Good release day, Kingdom!
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We've got an exciting, surprising, ground-breaking update coming your way today! For those keeping up with our "Hero's New Clothes" patch on socials, you already know just how amazing the new Hero designs and animations are looking. Well, quicker than even we expected the Heroes are officially ready to step out and strut their stuff where it counts the most -- in your browser. Check out all the amazing improvements below!
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**Hero Art Rework*\*
All 22 classes, male and female hair styles, back and head appendages, and even weaponry have received an update to accommodate future development, reflect a high quality standard, and fully prepare your Heroes for battle-readiness. Get ready to rediscover your favorite Heroes in a whole new light! And a whole new environment, as reflected in the brand new Hero backgrounds that have been designed to better frame your Heroes and their unique appearance. But wait, there's more! You'll also notice that each Hero animates in their cards based on their weapon type, which will feed directly into the combat system in the future. To reiterate just how important this update will be to future development, it lays the groundwork for dynamic equipment, accessories, weapons, and dare I say PANTS...
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Note: If you're looking for a snappier experience, feel free to toggle off animations and view each Hero's beautiful static image instead. Each Hero image is available at their own link now so you can save them, share them, or print them out and hang them on your wall (though the current hero image url is temporary and could change in the not-too-distant future). In addition, if you're feeling nostalgic you can toggle on the Classic Hero View in your settings to view the original Hero artwork.
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**Profession Animations*\*
As an immediate example of just how versatile these new updates will be for future development, we've added dynamic animations to the Hero cards to reflect your Hero's current activity. There are unique animations and locations for Fishing, Foraging, Gardening, and Mining, along with a shared animation between all Training Quests. Go and check out the Hero catalog to see which Heroes are staying busy with their questing. Ever seen a DreadKnight picking flowers? Well, now you can! We're very excited about the possibilities this opens up to really lean into the dynamic nature of commanding your legion, including the possibility of future animations for dueling, summoning, meditating, and more!
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**Combat Testing Ground Animations*\*
Now that the tech behind Heroes will match in their cards and the combat system, this should free us up to mix and match between the two. But first things first, we have updated the Hero animations in the Combat Testing Grounds to reflect the new look and movement for our three featured classes. Animation timing isn't perfectly aligned at the moment, but additional work will be done in the coming weeks to perfect timing, VFX, and polish. We wanted to get the current iteration in your hands as soon as possible to check out the fun new animations!
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Note: This update also introduces a fix for users who have had trouble accessing the Testing Grounds in Serendale.
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**Preliminary Gas Optimizations*\*
The initial gas optimizations we talked about during Thursday's AMA's were deployed a few hours ago. This included optimizations for the QuestsV3 contracts to use less gas on the start and complete transactions for all quest types. This is the first of a few rounds of optimizations we’ll be making to the questing system.
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I am beyond excited for the introduction of this Hero rework and the many ways in which it's going to improve future development and really set the stage for some long-awaited features. I hope y'all are just as excited! Now go on and check out all the amazing art and movement. And as always, godspeed and good clothing!
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PS: SecondBestDad apologizes in advance that no pants are dropping... 👖

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In the Senate Chambers on Terra:

Senator Ethan Roberts waited for his collogue to finish detailing the known intelligence gathered on the so-called Axxaakk dominion. Enslaved digital sapience, strong evidence of an involuntary nonbiological caste system, and clear extermination tactics. He had to keep his hackles from rising at the mention of an attempted infanticide directly in front of the ambassidors by someone who styled himself "acolyte lord" something or other. This was a thorny subject indeed. Even now, the Lost Boys and Second Star Rapid Response Group were pushing the enemy out of allied territory, but that was the extent of their authority without the authorization of this body and the Interplanetary Congress. An enemy who murdered babies couldn't just be pushed back across the border. They had to be defeated. Even still, not everyone agreed with him. Not everyone saw so clearly.
The floor was given to him, and he began, "Ladies and Gentlemen of the Senate, my fellow Citizens of the Republic,
"I stand before you today address a grave and dire situation that has befallen our gentle civilians and cherished neighbors. It is not merely our sovereign territory which is under threat by the Axxaakk, but any sapient being which draws breath within their reach. We, who have the greatest strength of all Terrans, have witheld our might against our neighbors when they stray from our ideals, excepting in two impositions. We shall not suffer the extermination of populations, and we shall not allow the enslavement of even a single person. What the Axxaakk Dominion has wrought in The Clans of Eldra can only be described as the ritualistic extermination of the local populations. We must confront the fact that whoever finds themselves in their reach, finds their lives in the balance.
"In times like these, when existence itself is in doubt for millions, or perhaps billions of our civilians, or our allies, we must be resolute and unyielding. We have always been a force for justice, peace, and the preservation of innocent life among the stars. The Second Star Rapid Response Group will follow the defensive doctrine, and even now they have halted the enemy advance into Star Council space, yet this is insufficient. As you heard earlier, these Axxakk's foul deity demands that all life be under his heel, that every sapient serve, and in most cases, by dying in ritualistic slaughter. This we cannot tolerate. We must act now to put a stop to these atrocities.
"My fellow citizens, I do not suggest we take up total war lightly. Indeed, I acknowledge that it is a terrible burden, but I fear that a fanatically genocidal enemy such as the Axxaakk appear to be will find conventional warfare unmoving. We may liberate the Clans, we may dive them off, but shall we do this again and again and again, each time hoping that the Axxaakk will finally have learned and abandoned their god's demands for blood? We have seen the evidence seized by the hero Aragorn before his code was destroyed along with the ship he was on. We have seen the ritual murders. We have seen the orbital bombardments. When they strike into our territory, what lengths shall they resort to in their pursuit of murder? Shall we wait for them to deploy radiation bombs? Shall we wait for the bioweapon attacks? The evils already done must not go unanswered!
"Total war authorization will cause collateral damage. We cannot and do not hold the enslaved to blame for their masters, yet we cannot stand by and allow the knife in the enslaved fist to pierce those innocent who depend on us. To authorize total war is to acknowledge the scale of the threat we face, and more importantly that faced by our innocent neighbors. Those who believe that we restrict ourselves to pure military targets mistake this foe for a mere adversary, a rival who needs a small correction. We must force this enemy to capitulate completely, and begin the Three Strikes protocol, lest we slowly be dragged into a war of extermination. The simple fact is this cannot be done without destroying not only the enemy's warfighting material, but their warfighting capability.
"We are at war, ladies and gentlemen, and while our weapons are the most terrible ever seen by mortal eyes, the enemy is undeterred, for wars are merely fought with weapons, but are won by the men holding them, to borrow some words from our ancient past. Today we must rise to the occasion, united in purpose, and unflinchingly undertake what is required. We who have served know well what we are asking of those in uniform today. I also put my life on the line, as did you, for our Republic. This is what we volunteered for.
"My fellow citizens, in this time of great peril, I implore you to stand with me, to stand as a bulwark for our weaker allies, for the fallen. Let us permit those who come behind us to act as we know they must to accomplish this dreadful duty, and may God have mercy on their souls. Remember the We Sing."
There was no applause, no cheers as Senator Roberts took his seat once more, merely the solemn contemplation of the dreadful matter before them as they contemplated their task and duty.
Then, Senator Malik Sabr took the floor, cleared his throat, and also began, "Fellow citizens and honorable members of the Senate,
"I must disagree with the honorable senator, though none who served with him could doubt his resolve, myself least of all. It is true that we cannot stand by while the Axxaakk invade our neighbors and allies, that we cannot let the attack on our Star Sailors go unanswered. Yet, to authorize total war cannot be undone until the enemy either surrenders unconditionally, or is annihilated. This body is no stranger to such foes, but we must resist the urge to strike out in our wrath.
"The Axxaakk invaders have shown themselves to be ruthless and relentless in their pursuit of conquest. Their actions have brought suffering and devastation to our very doorstep, threatening not only our neighbors, but also the very values we hold dear. It is in times like these we must stand resolute in our commitment to our values.
"To authorize total war, while tempting in its strength, carries with it terrible risks. We risk the very principles that make us who we are, a just society which values the lives of the innocent. Instead, let us focus our efforts on aiding our allies, and extending a helping hand to those in the Dominion who no doubt cry out under the heel of their vengeful idol. Let us recall that even now our peaceful neighbors face murder in droves, and only the Republic has the strength and the will to succor them, and Allah as my witness this we must do.
"Our task is clear, to provide assistance, resources, and support to our allies in their struggle against the Axxaakk invasion. We must strengthen their resolve, bolster their defenses, and stand beside them as they defend their homes from this frightful foe. Our commitment to justice compels us to action, indeed, though not in a reckless pursuit of vengeance, but in a measured and strategic manner which will not put our servicemen in the moral hazard of total war.
"Let it be known that we do not shirk the duty to defend. We will continue to strike at military targets, crippling the enemy's ability to wage war. However, we must recognize that victory in this war of defense will not be the end of our labors. The Axxaakk have slaves. Billions of souls unable to choose their own destiny. Devoted they may be, but slaves they remain. Can the annihilation of such wretched creatures be called victory? How many slaves shall these priests spend before they realize they must surrender? Shall we again wipe a sapient race from the stars, and this time in the full knowledge that billions had no choice?
"Together, we can forge a path to victory which does not lay this terrible weight upon our loyal servicemen. Today we can ensure the safety of our people, and those of our allies. Let us utilize our might to bring the Axxaakk to the bargaining table, and perhaps there we can secure the liberty of those beneath the priests' heel.
"Fellow citizens, I urge you to embrace this alternate path, this optimistic path to be sure, such that we continue to safeguard innocent lives under the sway of the blood-soaked idol. If this path proves doomed, we can yet abandon it in favor of total war, yet if we authorize total war today, can you bring back the dead?
"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, and may Allah give us wisdom in the coming vote."
Again, as Senator Sabr took his seat once more, the Senate chambers was silent. Senator Roberts gave his friend a respectful nod. He understood where his urging for caution came from, and he did not disdain Senator Savr's compassion. Yet, Senator Roberts could see the inevitability of Total War. This level of fanaticism required decisive crushing to shake its adherents out of their stupor. There were further speeches, by further senators, all received in perfectly silence, until the president of the senate called an end to deliberation, and they cast their votes.
"May God have mercy on our souls as well," Senator Roberts whispered as they waited for the tally. Victory would come, and he prayed that the cost could be born.
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Hey guys, this isn't my first post here, or even my first attempt at a serial, I'm just incredibly bad at follow-through and put the pro in procrastination. That being said: Enjoy!! I will try and put these out in a reasonably amount of time. Also, sadly this first part won't have any humans directly, as I became...verbose. Subsequent parts shall.
First: some long-winded background. I am not an artist or engineer, so I will do my best but really work that suspension of disbelief.
They say any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. If that is the case, then the races that made up the TransGalactic Federation were archmagi of legend. These races created monuments of inconceivable power and presence, capable of quelling all newcomers to the stage, or those with hostile intent. However, magic has a far greater property than mere power: flair. Magic is loud, bold and unafraid, yet it can also be subtle and unassuming, refined. The greatest engineers and technicians, eventually hybridizing into the current artnician, collaborated with the artisans of the age to create not just architectural masterpieces, but space stations of indescribable beauty and function. Even their objects of more utilitarian functions were made beautiful.
One would think such cultures would be beyond conflict, having embraced so delicate and refined a focus as aesthetic. However, that is not the case, as heated debates regarding artistic talent, originality, medium, presentation, any number of hot topics in the academia of artistry, became very real, very serious reasons for hostile actions. Wars broke out across the Federation, battles fought over resources not for survival, but for art. Ideologies, once minor, began to take hold over vast swathes of the population. Some were logical: radicalized cultures that sought to eliminate anything did not originate from them, or that deviated from their accepted beliefs, and the forces that developed in kind to combat them. Others were decidedly unexpected: the once-accepting, pacifistic race known as the Borthians soon became known as The Scour and began systematically genociding any culture whose artistic style was other than naturalism, artistic expression bereft of a civilized touch beyond trailblazers and colonizers or the remains of society overtaken by nature. The dreaded Gl’trills, who were almost deemed inhospitable to life and exterminated, favored a <ERROR: comparable word does not exist; inputting acceptable alternative> neoclassic style with virtually no external influences on style or subject outside their race and led the first League of Acceptance, standing their grounds and ultimately dooming their race to protect the cultures of others from erasure. Bastions of cultural excellence, examples of art and literature throughout the history of countless member races, including more than a few who were rendered extinct through ennui, disease, or time, were razed, while others were plundered for greed or safety.
