpha-November-225. Good afternoon We have information Foxtrot. Expect Visual Approach, Runway 36-Left.”

It couldn’t be. In a heartbeat, Jet’s misgiving vapurised. A ripple of excitement rolled across the crowd, chased by a heartbeat of disbelief.

“Alpha November-225. Latest information is information Foxtrot. Cleared Visual approach to 36-Left” The approach controller paused, to give space for comprehension. . “Welcome Back Mirya”

Even the sputtering engines went silent as thousands of heads craned upwards in unison, like meerkats on the serengeti, each one craving that first look.

Jet bit down on the urge to launch herself skyward, and be the one to claim it. One wandering video-drone had been enough to ground the entire show for an hour - nobody would appreciate an over-eager combat cyborg doing the same thing.

“Cleared Visual Approach 36 Left, Alpha November 225. Thank you very much,” answered the Antonov. Jet thought she recognised the voice, but couldn’t quite place it. “It is good to be back”

Anyone who could, had already started to either run to the best vantage points. Even with Mirya still more than 20 miles out, and several arrivals back in the queue, anything and everything which had happened, and which was due to happen over the course of the week of the show would be forgotten the moment she landed.

Unless someone made an unholy Kandorcon-level mess.

“People need things that inspire the best in them. Rather than things that just reflect how unhappy they are.” said KJ. “Sometimes that’s a story. Sometimes it’s an action. Sometimes it makes the world better. Sometimes it’s just something awesome.”

“Maybe…” Jet began, before realising she had no idea how she intended to finish that sentence. She stood, watching the skies, overcome by the sense that something uniquely important had been missing from her life for longer than she could remember. "Everybody needs some sort of dream, I guess."

Made a change from the nightmares

-----

I've been banding around this for a few months. Went a few darker places, a few rantier places. I suppose it ended up here. Thought I'd try right a nicer, upbeat story rather than something that reflected how I feel about things. I dunno. People are long gone. Silence answers. Such is life.

My ideas

Sun, 26 Mar 2023 15:06:51 -0500

I'd like to contribute to Fenspace.

My first idea is a simple one for Pulpers.

"Skippers" will be the header title on the page, and it will be an SCP Foundation subfaction. However, it won't be the only one, seeing as how the SCP community has been historically divided across websites in real life. I want to make other SCP groups within bigger factions, such as the Wizarding World (because of Serpent's Hand and Wanderer's Library) and Village Hidden in Asteroids (because of SCP-JP deliberately being patterned off of supernatural anime and manga sometimes, and SCP-CN having character archetypes from Chinese action fantasy such as xian immortals).

This is my writeup.

Skippers (header)

These Pulpers are similar to Foglios in that their fannishness revolves around a modern, online property: the SCP Foundation. However, the loose canon and dark nature of SCP means the fen who want to bring its more optimistic memes into space are inherently divided, and the Skippers are certainly not the only SCP-related group in Fenspace. Other groups are almost always contained within a specific faction, however, whereas the Skippers are an interfactional group which has sometimes aided the mysterious Fivers and tend to stick together in mysterious, anti-authoritarian secret societies and settlements distant from the reach of factional leadership. However, the Skippers have often suffered because they are a group that rejects hierarchy for the most part because they see the bureaucracy of the Foundation as a tragedy that should be avoided in the real world.

Their lack of leadership has led to many of their settlements suffering from starvation over the years, although no deaths from it have occurred as of yet. Skipper settlements have a special relationship with major fen companies and space venture capitalists for reasons faction leadership and most Skippers want to keep secret. These external groups are generally the main provider of resources to Skipper settlements.

Many Skippers who snitch tell stories about transhuman experiments and largely ineffective plans to make an army of cyborg soldiers for a variety of purposes which differ between the fen telling the stories. Using them as slave bodyguards to be loaned to those who need them, surveillance tools, and even a tool to somehow extort the entire human race and AI into giving them money and resources with their military strength. Given what is known about Fenspace's countermeasures to such things, these tales are unlikely at best and no Skipper who has told one has ever been harassed or disowned by another Skipper. Regardless, this group's plans are unlike any other in the solar system and seem intriguing.

No Skipper who is not part of a secret society has done anything of political significance, and even most society Skippers follow the same path. However, a select few societies have done things like network with Fivers and aid them in ways no member of the two factions is willing to discuss or knows anything about. These "elite" Skippers are generally seen as the highest members of the group, regardless if they live in a Skipper settlement or not, and the only known exception to their anti-hierarchy beliefs among most Skippers, although they have no special role in actually leading Skipper settlements. The Skippers who have provided aid to the Fivers are mostly diplomats, and their unorthodox views on government and society have hindered as much as they have helped Fiver diplomats.

The name of the group originates from the Tale (the term used to describe an online story on the SCP Wiki that does not follow the office form format of the typical SCP entry, and which are usually more grounded than the stories accepted on the Wanderer's Library website) UIU Orientation.