riot0204.bsky.social
54 posts
21 followers
25 following
Getting Started
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After having similar from a "trans safe space for kinky Trans" and my only crime was them finding art of my fursona as a kid (non-sexually, it was was just meant to be like baby pictures because I didn't get a childhood) I've not trusted a lot of them.
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You may want to see the DronePunk Collective... The only common feature is the network we all share... And queer anarchist values of course...
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Literally in my case as one of the early empty spaces writers (by accident, DronePunk stuff overlapped) and someone who writes about dolls in mechs.
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Honestly... I've had more severe negative reactions over that kink than any of the more "extreme" stuff... (faux-necrophilia, waterboarding and breaking out the surgical tools gets less harsh responses...)
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Flesh and rust...
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Small, private and focused on survival for minorities with limited resources and less trust in others because they're very quickly thrown under the bus as soon as it is convenient...
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So yeah, coming soon, body horror and "smut" written by someone who's apparently got a lot of sexual trauma that went unprocessed because nobody was interested in a fat trans disabled trans girl... And now they are she's breaking more and more...
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Even go to the point where when offered the "reward" of a doxy during play, I couldn't stop thinking "sorry, sorry, I've been good. Please don't punish me. Sorry. Why am being punished?" About it and barely managed to contain that to not spoil the scene for others.
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Currently in a very bad headspace because I realised I can't feel pleasure right anymore... Thanks to transition and the stuff they fucked up down there with forced surgeries because I'm Intersex, I can't even masturbate in any way... Only way I've came in a year (5 times at that) is been beaten...
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That's a really fun contest!
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I miss the tiny community on there I had and feeling like others actually saw my stories as valid... And eggbug is still cute.
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North 100s too due to the dual filters and ability to wear them with cyberpunk visor type things to do the "semi-human" still types... And there were a fair few motorbike helmet drones which you see less of these days...
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And it's not a specific type of that either (there's a mild push in that community for customisation of it, we are punks after all... Not just in the Queer Anarchist political leanings). I'll have to re-upload a story I had elsewhere that feels relevant...
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However you're able to drone, it's about the headspace more than the kit, as much as the kit can be fun. For example in art/fiction/community that blends this reality with another, looks at the DronePunk Collective stuff, I think the only consistent thing is some kind of gas mask of some type?
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Kinda there but more just throwing microfic ideas out at the world... (With Empty Spaces tropes sometimes)
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The flechettes and energy blades, suited for fighting other mechs bounched off the old steel armour of her "Mech". And the doll fought hard. Shouting things like "This is for my ROSES!!!" and "You ruined my blackberries!!", as she used the post driver to shatter sensors and crush cockpits.
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But soon they learned. The doll's manually aimed guns evaded the computers simply by flooding the air with lead and flak. The fragile advanced mechs being ripped apart, relying to heavily on speed than armour. Missiles struggled to lock on to the slow moving mech, thinking it terrain.
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At first the other pilots thought her a joke. Hounds, some of which even had limbs removed to fit their cockpits easier and move a little faster, with eyes lost to sensor arrays, chuckled at the slow plodding thing. Mech combat was a war of random walks,flechettes complex missiles and energy blades.
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The Doll blushed at such strong language when she wrote it. Where other mechs had neural interfaces, she still had manual controls. When she found an old machine gun and added it to the top, she had to pull a string with her teeth to fire it.
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Ploushares wrought to armour. And finally a doll paintjob.
Where mechs might have lewd sayings and violent imagery, and be named such things as "Hellhound" or "Raven"... the Doll was still a doll. The flak cannon sported pink daisys and the designation "HeckPuppy"...
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But the Doll Who Would Be A Hound had little money, and no Handler. So it put together what it could. An old tape deck saying praising things on repeat. An old cargo loader. A flak cannon from a long forgotten war. The post driver she used to build her fences.
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She saw the Hounds piloting their mechs. Their Handlers shouting such things that would make even her porcelain skin blush. And she craved it. The quiet solitude of a witchless-doll less appealing than the heat and excitement they must be having.
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03
That was two months ago, you've not stopped screaming since...
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One of two survivors. All you remember is that message and then a ripping sensation, as if you were torn apart like a wet tissue.
The commander sighed... jotted something in a notepad and turned to leave.
You asked who the other survivor was.
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It took the medics a month to piece back your brain enough to debrief... the first week all you could do was scream. They apparently recovered what was left of you amongst a pile of viscera.
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It was then your AR system pinged. A short message, uncoded and as if a digital scream.
HUNGRY
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Yet here you were watching it dismantle models far more advanced, far faster, far tougher. It seemed to stutter, bullets passing straight though as if it wasn't there. Cutting through armour as if it were the air itself.
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The weapons systems were archaic, not the PPC or missiles of modern mechs, nor the high
grade alloys of combat doll weapons. Just crude ballistic cannon and simple steel bayonet. Shouldn't be able to scratch any of the newer models.
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It moves strangely. Too fast for its apparent size. Too quiet. As if even the air itself was moving
aside to let it past.
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None of them were volunteers you learned. Most were just corpses too stubborn to die.
You wonder about the pilot inside. What they were like before. If they were a broken soldier or a convicted criminal. What landed them with that fate.
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That kinda number meant it was old. Really old, before the neural interfaces. Before they
replaced half the pilots with combat dolls. Back then they just amputated limbs and wired
straight into the stumps. Sensors plugged into optic nerves.
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[Story in memory of Tommy Scott, miss you my friend and keep your memory alive...]
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You knew what it really was:
A bomber with just the tailgunner seat...
As the depleted uranium rounds hit your hull, that terrible answer returned to your mind.
"How do they get them out?"
"With a hose..."
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Less wasted on pilot comfort and survivability.
AI controlled most of the mech anyway these days. Only really needed a pilot not to breach
autonomous weapons systems treaties. They sold it as a great and honourable suit of armour
for a modern knightly duel.
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It was your first proper deployment. Sent out in one of the new MK IIIs. They claimed it was better. Advancement in the unit. Safer for the pilot. You knew that was a lie. Cheaper to make.
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They took your eyes too, that one was harder to deal with at first, but seeing spectrums you never could through your mechs sensors was better than anything your meat eyes could see.
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Of course they amputated all your limbs, easier to just wire your mech to points straight in your nervous system and less of you to armour.
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The stump where your left arm was removed itches again as you unleash a burst of 20mm rain upon the twisted marionette that chose to dance with you.
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Snapping back to the present. Targets engaged, five x-rays. Anti-missile chaff fills the air like a hero's parade. No heroes here though. Just a bunch of assets who barely qualify as human.
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"How do they get back out?" You ask realising how hard it would be to turn around...
The answer unsettled you for a while.
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"Tailgunners, you see have to crawl through that small hatch at the back." He said. You claw for his name in your memory... Tommy? That feels right.