This conflict has been raging for millenia, with cultures rising and falling, sides changing as do the cultural views and tastes. Genetic modification, now viewed as much an art as war, has been used to tailor various races to select or varied purposes. Beauty is both subjective and objective, as function is its own form of beauty. Art and war have gone hand in hand for generations, with some races using literal battlefields as their canvas, and the dead as their medium. It was onto one such scene that humanity first stumbled into the collective knowledge of The Culture Wars. This ugly, unmodified, plain alien race, with its crude, inefficient ships sought to join the battle against the Scourge and other, similarly minded threats. Function may be beautiful, but even the most magnanimous of artists cannot turn a blind eye to such an eyesore. As such, humanity was allowed onto the stage, but was met with scorn only the most arrogant of professionals can show to a novice who does not know their place. Humanity is young, it is technologically inferior, it is weak. It will have to claw its way to survival among the lesser races of the universe.
But Humanity has a secret its fickle allies and rabid enemies have overlooked. A mastery that has been ingrained in Humanity since its earliest common ancestors fought for resources, for survival. A talent it has nurtured, for good or ill, an art style that the other races has couched in flowery prose, stunning calligraphy, and ultimately pointless beauty:
The Art of War
Dramatis Personae:
Skrik’rika: Triu’quoll anatochanic, TransGalactic Federation (League of Acceptance), Logistics
Tuvix: Trolk Sculptech, local League of Acceptance, drafted civilian
For convenience and efficiency, units have been translated and converted to the viewer’s preference.
Interesting fact: the plural of opus is an opera! Which actually makes sense.
Local system: Trolk’a
“Move your asses! League pieces are incoming, they report heavy damage!” Skrik’rika’s head started pounding, and he groaned as he forced himself out of his nook. Fitting his visor over his ears, the Triu’quoll pulled on his jumpsuit and heavy boots, checking the onboard chronometer and sighing at the lost sleep. Downtime was uniform among League forces and dependent on the local solar day length and proximity to the nearest front, which meant he was currently limited to 1 12.5% rotation (4.5-hour) “free” shift per as he was currently crewing a forward operating repair depot. Said shift was on a fixed schedule, which meant unless the incoming opera were in immaculate condition, he’d be looking at less than 2 hours of sleep for the next…
Skrik jerked awake as something sharp and painful jabbed him in the bicep. He lurched away, swiping a nearby sensor probe and brandishing it at his attacker. Tuvix, one of the tusked locals 4-armed and his shift partner, tossed away the now empty stim ampule and grinned.
“Feeling better?”
Skrik scoffed, rubbing his throbbing shoulder but clear-headed and alert once more, and followed Tuvix to the repair bays module. “Any idea what we’re dealing with?” Tuvix’s 2 left hands pointed in opposite directions, indicating some ambiguity in any answer he could provide. By the time they arrived, Skrik started to understand just how screwed they were.
Sitting in their bay was one of the few remaining Gl’trillian gladiatorial suits. According to his suit’s telemetry feed from the allied opus, it was known as Honor of the Patient Stroke. Massive for a solo-pilot suit, the Honor measured 18m base height, with various weaponry and accoutrement increasing its bulk further. The only reason it fit in the repair bay that was 15 meters max on any side was due to its missing lower half and left arm. The on-site corpsman was already tending to the unresponsive pilot, neural links spidering back into the cockpit. Skrik could smell ozone and judging by the charring presented on the cables, he doubted the noble reptilianoid would wake up, much less return to combat. However, Gl’trillian rites dictated any remains be returned posthaste, and all wounded be rescued immediately. A dying race could afford no luxuries in holding off extinction, and every member had to contribute, even if it was genetic material to stave off annihilation.
Skrik and the rest of the double shifts waited for the pilot and medic to board the rescue craft for evac, before they started working. In addition to the Honor, several other mechs had limped, bobbed, or been dragged to their FORD. These pilots were still able and willing, save an avian Kuri whose broken body had been somberly removed and set aside, and were merely waiting for their opus to be repaired or replaced.
Over the next 6 hours, Skrik and Tuvix worked on disassembling the least grievously damaged constructs, diagnosing and repairing internal damages, and replacing armored components. As an anatochanic, Skrik’s responsibilities overlapped with other fields, which was also why he worked closely with Tuvix. Anatochanics were those who had an affinity for understanding and replicating the feats of flesh and blood in alloy and <translation error: engine/hydraulic oil/fuel/coolant/lubricant/plasma; UPDATE: new terminology determined; ORIGIN: Sanskrit> Pādodaka, and they were responsible for the the synthetic muscles, tendons and ligaments, and the hardpoints where these components were integrated to the endoskeleton. Some anatochanics even had an aptitude for running neural cables, the incredibly delicate and sensitive filaments that would be run throughout the synth muscles, connecting the pilot mind and body to their steed. Skrik could proudly claim to be one of these, although he was still too inexperienced to be trusted running the synthetic equivalents of the PNS and CNS without oversight.
Tuvix was a sculptech, which were often looked down upon by other artnicians within their field. Sculptechs were responsible for forming and fitting armor plates, the skin as it were, to opera. The skill needed to fabricate and fit bespoke armor plates to non-standard constructs could not be dismissed, but skills that did not require finesse, color selection, harmonic interactions were seen as lesser, “lazy” arts. Skrik would admit that there were other artnicians and tasks that were by far more finicky and beautiful than armor plating, but anyone with eyes could see the skill and passion Tuvix possessed. He could match alloy ratios almost by sight, allowing for quicker smelting or forging while an analysis would verify his work, or when given permission by pilots, providing improvements for the armor plates, be they reduced weight, better defenses, or even improving a opus’s range of motion and balance by reshaping plates and still maintaining the original aesthetic.
Tuvix went beyond these abilities, having skill in etching and neural linking. His unique combination of talents allowed Tuvix to continue the intricate designs prevalent on most opera without interruption on new plates and ensuring that pilots could actually feel and interact with their environments and foes by running external sensor feeds through the engravings. More than one warrior had been saved by these neural links informing them of dangerous temperatures, a change in terrain or balance, and even incoming attacks by sensing increases in ambient electrical charges or sensations of wind from an incoming blow.
They had just finished repairs on the remaining opus, the pilot gingerly reconnecting their neural links and running diagnostics, when the defense sensors went off.

My fingers drummed on the cold steel table in my specialized prison cell, my daily dose of blood having not been sent to me. A dry thirst burned in my throat, my ruby eyes dilating at the vampire in a cheap business suit plopping down across from me. Playing with my amethyst waves, he traced his slender finger along the nape of his neck. His ruby eyes glistened with excitement, his slicked back ivory hair reminded me of everything I hated about the government.
“Pretty hungry, Morticia Deathbite?” He taunted cruelly, hatred burning in my eyes. “I have a deal for you. The government will exonerate you of all your charges if you agree to become my wife for a mission. There is one catch, you have to let me bite you. Oh forgive my manners. I am Agent Stanton Lifewick, a member of Night Squad. The vampires in the program work to hunt down serial killers that the police can’t seem to get. Will you join me?” Growling through gritted teeth, my inky lips curled into a defiant snarl. Spitting in his face, wicked laughter rumbled in his throat.
“You can rot in hell. You guys put me in this jail cell for only drinking the blood of serial killers. Fuck you.” I retorted venomously, his hands wiping away the spit. “You can leave now, you rotten bastard!” Snatching the collar of my orange jumpsuit, he yanked me close to his face. The corner of his lips twitched with fury, a raw tension thickening between us. Shooting daggers into each other's eyes, my elbow slammed into his face. Crashing back, I sprinted out the door. Red light bathed the concrete halls, a shrill alarm blaring in my ears. Unlocking the other criminals on my way out, the distraction would be my way out. Security guards attempted to stop me, one punch smashing them into the wall. A Cheshire Cat grin spread cheek to cheek at the open gate, my bare feet smashing through. Feeling the pale moonlight on my skin pleased me, Stanton called for me to stop. Flipping him off, I leapt into the trees. Hopping from branch to branch, my heart stopped at him blocking my path. Straightening up, claws extended from my black fingernails. Cracking my neck, he pulled out a gun with holy water soaked wooden bullets.
“I can’t let you escape.” He snapped hotly, a bead of sweat dripping off of his brow. “Join me now or I’ll shoot you.” Putting my hands up in the air as a dare, maniacal laughter burst from my lips. Shrugging my shoulders, he watched me crack my fingers one by one. Leaning forward, something was stopping him. My face fell at the sound of guns clicking underneath me, the sheer amount of agents scaring me. Placing my hands behind my back, my claws receded back into their place.
“Just take me back so I can fucking die.” I grumbled under my breath, Stanton putting his gun away. Leaping closer to me, even my speed wouldn’t allow me to dodge all of their bullets. Standing behind me, his fangs grazed the nape of my neck. His hot breath bathed my neck, the agents’ fingers all ready to shoot me. Too many black suits, I thought irritably to myself. Freedom and blood was all I desired, the bastards stripping both from me.
“Just fucking say yes, you idiot!” He growled huskily in my ear, his hand sliding down the small of my waist. “You get freedom and all the blood you need from me.” His invisible strength threatened to break my back, my body trembling in his hold. Something about it dulled my hatred for him. Concern flashed in his eyes for a moment, tears welling up in my eyes. Peeking into his soul, a white aura surrounded him. Bowing my head in shame, my bangs hid my eyes. Live a life alone in prison or experience life again? Did the world hate me as much as I hated it?
“Fine.” I uttered in with defeat, a sickening dread bubbling in my gut. “You win but you better treat me like one of you. I refuse to be a slave and a prisoner.” Sinking his fangs into my neck, the disgusting sound of him drinking my blood drowned out the agents putting their guns back. Inky bats flew across my breasts, a solid black band forming on his finger. An indescribable bond formed between us, silent tears streaming down my cheeks. This contract reminded me of how my first master used me to kill innocent people for defying the church, his gentle touch scaring me out of my trance.
“Are you okay?” He whispered kindly in my ear, the sudden shift in his personality ringing the alarm bells. “I am going to get you to the car and we will sign a marriage contract to get our license. I don’t bite. Well, unless I have to. I am aware you have been alive since medieval times so the concept of living off your mate’s blood is new. It actually makes you ten times stronger. Imagine that power coursing through you.” Tossing me over his shoulder, he jumped off the branch.
“Operation Get Hitched is a success!” He announced with a warm smile, a tender blush rising to my cheeks. “Go home to your families.” Carrying me to the car, my waves bounced up and down with every step. Sitting me down in the passenger seat of a generic black armored SUV, my hair blew back as he slammed the door shut. Sliding into his seat, he pulled out a pile of papers from the center console. Passing me the pile, I knew the drill. Signing on the dotted lines, a knock stole his breath away. Rolling down the window, a fellow agent stamped the paper. Dropping two velvet boxes into my lap, the papers fluttered in the other agent’s hands. Closing his window, he held my hand up. Opening up the closest box to him, he slid on an onyx band of twisted branches. Grasping the remaining box, my jaw dropped at the matching band. Sliding on his finger shakily, surprise rounded his eyes. Thorns dug into my fingers, his face showing the same fate for him. Sniffing the ring, it reeked of an eternal curse. Fantastic, we were bound together forever.
“Can I ask you a question?” I choked out awkwardly, a warm gaze falling on me. “Why me? I am not the only vampire there. I can think of s-” Putting his finger up in the air, the ring glittered in the pale moonlight. Grabbing my shoulder, any cockiness he had was gone. It almost seemed to be a mask in front of the boys, his private personality seeming naturally sweet.
“I picked you because I saw your beautiful face in a pile of files. Also you are the oldest vampire alive, so that helped. I find you rather amazing. I don’t agree with you killing all those serial killers but you had to eat. Am I right?” He mused tenderly, is crooked grin stopped time as the urge to kiss him dominated my mind. “How about you drink something? I had them starve you for a couple of days. I am sorry about that.” Guiding my head to the nape of his neck, his vein throbbed violently. Biting him now would seal the deal from my side, the scent of a summer day wafted up my nose. Piercing his tender flesh, my pupils enlarged at the first sip, the sweet taste of lemonade coated my throat. Wrapping my arms around his neck, short gasps poured from his lips. Drinking my fill, a satisfied sigh flowed freely from me. He was right, your mate’s blood tasted like nothing else. Scarlet blood stained the corner of his lips, my hands cupping his face. Pressing my lips against his sensually, his arm slid down to the small of my waist. Refusing to let me go, his tongue danced in my mouth. Time stopped, our heartbeats were all I could hear. Releasing him from the spell, he sat back in a daze with a goofy grin. Scarlet burned his cheeks, my impulsive behavior having landed me in some hot water for sure.
“Sorry for that.” I apologized profusely, hoping that he wouldn’t hate me for acting on my inner thoughts. “I get a little impu-” Kissing me back with twice as much passion, my body arched towards him. The seat belt was the only thing that held me back, his heart beating faster than mine. Another knock interrupted him, a flustered Stanton rolled the window down.
“What!” He yelled sharply, the ivory haired female’s ruby eyes flitting between me and him. “Selena, you need to give your older brother privacy.” Her petite five two figure didn’t scream power but boy did her intense color changing aura. Sticking out her tongue, a deeper scarlet colored his cheeks. Blinking a couple of times, she leaned into the car.
“I am Selena Dogood, his baby sister. You must be the infamous Morticia he never stopped talking about. Honestly, he never shut up.” She teased lightly, her short leather dress fluttering in the breeze. “Would you like to h-” Covering her mouth with his hand, a stern gaze shut her offer down.
“I would but I need to get to the hell I am calling suburbia. You know the reason I married her in the first place. They suspect the serial killer is living in that godforsaken town.” He informed her briskly, cursing under his breath. “I might like her a bit. Do you have her clothes? People are going to stare if I bring her out in a prison jumpsuit.” Dropping a silky emerald dress into his lap, a horrendous flashback of the church dressing me in lingerie for special guests to view haunted me. Horrendous slurs had been carved into my skin, the people throwing rotten tomatoes at me. Clutching my chest, a tight embrace snapped me back to reality. Selena put her hands up into the air, walking back to her own SUV. Kissing the top of my head, the nature of our bond made this moment unbearably sweet. His slender six foot seven frame towered over me by a good foot, thus his embrace felt like Heaven. Shaking my head, I shoved him off. Undoing my seat belt, he turned his back as I peeled off the jumpsuit. Tossing it into the back, I tugged on the sweetheart neckline dress. The silk felt soft against my skin, the material a far better cry from the rough cotton of my previous outfit. The straps failed to cover the number the prison had branded me with, my fingers tracing the faint numbers. Not seeing what I did wrong, the people should have applauded me. Furthermore, I needed to eat.
“You look beautiful.” He commented pleasantly, his eyes falling on the numbers branded on my chest. “They didn’t tell me that they did that to the first vampires in prison. I promise to make your life better. Can you cook?” His question threw me off as the engine roared to life, the trees turning into a sea of houses. Rolling my eyes, most of them were close enough to pass a damn cup of sugar through the bathroom window. The ranches nauseated me further, my heart sinking at the car pulling up to a flamingo pink ranch. My face scrunched in disgust, my eyes falling on a red headed woman with piercing blue eyes. Her curls bounced around her shoulders, her ample cleavage hanging out of a tight tank top. Pouting in my direction, something seemed off about her. Perhaps it was because her aura was darker than the bottom of the ocean. Hopping out to the car, his hand ripped open the car door. Sliding on the shoes, a scowl planted itself on her lips.
“Who’s Shirley Temple across the street?” I inquired softly, his eyes rolling. “She seems to like you.” Rolling his eyes, a wicked grin spread cheek to cheek as he rose to his feet. Pinning me to the car, his lips kissed mine hungrily. Time stopped, the sound of the night fading to the background. Releasing me from his spell, her death glare sent chills up my spine. Lifting my finger, he purposely showed off our wedding rings. Glee glittered in his eyes at her obvious bewilderment, he flipped her off on the way into the house. The outside must have been deceptive because all sorts of taxidermy lined the Victorian style wallpaper, the dark wooden bookshelves were lined with first editions of books. Sitting me down on what was his original emerald velvet couch, my hands rubbing the carved bats on the armrest. Crossing my legs, my eyes fell on the coffin coffee table. Laying down, sweet slumber stole me away.
Snapping awake, a flurry of impatient knocks frightened the shit out of me. The bright sunshine blinded me, a fluke in my DNA allowing me not to burn in the sun. Rushing to the door, the redhead from the night before knocked once more. Opening the door, I leaned on the door frame. Horror rounded her eyes at my porcelain skin and black lips, her perfect ass shoving her way in. Following her into an all black kitchen, she called out Stanley. Cocking my brow in response, a messy haired Stanton wandered into the hall. Defiance glittered in his eyes, my eyes taking in the same emerald wallpaper from the living room now lining the hall.
“You are a cockadoody for your disrespectful behavior from last night.” She complained bitterly, her eyes snapping back to me. “Did you find her on an albino dating site? Why haven’t I seen her?” Rubbing his bare muscular chest, he examined her pristine white dress and black sun hat. My heart fluttered at the sight of him, part of me wishing he wouldn’t slick his hair back anymore. A matching branded set of numbers sat on his chest, curiosity twinkling in my eyes.
“Why don’t you leave, Susie?” He asked politely, popping a white tablet into his mouth. “I need you and your husband to leave me alone today.” Narrowing her eyes in his direction, he motioned towards the door. Something seemed off with her, her aura sickening me. Cupping my mouth, he noticed my reaction to her presence. Not only that, the scent of her blood reminded me of a corpse. Walking up next to her, I pushed Stanton out of the way.
“What is your name?” I demanded viciously, folding my arms across my chest. True love lit up in his eyes for the first time, the crack of her slap stunning me into a temporary silence. Her chest huffed up and down, my crazed grin infuriating her further. Pinning me to the wall, I stole the opportunity to peek into her soul. A shadow blocked me from seeing into it, my face falling.
“I am Susan Smith, the leader of the neighborhood watch. I am watching you. I am a black belt by the way.” She warned icily, my unimpressed expression peeving her off further. “What is so funny?” Knowing that she would charge me if I touched her, I cleared my throat.
“Hello to you then.” I chirped cheerfully, turning on my people-friendly smile. “I think you should go now. I work the night shift and you and your creepy neighborhood watch can go fuck yourself. You can keep your hungry eyes off my husband.” Raising her hand to strike me, I caught it mid slap. Lowering it to her side, my grip on her wrist refused to let her go.
“Whatever. My husband is hotter than yours and the mayor of the town. I wouldn’t touch him with a ten foot pole.” She returned haughtily, my fingers letting her go. “We don’t want you Gothic freaks in this perfect little slice of Heaven.” Cocking my brow at her words, it was obvious she liked my husband. A slightly overweight bald man in a pair of khakis and a blue button up shirt stepped out to search for his wife, his chocolate brown eyes falling on us. The name Richard stood out to me, a defiant glow coming over my face.
“He’s hot if slightly overweight and bald with a side of khaki’s is in fashion.” I taunted cruelly, watching her face grow red as the fire hydrant outside. Stomping off, she slammed the door behind her. Dusting off my dress, he pulled me in for a warm embrace. The foot difference made me feel pleasantly small, the feeling of his muscles against my face causing a tender blush to rise to my cheeks. This was an emotion that I haven’t felt in a while, the desire to give in to my nightly urges raged. Pushing him away, I folded my arms across my chest. Hurt dimmed his eyes, his hands running through his hair.
“We don’t have to do any of that until you are ready. We do have to get ready to go to the grocery. I just took my sunblock pill.” He explained happily, turning to walk back into his room. Hugging him from behind, my outcome was to alleviate his hurt. Freezing in his tracks, he spun on his heels. Hiding his wet eyes underneath his hair, he barely responded as I wiped away his tears. Pushing me away, a glass shattered on the worn wooden floor the moment I hit it. Shivering on the floor, I had tried too hard. Rushing into his room, I chased after him.
Fighting the tears, his years in prison had done a number on him. Sliding into the room in the nick of time, he shoved an onyx lace baby doll dress into my arms with a pair of chunky heeled boots. Stomping into the bathroom, he had his outfit hanging off of his arm. Changing quickly, he needed something to cheer him up. Crashing into the kitchen, the bottom of my dress fluttered with each step. Noting the dark roast coffee beans, coffee was the only thing vampires could taste beside blood. Humming to myself, I began the process of making him a latte. Smoothing out my bell sleeves, it was time to add the milk. Pouring the foaming milk into his coffee, he wandered in with a grumpy look on his face. My breath hitched at his black and white striped button up shirt over a pair of black shorts, his worn converses bringing him down to what age we looked like. A silver cross dangled from his left ear, his eyes falling on the apology coffee.
“I am sorry. It has been a long time since someone touched me. It is a tale I will tell you another time. Did you make that for me?” He queried with a tired smile, taking the clear cup in his trembling hands. “Did they teach you how to make this in jail?” Nodding silently, he took a sip. His eyes widened at how tasty it was, the cup was empty in a couple of minutes.
“Are we watching the people at the grocery store?” I questioned shakily, afraid to speak. “Won’t we stand out?” Shaking his head, he ruffled the top of my head. Kissing the top of my head, he offered me his elbow. Hooking mine around his, he guided me out to the car. Helping me in, we were soon heading to the local grocery store. The worn sign flickered against a faded tan facade, the housewives streamed in and out. An irritated Susan rushed past his car.
“We do but I have lived here for months, so they are used to it. If you wore pink it would be more alarming.” He whispered gruffly into my ears, those damn urges coming up again. “Trust me. We are the town freaks anyway with being “albinos”. The air quotes added a sense of humor to the moment, his soft chuckle telling me that he was fine. Helping me out, the wives all waved at him. Jealousy flashed in my eyes, his fingers intertwined with mine. While he received a bunch of smiles, I received death glare after death glare. Bright lights blinded me, the constant conversations caused my ears to pin back. The serial killer could be among these people, the very thought exhilarating.
“This can be a bit much for your first day out of jail. I would have left you at home but our bond won’t allow it.” He assured me sweetly, placing my hands on the cart. Holding me from behind, he rested his chin on my head. Talking for a minute to the butcher, a special symbol on his neck informed me that he was an ally. Susan rolled up next to me, one of her lackeys boxing me in. Leaning on the end of my cart, she cast insult after insult at me. Ignoring her words, a familiar face stole my attention. His wrinkles matched the father’s from back in the medieval times, a pair of sage eyes meeting mine. He smelled human, a Celtic symbol glowed on his neck. Susan waved her hands in front of me, a strained huh escaping my lips. His black priest’s uniform sickened me, clammy sweat soaking my skin.
“Did you hear me!” Susan demanded childishly, holding out an invitation. “This is something we call a book club.” Seconds from crumbling it up, Stanton snatched it from her fingers. Pecking me on the lips, she rolled her eyes in a huff. Father Rowell had disappeared into the crowd, my husband carrying on the conversation for me.
“I have to go to the bathroom!” I blurted out awkwardly, leaping over the carts. Crashing through the people, I skidded to a stop in front of Rowell. Reaching his hand out to me, a bolt of lightning zapped him the moment our skin touched. Clearing his throat, he pointed to the automatic doors.
“Shall we go outside?” He suggested with a sly grin, my ankle failing me at the wrong time. Crashing onto my ass, he snapped his finger. A rotting church towered over us, so many questions rested on the tip of my tongue. One pew remained, the wood groaning as we sat down on it. Why did this feel warmer than before?
“Are you the serial killer, you old man?” I interrogated intensely, his head shaking. Sliding me a Celtic spell book with the proper page open, the spell he was using only required the sacrifice of a lamb. Leaning back, he touched the glowing symbol on his neck. I guess it all added up.
“It’s not me. This damn thing prevents me from killing anyone. I turned it around, I swear. “ He attempted to assure me, my look of disbelief not pleasing him. “I am sorry for using you. You seemed so lost and I was lost by the propaganda they were spreading. The church today is much more honest. I can be a pair of ears for you. Will that help you out?” The church bell rang, the wood quaking underneath my boots, his eyes allowing me to peer into his soul. The white aura was enough to convince me, my hand touching his.
“Besides the killing, you did everything right.” I admitted sheepishly, allowing him to smile subtly. “You found me after one of my bloody massacres and still hid me from the church.” Snow drifted aimlessly, his palm catching a couple of snowflakes. Watching them melt in his palms, he turned to me.
“Do you remember when I found you? Ruby painted the snow but you looked at me with the biggest plea for help. You were but a ten year old child with fangs in my eyes.” He commented in a fatherly tone, both us leaning back to watch the snow fall. Resting our hands on our flat stomachs, he let out a soft chuckle
“I am surprised you helped me after finding out I was the daughter of the first vampire.” I laughed gently, his hand reaching for mine. “I got married yesterday. I am sorry that I went to prison. I must have disappointed you with that tidbit.” Taking my hand, he examined the ring. Snapping his fingers, we were back at the grocery store. Dropping a card into my palm, he shoved his hands into his pocket.
“I came to seek you out. The killer is among your little area I call Hell. Good luck with that marriage.” He called out as he walked to a waiting car, Stanton coming out with a bag of groceries. Peeking into the bag, it was two bags of coffee. Providing the perfect distraction, the contacts amusing me.
“It really looks like we eat.” I joked tenderly, nudging his shoulder. “Can we go home now?” Winking in my direction, his arm curled around my waist. Flipping me the invitation, his next words pissed me off.
“You are going to that book club tomorrow. Play nice and try not to stand out too much. The trick to winning Susie over is through the love of reading. As I recall, you had a cell full of the latest books.” He ordered sharply, rubbing his chin. “I know you read them all. Can you handle that tomorrow?” Whispering something in his ears, a devilish grin spread cheek to cheek.

I have been trying and failing to find a smooth fabric bralette (i.e. not stretch lace) that is lines/minimally padded to look smooth under t-shirts. My this-forum-approved size is a 30D, but bralette sizing is stretchy enough that I'm open to options listed as fitting 30DD, 32C, and 32D.
I'm regularly wearing the Everyday Longline Cami Bra and the Soft V Lace Bralette from BraBar (both in their size Small which is listed to fit 28-30 A-DDD and they fit beautifully. But the removable pads are giving me absolute fits. I hate them.
I also have Cosabella Never Say Never bralettes in both Regular small (32 A-D) and Curvy XS (30 & 32 DD-F) and both fit more less fine with (oddly) the Regular feeling tighter, but neither is anywhere near as comfortable as the BraBar bralettes. I'd go with them, but they offer so few smooth fabrics, and all the pads are the dreaded clam shell.
Evelyn & Bobby look great and cover my size range, but the darn cups are removable again. Is there such a thing as this style of bra with a molded/padded/lined cup that is NOT the blasted removable clam shells?

I was Having a dream about Ethan and we were care free running and laughing, joking and it felt so real. I woke to my 5 year old yelling from the hallway "mom Ethans here!!" The confusion of sleep slowly lifting as my mind processed and the reality slamming back into me with the absolute weight of the world as I realize the light in the hall is just flickering again. I don't say much about this, and I haven't because there are no words and nobody wants to hear it. But I do want to get into it a bit on a different level. We look at people and think they look like they have these perfect lives, they look happy. You don't see the problems just under the surface. I had an older gentleman at the gas station hold the door for me- he had to have been about 80. His face a map of where he had been, kind eyes that smiled with his mouth. I'm sure I looked shell shocked, a blank expression on my face, in a daze and there was no way he had of realizing I had just held my dead son in my arms and seen his brains through the top of his head and his chest loosely stitched together. I'd had to sign a waiver to see him, but I had to. My brother had asked to go look first and asked me to not go myself if he thought it was too bad. I let him go in first and heard him beg me please don't go when he walked back in the room. A marine war vet who I'm sure had seen worse, yet his face looked pale, his lips pressed tightly together and his eyebrows were furrowed together and his eyes wouldnt quite meet mine as he came out imploring me no, "Ethan would not want you to remember him like this please, dont go in. Just trust me." I asked my brother if it was bad- was his face gone? Thinking about a 45 hollow point entering someone's head and just decimating it. He shook his head and said his face was ok. I remember needing to see Ethan, it still wasnt really real to me- i mean maybe they had a mistaken identity or he wasnt really dead or it was all a sick prank. I just had to see and nothing would have stopped me from walking in the room and actually seeing it was him. It was finally my turn. When you are ready i was told. I thought to myself, when would i ever be ready? Who wakes up and says they are ready to see the little boy that they rocked to sleep, that they watched take their first steps, say their first words, smile for the first time, who could be ready to see them dead. I was not entirely sure what i was about to see. I started to walk through the door and he was there on the other side of the empty room. The room was bigger then the one they gave you at other viewings and he was against the opposite wall laying on a gurney with a blood drop splattered sheet covering him up to his chin. I think of it and the feelings come rushing back to me. The way my knees almost buckled and the way I felt dizzy with bile coming up in the back of my throat. The way I could only choke out the words "oh, bubba.. what did you do?" As i felt the oxygen suddenly sucked out of my body. The room suddenly hot, the air too thin the silence so loud you could hear it. I walked over to him reaching out to smooth his hair off of his face. His head seemed oddly misshapen and his eyes were sunk into his head. I remember hearing a sound that sounded like a hurt animal as i stared down, into the sight that greets me now everytime I close my eyes. vaguely being aware that I was making the sound and willing it to stop. Then I just felt overwhelmed knowing that absolutely nothing I could say or do, could get him to stand up and smile at me. That I was helpless and this was definitely my child. There was no mistake. I could see the top of his skull was gone and tried not to look at the gore where the top of his head was missing. I saw bone and brains yet, I didn't feel grossed out as I touched him. Just helpless. This was a booboo I could not slap a bandaid on. I flashed back to a few days before he died when he had come to work with me and cut his finger and i teased him as i put a bandaid on my brave little guy at the same time i had been grossed out and couldnt look at the scratch. He had laughed and looked at me semi amused and semi appalled. I walked around searching and not seeing the entry wound on him so I when a mortuary employee came to check in on me i asked her if she knew. she knew right where it was and reached out and turned his head and I was honestly kind of shocked because I thought dead people were always hard after rigor mortise set in- I'd touched dead people before but never tried to move them. His head turned with kind of a rubbery, heavy, unnatural look and there it was. Smaller then the hickey next to it he had had that last day I saw him. The size of the tip of my pinkie and pretty anticlimactic to what I'd thought it would be. Just a tiny almost bruised looking dot- having done less damage at the entry site then the exit. Pulling the sheet down a bit and seeing him loosely stitched across his chest and seeing the image of sewing a chicken breast back together when cooking (just add the jalapeños and cream cheese and cranberries and stitch it closed then bake at 350).... The rest of the visit is really between me, him and God. But back to the guy at the gas station.. who while well meaning, told me smile, it's not that bad. And it's funny because I in no way, feel that I am alone. I know so many of us have had moments that just rocked their universes. So many of us have had moments whether it be personally, or while at war, that just broke us. Yet, on the surface looking people would never know. This stranger just trying in his way to spread happiness had no idea that yes, it was that bad. For me today, yes it was that bad and worse. It's been several months, but my suffering didn't end there. I still had to watch the news reports read the comments of strangers opinions that didnt know me, didnt care if his family read their judgements, still had to field phone calls from the detectives, the Investigators. Still had to watch the video of my son dying (obsessively over and over trying to find a clue). I still had to receive his clothing he wore (and im slowly working on opening each of the 27 bags of evidence i was given), read reports and cremate him and make his urn, go to the scene where he died that was poorly cleaned up with chunks of blood and flesh strewn around (in a very public spot so that people were walking and stepping unknowingly on chunks of him that had been missed , read the autopsy report where it described cutting out his tongue and calling after hours to the coroner for about the 25th time, crying and questioning.. for the love of God, why? And choking back rage- how? How did you get it out? Did you give it back? Doing full on obsessive research learning our eyes turn black shortly after we die, watching cremation videos and staring at the clock as he was being burned and mashed up and then trying to process it all. Past that the dreams. I dont dream often that i remember, but the dreams lately are frequent and vivid. But on the flip side I have not had one day off to grieve. Not one full day of help with the kids to process. Not one full day of my phone not ringing for work or not having to make dinner and take care of 4 smaller kids who are counting on me. Honestly, things are compounding and the more time goes by, the further I am withdrawing and shutting down. The ability to deal with small stressors and something as simple as my phone ringing is throwing me back to the beginning where the voice on the other end started this nightmare with "ethans dead" . Logically I know that's not the case but I hear messages beep across, I hear it ring and anxiety and dread fill me and I just can't look. Nothing can force me to look. But it's funny how we have to be OK. NO one knows or wants to hear because it's too much, or they don't understand or it's been a week, a month... aren't you better yet? I see other people out there and know they've dealt with the same, and it changes you. You WANT to be OK. You would trade your life to have that particular situation not have happened. And I do. I want to be OK. I want to be the person people think I am. I want to be able to run my business or answer my phone but I can't be. I'll never be again and the dreams, nightmares and that hope as I wake up that it's not real, that will never fade. In some western cultures, after a death they will wear a black arm and to signify they are in mourning. I almost think it would be easier if we did that here. Then, maybe people would not be so quick to judge. You never should assume that just because someone looks normal that there is not a whole lot of trauma boiling up, I want to apologize to all my clients who haven't been able to make it through, that I haven't communicated well with and that don't or can't understand. This isn't a choice. This isn't what I want. This is what is pushed upon me and no words can change the fact that I am Stilll tired and confused and shocked at the loss of my son, and I am trying to be whole, I am trying to put on a smile and answer my phone and be the business people need but is it ever OK to be not ok? The answer I'm seeming to get is not during peak season its not! I'm processing kind of a lot and granted, I obviously need to work to pay my bills so am grateful for the work, on the flip side getting screamed at from a lady that our mow guy is a day late because it rained or the crew is not at their house we had said wed be there in the afternoon and its now 3:15, that compounds into me just staring blankly at the phone as it rings wondering how I can keep running a business if these small stressors are so debilitating right now, thinking of the past few years that my son worked for me as I realize I'm short staffed and how I started this company because of him. With him wanting to earn money so we shoveled together then he had people wanting weeding while he was at school so I jumped in and it went from there. So I am wondering what life I have now when such a huge piece of me is dead and I do blame myself because I didn't realize it at the time but my actions, parenting style and reactions had everything to do with his death and even though what I did made sense looking back- instead of calling the police on him when he showed me he had a gun- and knowing he'd run from his sober living, I just lectured him and told him I knew he'd make the right choice. I had a truck I wanted to give him but didn't because he had a gun and had run from sober living. If I'd given him the truck he would not have stolen the car. I could have traded gun for truck. If I'd called police they would have taken him to jail where he was safe. My version of natural consequences didnt factor in that I'd be the one alive to suffer them not him.

Hey there,
I'm JD and I am looking for an experienced and reliable artist to help with the creation of this project.
The project is a slice of life comedy about the existential dread of adulthood, surviving a toxic workplace and finding joy in the simple and the mundane. The story takes place in a metropolitan area and is set in the present or the very, very near future.
Key concepts that will be explored are mental wellness, stigmas and the Japanese concept of "honne and tatemae."
The project is in the "early-ish" stages of development, which I hope makes it feel more attractive, as well. Drafts of the first 5 chapters are finished and main characters are being established, but there is definitely room for more within this world. I lack any artistic skills, so designs of all characters and locations will be needed. I am open to feedback and ideas, as needed.
In terms of specifics, I am looking for:
someone that has experience drawing manga/manwha styled characters.
Someone experienced and interested in the comedy genre.
Someone reliable and interested in working together on a long-term project.
If I've piqued your interest and you hit some of the specifics I am looking for, or if you have any questions or need clarification, please reply to this with your portfolio and experience and/or shoot me a message through email:
[email protected]
Thanks!
Hope to chat with you soon!

When I was getting started, an actor I knew gave me some really good advice. While deciding whether or not to take a certain role, consider three factors: the money, the show, and the people. If at least two of those things are good, accept the job. If they’re paying you well and you love the play, you won’t mind putting up with shitty people. If it’s a great show with a cast full of friends, but you’re not getting paid so well, that’s still alright, it’ll be artistically fulfilling. If it’s a bad show but you love the cast and you’re making money, you’ll probably have the time of your life making fun of the playwright backstage and laughing all the way to the bank.
What my friend failed to mention is that as an aspiring actor, you don’t usually get to be that picky. When I got the call from my agent that a production of The Bacchae was urgently seeking a new chorus member, all I could see were dollar signs. My survival job had just fallen through (the family I nannied for was moving upstate, insisting that Manhattan had just gotten “too dangerous” for their toddler), and my savings were only going to cover my rent for another month.
It was raining the day of my audition, and my train got delayed. I showed up panting (I had to run from the subway station) and my hair a disaster. Luckily, in The Bacchae, the chorus is full of… well… Bacchae. Fervent followers of Dionysus, wild women, drunk and running through the countryside. In the climax of the play, they crowd the protagonist in a frenzy, literally ripping him limb from limb.
I’ll never know if it was my frenetic energy from barely making it to the theater on time, or my actual acting, but I got the part. My costume fitting was the next day– they weren’t kidding about urgently needing a replacement. Which thrilled me, because I wasn’t kidding about urgently needing the money. At the fitting, I discovered something my agent failed to mention about the production: this wasn’t just any version of The Bacchae, it was a recreation– an attempt to perform the play in the traditional Greek style. In other words, everyone was wearing masks.
I’ve never been fond of masks. We had to do a few assignments with them in my college acting courses; covering your face can enhance the physicality of your body, something like that. But I never liked wearing them, or seeing other people wearing them. It wouldn’t be fair to call it a full-on fear, but the stiffness, the lack of expression, gives me a weird feeling in my stomach. And wearing one, your field of vision limited, your mouth covered, making it harder to breathe, harder to project your voice– I don’t like it. It’s as simple as that.
But I needed the money. My costume wasn’t ugly, per se, just strange: a long white dress, or maybe toga is a better word, the fabric about the thickness of a burlap sack. My mask, stark white, paper mache, covering my entire face except my eyes, the mouth carved to imitate a grin. No shoes. My hair tucked into a wild black wig– we wore wigs, they explained to me, so the chorus could be identical, indistinguishable. We moved as one, spoke as one, and were meant to look like one. They even made sure to cast women of the same height. In our costumes, it was impossible to tell which of us was which.
It didn’t help that I was an outsider to the rest of the cast, joining the show weeks into rehearsals. Everyone seemed annoyed that they had to teach me the blocking, the inflection of the lines (so my voice didn’t stick out from the other chorus girls), and where to go backstage during scenes with no chorus. A few people tried to be nice to me, but quickly gave up when they realized I knew nothing about Greek theater, or masked theater, or the avant garde. My last show had been a regional production of Cats, for God’s sake. I was totally out of my element.
Things got especially sour when I tried to ask what had happened to the girl I was replacing. Nobody wanted to talk about it. People gasped when I brought it up. The clearest answer I got was a whispered, hesitant, “she fell,” but the person wouldn’t elaborate any further. The cast seemed superstitious, uncomfortable, like talking about her would cause them to suffer her fate: removal from the show. And it was clear that, aside from me, everyone else loved this show. The actor playing Dionysus, the couple of times he deigned to talk to me, just kept gushing about how honored he was to play this role, how electrifying it felt to put his history minor to use, to show people a piece of the world’s theatrical beginnings.
I thought the show was fine. Kinda boring, kinda scary. I don’t think I “get” The Bacchae. In brief, the story is about Dionysus, son of Zeus, disguised as a human. He and his followers (the chorus) show up in a town, but the leader of the town, Pentheus, is upset about it. He doesn’t understand why all these women are acting crazy, and he arrests Dionysus, not believing him to be an actual God. As punishment, Dionysus possesses Pentheus’s own mother with the same madness as his followers, and together, with their bare hands, they rip Pentheus apart. His mom walks back into town holding her son’s head, thinking it to be, in her madness, the head of a lion. When she realizes what she’s done, she is overwhelmed by grief, and futilely attempts to put Pentheus’s mutilated corpse back together. Dionysus returns, basically saying, “well, he said I wasn’t a God, and that’s blasphemous, so he got what was coming to him.” Pentheus’s mother is exiled.
It’s incredibly dark. In the reviews, critics called it daring, challenging, a bloody spectacle, a feminist masterpiece. I don’t really get what part of “a man who’s a God possesses women’s minds, driving them to murder” screams “feminism,” but hey, I’m the girl who commuted to New Jersey every day for four months to do Cats, what do I know?
Here’s something I do know: the other chorus girls did not like me. And they took their jobs seriously. As we waited to enter for each scene, there was dead quiet in the wings. Usually, there’s some light joking, maybe quickly running lines, maybe physical warmups, shaking out your nerves– I tried to do this once. Before our entrance at the top of the show, we all gathered in the stage right wing, all twelve of us, a perfect and identical dozen. It was a dress rehearsal. No audience. I did a few jumping jacks, trying to hype myself up. Another masked girl grabbed my bicep, hard. When I turned, she just shook her head “no.” Just a simple, silent, “no.” We don’t do that here. We stand silently in the wings, focusing on our craft, breathing, waiting for our entrance. I never tried it again.
When you can’t talk to your coworkers, acting becomes a lot less fun. The collaboration element is totally gone. And honestly, the “acting” element was gone for me, too. How am I supposed to find my character or sense of identity in a role when my role is “don’t let your voice stick out, don’t take a wrong step, blend in perfectly with eleven women who dislike you?”
So before the shows, instead of chatting, or doing jumping jacks, I wandered the theater. I’ve always loved theaters; the dramatic architecture, the ornate prosceniums, the stark contrast of backstage, so dark, so dusty. The theater was no Broadway house, but it had a fly system (which we didn’t use, because the Greeks wouldn’t have been able to fly anything in), just over three hundred seats (including a mezzanine– fancy!), and lots of backstage space. I could say more about it, because I spent hours during the run of the show wandering, but it wouldn’t be terribly interesting to anyone who’s not me. Just know, it was a beautiful old theater– and I mean OLD. Built in the 1910s, just before the Great Depression. I used to love imagining how many generations of people had performed on that stage, imagining what they’d think of this show, or what they’d think of me.
About a week into my wandering, on some fifteen-minute break, I was looking at the ladder that led up to the catwalk– a long, thin metal walkway stretching across the stage from above, usually used for hanging lights. I wondered how long it had been since it was used during a show. I wondered if it was even safe. What would the view be like from up there, seeing the entire stage from thirty feet in the air?
I slowly looked up the ladder. I wouldn’t actually climb it. That would be crazy, right? I’m not particularly good with heights. As my eyes lifted, I made eye contact– or rather, mask contact– with someone. A fellow chorus girl, up on the catwalk.
I stopped breathing for a second. What was she doing up there? I started to say something stupid, like, “Why are you up there?” when just as quickly as the face appeared, it vanished. I saw her white robed form retreat down the catwalk, heading for a different ladder, probably. It was weird. Why did she run? Embarrassed to be caught somewhere she shouldn’t be?
I allowed myself to entertain a little fantasy: maybe she was just like me. Maybe she also hated the other chorus girls, and didn’t “get” The Bacchae. Maybe she was exploring the theater for fun on our break, enjoying the old architecture, like I did. I had no idea who she was under the mask, and she had no idea who I was. She probably thought I was one of the normal judgemental girls, and ran off before I could tell on her to the stage manager.
I was filled with unfounded hope. Could I make a friend here? Was it possible? After two and a half weeks of silence from the other girls, it was hard to imagine. How would I find her? How would I let her know it was me– that I had seen her on the catwalk, and we were the same?
After that day, I got much more observant. When the director called for a break, instead of immediately retreating into the depths of backstage, I watched my eleven doppelgangers carefully, tracking who went for water, who went back to the dressing rooms, who ran off towards the vending machines. It was hard to tell everyone apart, but people had to take their masks off to drink water eventually. I memorized faces and tried to keep track of them. I started to get a handle on everyone’s patterns, narrowing down potential adventurers.
It was impossible. Eleven people is too many to observe. But I’m an actor. Memorizing shit is literally my job. By week four, just days from opening, I had three potential girls. I tried to stick close to them during rehearsals, picking one to follow each day, but nobody ever wandered towards the catwalk. Maybe the girl, whoever she was, had been scared away from adventuring when I caught her. I started to lose hope. We were opening soon– I should focus on making my entrances, not making friends.
But then I saw her again.
This time, it was half an hour before the curtain went up for our invited dress rehearsal. The press was there. I was nervous. I knew I had my part down, but when you’re doing a show, no matter how prepared you are, there’s always the lingering fear that you’ll freeze up, forget everything, and ruin everyone’s hard work. It just means that you care. I was surprised that I cared so much. I still didn’t even get the play. I couldn’t let the other girls see me weak. I barely show my real feelings to people I care about, much less mean actresses who look down on me. To get away from it all, I wandered down to another unused part of the stage: the orchestra pit. We did have music in the show, but the Greeks didn’t have orchestra pits. So it was closed off, being used as storage.
I loved it down there. I loved looking through the storage bins, finding props from long-forgotten productions– sometimes I would find something incredible, something I swore was from the day the theater opened, something old and valuable– and usually, I could never find it again. Those bins were a treasure trove. Of all the weird little spaces I found backstage, the pit was my favorite. I felt like a real explorer down there, illuminating my path with my phone flashlight, getting spooked when a mouse ran over my foot (of course the theater had mice, it was more than a hundred years old! And besides, every building has mice in New York City).
That day, I wasn’t there to look around. Just to sit. Just to catch my breath. I tiptoed down the creaky steps, and plopped myself on the ground, surrounded by bins. I inhaled and exhaled, smelling the mildew-y scent of old props on every side of me. And that’s when I heard a noise. Not a mouse noise– I was used to those. Something bigger. I turned my phone flashlight on immediately, calling, “hello?”
And the light landed on a mask, just like mine. Mine which was currently off, because I was doing my breathing exercises. I felt exposed– she could see my face, but I couldn’t see hers. I stood up. “You scared me!”
She didn’t respond. She looked at me for a second, and started to retreat the other way, towards the stairs at the other side of the pit.
“Wait!” I called. “I won’t tell anyone I saw you!”
She stopped for a second. But then she kept walking. I stood and followed. “Please stop. Can I at least know who you are? I don’t fit in with most of the chorus girls–”
I reached for her long white toga. I swear, I had it in my hand, but somehow, she slipped away. I staggered a bit, almost tripped, confused that I hadn’t made contact with her costume. And when I looked back up, I only saw a glimpse of her disappearing up the stairs. I tried to follow, again, but I found that side of the pit’s stairs reached a dead end. I didn’t understand how she’d gotten out. And when I looked back down at my phone, it was time for places. Disappointed and defeated, I rushed away to the other stairs, making my way to the stage right wing to wait for my entrance.
I counted heads immediately when I arrived. Maybe she hadn’t made it back yet. But, alas: twelve. All accounted for. I nudged a girl next to me, subtly. “Who was the last one here besides me?”
She just stared at me for a moment, which came off as very creepy through the blank dead stare of her mask. “How the fuck am I supposed to know? We all look exactly the same.”
I sighed. “Okay. Thanks.” For nothing, I thought bitterly.
The invited dress went well. The press liked it, as I’ve already said. I was distracted the entire time. After that day, I made it a habit to count all the girls when the stage manager called for “places.” If I was right about this girl, she, like me, would be one of the last, if not the last one there. She would be wandering, exploring, getting away from the bullies.
I wish I hadn’t done this. I wish I’d given up when she disappeared on a dead-end staircase. I wish I’d never seen her on the catwalk. Because when I started counting heads, I noticed something impossible. Sometimes, before we went on, I counted thirteen identical masked faces.
It was a chorus of twelve. It was supposed to be twelve. I’d recount. Recount again. Thirteen. A chill went down my spine. We all looked the same. Same masks, same togas, same wigs. Who was the imposter? How could anyone be an imposter? It didn’t make sense. How would they get into the theater? How would they get a costume?
I started counting more often. Between scenes, in the dressing rooms, even on stage during dull moments. It fluctuated. Sometimes I’d count twelve for a whole day, an entire show, and sigh in relief, feeling like some curse was broken. But the next day, at least once, I’d count thirteen.
And it seemed as if one masked pair of eyes was always trained on me. I don’t know how she knew it was me. We looked the same. But she’d stare. It felt scary, but also ridiculous– I couldn’t be sure it was the same person looking every time. I couldn’t be sure it was unlucky number thirteen. But I felt like it was.
I felt a lot of things. I felt like I couldn’t tell anyone. The other girls already didn’t like me– I couldn’t have them thinking I was crazy. And admitting the presence of the thirteenth would mean admitting to my adventures into forbidden backstage areas. I couldn’t lose this job. I was living paycheck to paycheck. I wasn’t eating well, or sleeping well– maybe this was all a hallucination. And somehow, my biggest feeling was that if I told someone about the thirteenth, I’d never see her again.
And I needed to see her again. The obsession had only gotten stronger. I knew, somehow, deep inside, that she was the one I had seen on the catwalk and in the orchestra pit. I no longer wanted to be her friend– I wanted to corner her. To ask who she was, and why she was sneaking in as if she was one of us. I wanted to ask what she wanted from me.
Because she must want something from me, right? Why else would she stare? Why would she appear only to me?
The timing never lined up. The show had opened at this point, and I had a job to do: delighting the audience. I couldn’t skip my entrance to catch number thirteen. The chorus formations would look ridiculous with a missing person. And as much as the other girls hated me, I owed it to them as my costars to make them look good.
Logically, I knew there was only one person the thirteenth could be: Catalina, the actress I’d replaced. She must be jealous of me. Bitter. Maybe she wanted to take my role, like I’d taken hers. It would be insane, but it was all that made sense. She was the only other person who had the costume, who knew the keypad code to get into the theater. She must have recovered from her fall and come to find me.
It was almost like a game. It definitely made the show more interesting for me. Before I realized what was happening, I dreaded performances. I felt stupid, taking on this role in a show I didn’t even understand. But now I had so much to do. I had to plan.
I started showing up early, an hour before my call time. I walked my old spots, thinking I may see her. The other chorus girls were impressed that I was showing up early, thinking it showed some sort of dedication to the show. I think they even started to hate me less. They still detested any attempts at conversation in the wings, but in the dressing room, I started to have a few breakthroughs. In particular, I started a semi-friendship with Erin. Ironically, she had been one of the three women I thought may be the thirteenth, until I realized the thirteenth wasn’t really one of us at all.
She was the only person who I could actually ask about Catalina. “Did she ever say anything about the theater? The building, I mean? Did she have a favorite part of it?”
Erin would laugh at my seemingly random specificity. “We weren’t close, Michelle. I have no idea what she thought about the theater.”
“What did she do on her breaks?”
Erin thought for a second. “I don’t know. I never saw her at the vending machines, or the dressing room. I guess she found some quiet place to run lines.”
That confirmed it, for me. A quiet place like the catwalk. Or the orchestra pit. We were three weeks into our five week run when I came up with a plan to catch Catalina. It wasn’t a great plan, and I had no idea if it would work, but showing up an hour early every day was making me tired and producing zero results. I needed a new strategy. I realized that after seeing her in the pit, I only ever saw the thirteenth when all twelve of us were together.
So I told a white lie. One night after the show, when everyone was changing in the dressing room, I appealed to my fellow chorus girls. “Are you guys busy before the show tomorrow?” I innocently asked. “I’m feeling a little shaky on some of the entrances. If we could all get here just twenty minutes before our call time tomorrow, I’d love to run some stuff with you guys. I’ve been running it on my own, but without the entire team, I don’t always remember where I fit.”
To my surprise and intense joy, everyone agreed. They really did seem to respect me more when I looked like I was taking my role seriously. I could barely sleep that night, I was so excited to see if my plan worked. And hey, if it didn’t, I had two more weeks of shows to think up something else.
It was a Sunday night, our last show of the week. Mondays are often “dark days” in professional theater, meaning there are no shows that day to give the team a rest. I had planned this on purpose– if I failed, I had a dark day to reflect on that failure and try again.
At 5:40, twenty minutes before our call time, all the girls were assembled and in costume. We started running entrances. After ten minutes, I thought my plan had failed. We had run our first three entrances, and I never counted more than twelve heads in the wings. But around 5:55, as we got to our entrances in act two, offstage, I locked eyes with a mask. A thirteenth mask.
I quickly told everyone “I think I got it, you guys, thank you so much for coming early!” Everyone mumbled that it was no problem, that they were happy to help.
The thirteenth mask broke eye contact with me, looking around in confusion– perhaps distress. The girls started to trickle back towards the dressing room. The thirteenth turned and power-walked away. I shoved through the crowd to catch her, not calling out like I had in the past. I knew she didn’t respond to that. I knew I had to catch her now or never. Once we were out of the crowd’s eyeline, I began to run. She ran, too. “You’re not getting away this time!” I yelled, like some kind of cartoon superhero. My adrenaline was pumping, and blood rushed to my ears.
After I yelled, I suddenly became aware of another set of running feet behind me. “Michelle? Where are you going?” It was Erin’s voice.
“Don’t follow me!” I hastily called back, picking up speed. The thirteenth also picked up speed. Though she was running just as fast as I was, she showed no signs of exertion. I couldn’t hear heavy breathing, or heavy feet on the floor. It was like she was gliding. It infuriated me.
Erin didn’t let up. “Michelle, the stage manager is gonna wonder where we are!”
I ignored her. The thirteenth rounded a corner, and I realized where she was going: the catwalk. The ladder.
She ascended the rungs rapidly, like a spider. I clamored up much less gracefully. Erin’s voice had a heavy tinge of concern. “Michelle, what are you doing?! It’s not safe up there!”
“Then don’t follow me!” I yelled back, exasperated. “This is between me and her!” Despite my vocal warning, I heard Erin climbing behind me.
Once on the metal rail, I looked both ways, terrified she’d escaped me again. But her white toga was just a few feet away, retreating into darkness. I lunged at her. The entire catwalk shook. The thirteenth and I both grabbed the railing to steady ourselves. We met eyes. Or rather, we met masks.
“You have nowhere to go.” I stated.
I heard Erin reaching the top of the ladder behind me. “Michelle, come down, please. You’re scaring me.”
“I can’t. I finally have her.” I took a step towards the thirteenth. She took an equal and opposite step back. “Take the mask off.” I beckoned her. “I know it’s you, Catalina.”
I felt the rail shake slightly as Erin got on it. “What are you talking about, Michelle?!”
“She’s been sneaking in, Erin! She’s been standing in the wings with us before we enter! For weeks!” I took another step towards the thirteenth. In my peripheral vision, I could see how high we were above the stage. Thirty feet. You could die, falling from that height.
“It’s not Catalina. It can’t be. Stop this.” Erin called. Finally, frustrated, I turned towards her.
“Who else could it be?!”
Erin had taken her mask off. Her face was streaked with terror. “Catalina died, Michelle. She fell off this catwalk, directly onto her face, and she died. Please come down with me. I don’t know who you’re talking to, and I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but it isn’t worth it.”
“What are you talking about? I’m talking to–”
I turned back, and she was gone. Vanished like a bad dream. “I swear to God, Erin.” I started to say. “She was right in front of me. I chased her here–”
I turned back to Erin. The thirteenth was behind her.
It made no sense. Nobody can move that fast. Nobody can be in front of me one second and behind me the next. It was inhuman. I stopped speaking. I stopped breathing. It sucks to learn that in a fight-or-flight situation, my answer is to freeze.
Erin must’ve seen how my face changed. “Michelle?” She asked quietly. “What’s wrong?”
Behind her, the thirteenth raised a hand to her mask. Her hands were impossibly pale. How had I never noticed that before? She gripped the mask in her hand. Time stretched. It must’ve only been a second, because Erin didn’t move. But it felt like years of my life passed me by as the thirteenth, inch by inch, raised her mask from her face. Or– raised her mask.
Because there was no face.
Under the mask, pale and gruesome, was a bloody flat edge. Broken, disgusting, it was impossible to make out eyes, or a nose, or a mouth. Inside a somewhat face-shaped frame of stark-white skin, all I could see was flesh, red and raw, squished in on itself. Like someone had fallen from a very high height. And landed on their face.
By the time I finally began to react, it was too late. The thirteenth– or, Catalina– or, the ghost, or– whatever the fuck that thing was. It moved its hands from the mask to Erin’s shoulders. And it pushed. And she screamed, agonizingly loud, as she flew over the side of the railing. And she screamed for the second or so she was in the air. I was screaming, too. And after the crunch of her body hitting the wooden floor of the stage, everyone else screamed, cast and crew alike.
I stared down at her limp form from thirty feet up. Her legs were twisted the wrong way. A pool of blood began to seep out of her. When I looked up again, I expected the thirteenth to be gone, but it wasn’t. With no eyes, it was also looking down at Erin. At what it had done.
And then, slowly, it turned towards me. On all fours, backwards, I scrambled away from it on the catwalk, terrified, not wanting to be next. The thirteenth’s shoulders shook rapidly, like a person laughing. But it made no sound. It never made a sound. Not going up the stairs of the orchestra pit. Not when it pushed Erin. And not as it climbed back down the ladder, rung by rung. I found myself alone on the catwalk.
Erin survived, somehow, paralyzed from the waist down. Apparently she fell on her legs, which, when you’re falling from thirty feet up, is a good thing. If she’d gone down head first, there was no chance. The show had to close, of course. When they lost Catalina a few weeks into rehearsal, she was replaceable. But with me refusing to go on, and Erin in the hospital, there was nothing to be done. I haven’t seen Erin since that day. I feel too guilty. But I was never arrested, so I guess she told the authorities that I didn’t push her. I don’t know what she told them. I don’t know what I would’ve told them, had they asked me.
I don’t do stage plays anymore. The family I used to nanny for gave me a star-studded recommendation, and now I make my living taking care of a five-year-old and a two-year-old for another filthy-rich family. I still act, but I only audition for film work.
I don’t even see plays these days. I won’t set foot in a theater. If the thirteenth had vanished off that catwalk, maybe things would be different. Maybe I could chalk it up to an extreme hallucination, some terrifying creature my mind brewed up to cope with the stress of the show and paying rent. Maybe I could even forget its bloody mess of viscera in the vague shape of a face.
But I saw it go down that ladder. Rung by fucking rung. And I know it’s still out there.
Erin was unlucky. Erin was a victim of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. And if I step inside a theater again, some way, somehow, I know the thirteenth will get me on another catwalk.
This time, I’ll be the one going over the railing.
And I’ve never once landed on my feet.

What's with all the drive train firmware updates I am reading about to help fix the jerky shifting characteristics at low speed in traffic? From what I can tell it's the torque converter opening and closing and normal. Even tho it's normal I hate it lol. Only flaw I've noticed on my 2022. I dread traffic bc of it. Anyways will it help? Could I just unplug the battery for a while to reset the computer to learn my driving style? Car was bought with 7k miles.

TLDR: AI is replacing my special interest as an artist and I believe AI programs are going to plunge us into an even worse dystopia. I am feeling dead inside.
I want to preface this all by making it clear that I will NEVER end my own life. Yes, I may feel like doing it, but I ultimately never will as there are far to many people in my life who would be destroyed if I did.
Introduction
Who am I? I’m a 20 year old lady with mild autism. I am an artist and have known since I was little. I have been working to improve my skills for so many years and am currently in university studying animation. Art and animation are the only things I am really good at. My autism makes life mostly unenjoyable. My art has been the one thing keeping me going all these years.
The Problem
You have all definitely heard of AI art generators by now. I was shocked when Dall-E 2 was unveiled in April last year. We all thought AI could never be creative or make art. Yet all these creative AI’s pretty much came out of nowhere in quick succession last year. Mid journey, chatgpt, stable diffusion, text to video programs, you name it. It just happened all at once.
My concerns should be obvious. These AI systems can make art and even write stories. They can do it at lightning speed and at the cost of electricity. This puts anyone who writes or draws for a living in a terrible position. Companies and individuals will surely go for the quicker, cheaper option. Even if it is slightly worse in quality.
My autism would make getting any other job an actual nightmare so I have been incredibly disheartened by these developments. Not to mention that many creatives are like me and are on the spectrum too. They are often socially awkward and find regular life difficult. Many of them will have their entire future’s ruined by these systems.
I still find it hard to believe that art of all things is getting automated. Art, writing and more. All the creative tasks are getting taken from us. Sure, they can still be hobbies. But that just leaves us with more soul crushing work. And not to mention that future generations will have it even worse. Why would anyone want to bring kids into such a depressing world where all the things we enjoy are monopolized and automated?
A Dystopian Future
Not to mention the other, possibly worse side effects of this new technology. AI voices, videos and images are getting better every week. Imagine how easy it will be to generate a fake video of someone doing or saying something horrible that they didn’t do. And the technology will likely be so good in just a few years that we will have no way of knowing if it’s fake or not. Sounds like the worst kind of dystopia. Some people may doubt that the tech will ever get that good. Well we never thought that AI would be able to creat art, yet here we are. Just look at how much AI images have improved since April of last year. Or heck, 3 months ago!
But back to job/purpose loss. This worries me just as much as the paragraph above. Art is the only thing I have really ever excelled at. And I am now realizing that I probably won’t be able to make it my career. Yes, I do animation so that probably has a while longer. But at the rate the tech is progressing I wouldn’t be surprised if AI takes over animation and VFX in under 10 years.
Where I’m At
I am not exaggerating when I say I am crushed. Truly this time though. I have been through many things that destroyed my spirit, it’s pretty much guaranteed for people on the spectrum. I was bullied my entire childhood, denied being able to be in a relationship due to my sensory issues, isolated from society and more. Yet the one thing that kept me hopeful was being able to show the world my art and make a living off it.
And now it’s gone.
Now anyone can have top tier skill. Anyone can generate anything in any style. Even if I make a new style, someone can just feed my drawings into a machine and infinitely clone them. My skill doesn’t matter anymore. The one thing I truly had going for me is basically worthless. And if not now, in a few years. I have no purpose anymore. I feel worthless. Even though I have more friends and family that love me then most people, I feel worthless now. Even if there is still room for human artists, we simply can’t keep up with the speed AI produces stuff. We will be drowned out by AI works.
I knew I would likely never make big bucks by pursuing art and animation. Unless you run a massive studio you don’t get mega rich. But I knew I could earn enough to comfortably live off my work. With things like YouTube and Patreon it seemed feasible as long as I worked to become good enough. I wanted to start doing commissions online. I wasn’t expecting to get rich, but I was so excited and happy to get started. Then this all happened. I already see many artists online talking about how they’ve lost their jobs or how nobody commissions them anymore.
People often ask the question "Where would you be and what would you be doing if money didn't exist?". Well, the life I had planned out WAS what I would be doing if money had no value.
To be honest, I don't like where the world in general is going. We're spied on every moment of our lives, people are being increasingly fake and we can't provide for our families. Then there's cancel culture, political correctness, wokeness, decaying attention spans and instant gratification. All of which didn't really exist just a few years ago.
Questions You May Have
I want to dedicate a section to answering some questions I can see people having for me as to clear up any confusion.
“You’re Being Dramatic”
I can see why someone might think that. But imagine if you’re entire purpose and passion suddenly became pretty much worthless and you had to face the rest of your life without it. Seriously, imagine it. You’d be devastated. Also, all the things I’ve mentioned here either already have happened or are likely to happen.
“AI will never be as good as human artists”
Maybe it will never be as good as the top 1% but it’s already better then most artists out there. And if it’s this good now then imagine where it’ll be in 5-10 years. Not to mention that even if it is slightly worse, most people will chose it over a human artist simply due to the speed and cost.
”You Must Adapt And Use The AI’s In Your Workflow”
I will. I will do anything to keep my dream alive. I’ve played around with various AI tools to enhance my workflow. But in doing so, the enjoyment is gone and my original visions destroyed. Not to mention that AI will dramatically devalue all creative works, so I may not be able to earn enough to keep doing art as a career.
“These Are Just New Tools”
Maybe now, but they’re already replacing tons of artists, voice actors and more. Also, the end game for these ‘tools’ is to completely remove the need for any skill or talent. An AI image generator makes all the decisions for you, while you type in a text prompt. These systems are replacements, not tools. If you were a brick layer you wouldn’t see a brick laying machine as a tool. You would see it as a replacement.
"You Only Care About Making Money"
Read the part where I went over this. Yes, I am afraid of not being able to make a career off art. But I'm also scared of not being able to get noticed and having my work devalued. If everyone's an amazing artist, nobody is. Also, my parents are wealthy enough to be able to comfortably support me and my two siblings for the rest of our lives. But I don't want this. I WANT to work hard and feel accomplished for doing so. And These AI systems take that away.
“We Can Fight The Companies Developing These AI’s”
Sure, but what will that achieve? The technology is out there and it won’t go away. Even if every government in the world banned these AI’s overnight then they would still be developed in secret. I know some people are suing AI art generators over copyright infringement for using their art to train the AI’s. I personally do not see the court systems ruling in favor of the artists. It will most likely be seen as fair use.
“There Will Always Be A Place For Human Made Art”
I do agree on this. One tiny positive is that physical art such as paintings and sculptures may have a resurgence due to digital art being devalued. But this will likely be a tiny niche.
“This Is Just Like NFT’s”
No it’s not. Everyone knew from the beginning how stupid NFT’s were. We knew they were a pyramid scheme destined to collapse. And they did. AI art and their similar tools are not something that’s going to go away. They are rapidly developing and getting better. They’re going to be more and more widely used in the future.
”You Only Care When Your Own Job Is Being Replaced”
Not true. I have felt very sorry for those who’s jobs have or are being automated. When I first heard of self driving cars I immediately felt dread for truck drivers and anyone in a similar position. I actually will go out of my way to not use the self service checkout in order to help keep the store employees employed.
”Do You Hate AI Bro’s?”
No. I don’t hate anyone who uses or is excited about this new tech. I can totally see their perspectives and we shouldn’t dogpile them. My issues lie with the developers of this technology and the people online saying “LOL GO DIE IN A FIRE ARTISTS! YOU’RE WORTHLESS NOW!”. You’re allowed to love this tech, but actively routing for someone’s downfall is very horrible and childish. I wouldn’t think anything bad of any group of people who were about to have their professions made obsolete.
Conclusion
I am truly broken this time.
I don’t see this getting better. We are entering into an even bigger dystopia then before. I have never felt more hopeless then I do now. I’m only 20 and I’m tired. My spirit has officially been crushed. And yet I’m meant to stay in this game for another 60+ years.
I have been depressed before in life, but this has made me completely suicidal. Never before have I actually felt like ending my life. Yet this has pushed me over the edge. Though I will ultimately never do it.
I want nothing more then to wake up and for this technology to be gone. I would do anything to go back to even just 2021 when it seemed like these systems didn't exist. How I wish technology wouldn't have 'progressed' past that point.
All of us now just happened to be unlucky enough to be born into the most boring dystopia. I have no idea how to find happiness or purpose in any of this. But I will continue living because what else can I do?
If anyone has any questions or wants to discuss things then I will answer them.

Universe by U/BlueFishCake
Previous Chapter
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I don't look like a sad orphan! I think.
Sean was frantically looking through his extremely limited supply of "nice" clothes. Haali had reminded him that while they were proper business attire, they weren't exactly glamorous or flattering. Sean had no use for fancy clothes, so he really didn't have any. Now here he was kicking himself for not having at least one nice shirt.
He leaned over and looked at himself in the mirror and groaned, "Damnit I have no idea what I'm doing. Reflection what do I do?".
He and his reflection both shrugged, "Ugh, some use you are.".
He stuck his head back into his closet, hoping that somehow a perfect article of clothing had somehow appeared there. Coincidentally he remembered an old shirt he had "borrowed" from his dad. He hadn't noticed it before, he kept it tucked away in a box at the top of the closet and he often forgot it existed. Besides, he virtually never looked through his clothes with this level of intensity.
As he reached up to the box, he began to feel increasingly ridiculous. It was one of his dad's old shirts from his partying days back when he was a little younger than Sean. Suffice it to say, the garment could be officially qualified as "old as shit".
Sean initially took it as a joke; something to wear to 80's parties or when he just wanted to look absurd. Fashion was an ever-changing force and so much time had passed since this shirt had been woven. You could turn a lot of heads for all the wrong reasons wearing this thing. But it did have one thing going for it: it strangely reminded him of something Haali would wear.
It didn't look like his fluffy pirate shirt or anything, but it had that same "I'm here to party 'till I die look". Sean fumbled around until his hand met the box, with an odd degree of reverence he slid the box off the shelf and he sat it on his bed. He flipped the lid off with one finger and winced when he saw it again.
I forgot how outrageous this thing is...
The "Turquiose Menace" as he had come to call it, would arise once again. He held it up; he smiled, then cringed, then weakly smiled once more. He held it over himself in the mirror and tilted his head from side to side, trying to make a decision. After a few more seconds of looking, he shrugged, nodded, "It'll have to do...". He gently laid it on his bed and went to take a shower.
////////////////////////////////////////////
Haruk had been enjoying herself getting ready for tonight. She was smiling and running a brush through her hair as she hummed to herself. She had invested in a full body mirror and was enjoying the sight of herself looking so good. She was ecstatic to have an excuse to get all dressed up and look sexy. While she was quite satisfied with her appearance, she had a growing sense of dread in the back of her mind concerning Sean and Xerya.
Goddess I hope those two show up wearing something half way decent.
She stopped brushing her long hair for a moment to rotate around and check out her back side. She smiled and giggled a bit, she loved getting everything about this. She spun back around and pushed a lock of hair over her ear, she then resumed brushing her hair. As she raised the brush for another stroke, she froze.
I... I better go check on Xerya.
/////////////////////////////////////////////
Xerya wasn't used to this feeling, and she really didn't like it. She was someone who always had her shit together, and now was one of the very few times in her life where she didn't. The sliding door to her closet in her room was wide open. She had her arms outstretched, resting on the opposing sides of the closet. She had a thin sheen of stress sweat coating her face and her eyes were widened by a low grade panic attack.
Nice? What does that even mean? I think a tank top and sweat pants are nice. I know that's not what they mean, but shit, I don't really have anything to work with here!
She frantically shoved her hangers from side to side as she searched for some forgotten article of clothing. The real kick in the tits was Haali's specific ban on wearing uniforms. When she had first gotten word of their dinner date, that's exactly where her mind first went; hell, that’s what she always wore when she had to dress up. They might have been a little stiff and up tight, but it gave her a decent set of clothes that were accepted in most places.
That devious little imp had now starved her of her silver bullet for fashion. So now she was trapped in a clothesless wasteland of her own making, and she was running out of time. She was about to double down on her growing anxiety by panicking about the time but was interrupted by a knock at the door.
Several aggressive thuds on the door were followed by Haruk's voice. Her tone was a blend of teasing and legitimate concern, "Hey Xerya you alive in there? You didn't get crushed under your own tits did ya?".
Thank the goddess!
Xerya bounded over to her door, her massive jugs bouncing around with every step. She had been topless while trying to decide what to wear. She flung the door open wearing an uncharacteristically neurotic look of fear. She was greeted by the image of an irritatingly sexy and well-dressed Haruk.
At first, she thought Haruk had magically grown several inches, but then as she looked down she noticed the shoes she was wearing. A pair of high heeled sandals were strapped to her feet. She was adorned by a cobalt blue dress that clung to her hips and ass and flowed freely as it cut off just above her ankles. It accented her flat tummy and the curves of her breasts as two straps tied together behind her neck to hold the whole thing up.
She had shiny earrings on and her hair had been expertly curled and styled. Her long glossy ponytail cascaded over her left shoulder. The blue of her highlights blended with the blue of her dress...and at that point Xerya realized she was staring. At Haruk of all people.
Haruk grinned and gently slid her ponytail over her shoulder in a practiced motion, "Damn I must look good, I'm even making girls stare.".
Xerya's cheeks became tinged with blue, "I-uhh- no I wasn't!".
Haruk rolled her eyes, "Yeah ok whatever.". Her eyes then crept downward to the blue capped mountains hanging off Xerya's chest, "So uhhh", she pointed at Xerya's tits, waving her finger in a little circle, "What's going on here?".
Xerya's blush intensified, she felt vulnerable. Not because of her tits hanging out, but because she didn't have a plan. Not having a plan was not how she lived her life. "Haruk I don't know what to do! You and Sean said no uniforms and I have nothing else but my awesome comfortable clothes.".
Haruk pushed past Xerya and invaded her room while shaking her head, "My goddess...".
For such a clever and punctual person, Xerya really did live like an animal. There was clutter and random bits of clothing all over the place. Haruk spun around in place marveling at the duality of Xerya's existence, "How do you live like this?".
Xerya swung her door shut and stepped to face Haruk. She ran her hands down her cheeks, "It's worse than usual. If you can't tell, I'm sort of freaking out. What the deep do I wear? I don't know how to look good!".
Haruk didn't want to ruin her makeup, but she managed a modest face palm anyways. She chuckled lightly, "You already look good you idiot. You just need to learn how to show it!".
Xerya flailed her arms in frustration, "With what though? Look in that closet? Would you honestly allow me to wear anything in there to dinner? We both know you're going the be the self-proclaimed fashion police here.".
Haruk smiled and pointed right at Xerya's face, "And don't you forget it.".
Haruk quickly spun around and began to pick through Xerya's closet. A mere few seconds later she spun around looking like she just saw a ghost, "You're fucked.".
Xerya mirrored Haruk's terror, "...what... do I do?".
Haruk looked at her omni pad, "Well we could try to run out real fast a-".
"We don't have time!" Xerya shouted.
Haruk stood silently with her chin resting on the thumb and index finger. One of her long legs pumped rhythmically as if generating thoughts. She looked up to Xerya with a somber expression, "There's only one thing we can do then.".
Xerya was desperate, she'd try anything at this point. Sean would be arriving in a few minutes, and she was out of ideas. Her voice was full of desperation, "Whatever it is, I'll do it!".
Haruk nodded, "Come to my room, it’s up to my closet to save you.".
Haruk strode out without another word. Her mind was focused solely on the task at hand; and it was quite a task. Trying to fit Xerya into her clothes sounded impossible, but tonight they needed to accomplish exactly that.
Haruk opened Xerya's door, then her own a few seconds later. Xerya stood there looking across the hall with her hands hanging at her sides. She whispered quietly and fearfully, "But... how will I fit?".
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Sean was powerwalking his way through the corridors of the building. The black eyes of the marines were glued to him even more than usual. His shirt did not button up all the way, so he had been flashing his chest to everyone he crossed paths with. His face was burning red from all the attention.
It had been a constant stream of cat calls the whole way there. Many of the faces he recognized simply from being on the base a lot, and then there were the faces that belonged to his students. It was easy enough to ignore the strangers and run away. It was much harder to ignore Shinal stepping out of her room and staring at his chest while licking her lips.
Sean watched her nipples harden as she cooed, "You're looking... sharp today Mr. Warwick.". Sean felt obligated to say something on account of being her teacher. He smiled weakly and gave a quick, "Hi Shinal, see ya tomorrow.". He didn't even stop moving to say it. He blew past her as she leaned out her door to shamelessly stare at his ass like many others were.
Shinal pivoted back into her doorway and whispered to herself, "See you tomorrow...". She smiled up at the ceiling and disappeared back into her room.
Sean was grateful that he could see Xerya's door coming into view down the hallway. He never thought drowning in pussy could be a bad thing, until now. He laughed internally at the thought of a giant blue vagina popping out of a door somewhere and swallowing him whole like some sort of "Penis Fly-trap". He felt safer already as he gently knocked on Xerya's door.
His budding sense of safety quickly faded away as no one answered the door. That was very unlike Xerya to not stick to the plan.
I hope everything is ok. What if she's sick, or in trouble with work? That would fuck up the whole night. She better not, but she's better than that. What if something happened to her? Oh fuck maybe she's hurt... or worse!?
God damnit why does my brain always go straight to this insane shit!?
Sean looked to his right and saw several marines mingling about farther down the hall and trying very hard not to look like they were staring. Sean wanted nothing more than to disappear into Xerya's room, and now for some unknown reason he couldn't.
Fuck it, plan B.
He turned around and banged on Haruk's door in a decidedly more panicked fashion. A few seconds of insane daydreaming later and the door opened, revealing an exceptional looking Haruk.
Sean looked up extra high to meet her eyes, "Woah...".
Haruk smiled brightly and blushed, "Hi, Sean you look so...".
She bit her lip as her eyes glued themselves to his chest, "...good".
The reality of Sean's situation then dawned on Haruk. She leaned past Sean and looked into the hall; her suspicions were confirmed by the presence of the unwanted competition out there. She wrapped an arm around Sean's waist and quickly pulled him inside, "You beautiful idiot, get in here!".
Sean paced forward a bit and turned to watch Haruk push her door shut. Haruk put her hands on her hips, "You should have called one of us! You went through all that alone?".
Sean looked at the floor, "Ehh yeah, to both of those things, sorry.".
Haruk bent down and hugged Sean, "No I'm sorry. I'm not trying to be mean. I just want you to be safe.".
Sean turned and kissed her cheek as he wrapped his arms around her, "Well here I am in one piece, also, holy shit you look gorgeous!".
He broke out of her hug and stepped back to fit all of Haruk in his vision. He looked at her from head to toe, "You look so good I almost just wanna skip dinner.".
Haruk swooned, "If any of us looks good, its you! I've never seen a shirt like that. It's very se- um it looks so good on you!".
Sean laughed as he remembered how he dressed, "This thing practically came out of a time machine. It used to belong to my dad back when he was my age. I kept it just for fun, oddly enough it kind of reminded me of the shirts Haali wears.".
Haruk winked, "Well, whatever it is, it’s working.".
Sean couldn't help but to run a hand along Haruk's tight thigh, "Yeah, so is this.".
He looked up at Haruk and they swapped not so innocent smiles. Sean then membered why be was here, "So where's Xerya?".
Haruk looked to the corner of her room where her closet resided. Their rooms may not have had bathrooms in them, but they generous closets. She gently and quite reluctantly guided Sean's hand off of her thigh, "Let me go check. We had a bit of a clothing situation.".
Sean shrugged and chuckled, "Umm, ok. I hope she's about ready.".
As Haruk approached the closet Sean heard Xerya's voice, "I almost ready I swearing! And hi Sean!".
Sean smiled and looked toward the closet, "Everything ok in there?".
Haruk looked into her closet, "Oh my goddess!".
As she rounded the corner, she was greeted with the sight of Xerya annihilating her stretchiest dress. It was the only thing she had a hope of fitting into, and fitting was a very relative term in this case. She was spilling out of the top and bottom of Haruk's poor white dress.
She was frantically stuffing her tits back into the extremely low neckline. Doing so caused it to ride up her legs and damn near cause her ass to fall out the bottom. Her tits took up so much room in the dress there really wasn't much room left for the rest of her.
Xerya looked at Haruk with a worried expression, "Hold on I just need another second.". She reached down and pulled the bottom to cover more of her ludicrously thick thighs.
Haruk's looked shocked, "You're exploding out of it! By the Empress! You look like you're going to an erotica convention!".
Xerya turned to her looking terrified, "So, it's not working? We don't have time for anything else! And I feel ridiculous!".
Haruk was exasperated, "I mean, it's working, but not for the right reasons.".
Sean overheard this exchange, and he couldn't help but have a look. He peeked around the corner and his jaw hit the floor. Xerya was rocking a beyond skintight white dress that honestly couldn't contain her assets. He got there just in time to see her adjust her bra straps which made the dress ride back up her thighs again.
Xerya saw Sean emerge and blushed like she did the first time they met. She shyly put her hands behind her back and put on a nervous smile, "Hi".
Sean smiled ear to ear while fucking her with his eyes, "Hello to you.".
Haruk rolled her eyes, "See, he basically wants to fuck you right here. Only problem is, now we gotta go have dinner with our boss's, boss's, boss.".
Both Sean and Xerya wilted a bit, but very quickly their eyes began to slither all over each other again. Xerya huffed, "How do you wear these things Haruk?".
Haruk crossed her arms, "Well not like you, that’s for sure.".
Sean squeezed by Haruk, he was compelled to feel Xerya's touch. He literally couldn't stay away, "Xerya you look incredible.".
She quickly responded to his approach by kneeling down and kissing him. Sean allowed his hands to roam all over her, "Just uhhh, try not to pop out at the dinner table. I feel like that would make things maybe just a bit awkward.".
Xerya looked mortified, then relaxed a little, "Yes, I really do not want sex dinner.".
Xerya stood back up and Sean guided her and Haruk towards the door, "Yeah sex is for dessert, not dinner.".
As he said that he made eye contact with Haruk and licked his lips with a devilish smile. Haruk turned blue and bit her lip in anticipation.
They got to the door and Sean put his hand on the handle, "Ok, are you two as nervous as I am?”.
Haruk enthusiastically said, “Oh yeah.”.
Xerya, looking quite nervous, quietly and rapidly nodded.
Sean turned the handle and swung the door open, “Alright, lets try to survive this thing.”.
////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
The exo hangar was a loud, well-lit place. Most of the time. Now it was dark except for the lights in bay one. The building was eerily quiet except for the occasional clang or whirring of hand tools. As always, the place stunk of grease, coolant, and sweat.
There was one other sound that broke the pattern of mechanical noises.
"BROTHER FUCKING DAUGHTER OF A CUNT!"
Khe'siri leaned against the wrench and shoved with all her freakish strength. The sweat poured off her brow as she grunted and strained. She adjusted her footing, tightened her grip on the wrench and pushed again. Alas the stubborn bolt refused to turn.
She stepped back and shook the numbness out of her hands, "Goddess damned piece a shit! What crawled up your ass?".
She sat down on a crate and took a long sip off her water bottle. She scowled at the bolt; she hated it. She wanted to defeat it... to destroy it.
I don't care if it takes me all night. That little fucker is coming out of there.
Anyone else who saw her like this would assume she was miserable. That wasn't the case though. It was dark, quiet except for her, and there was no one else around. No people, no bullshit, just her and her work. This was her happy place.
Happy of course was a relative term. Khe'siri didn't have the broadest spectrum of emotions out there. She was angry more often than she wasn't, she was infamous for her fiery temper and foul mouth. A quiet calm was about as close to happy as she could go. Despite her swearing and endless threats to the inanimate objects around her, she was almost enjoying herself.
She stood back up and wiped her hands on her coveralls. As usual the top half was tied around her waist leaving just a tight black tank top covering her chest. Sort of. She once again glared at the bolt on the exo's ankle actuator, "Ok smart ass, you just earned yourself a date with the breaker.".
She reached behind her toolbox and retrieved a five-foot-long purple metal bar. It had a modular slot on the end to fit virtually any kind of nut, bolt, or screw in the Imperium. She had made it herself and was immensely proud of it. She was the only one who ever used it. Not only were many others afraid to interact with her, but they could barely even lift it anyways. It even felt heavy to her, and she loved it dearly.
As she wrapped her meaty hands around it, she looked at it with true affection. Love never brought her anything but trouble in the past. Love with people anyways, but the breaker only ever brought her joy. It was basically her boyfriend.
She had a joyous glint in her eye as she approached the bolt once more, "Alright you little shit, looks like we're doing this the hard way.".
She found herself holding back a smile. Despite the joy she felt wielding the breaker, she really hated that bolt.
Without any preamble she slotted in the proper head and placed it over the bolt. She had the bar angled across her chest so she could channel all her might into it. Between that and the massive mechanical advantage provided by its length, no nut or bolt had ever resisted its power. She was confident this one would be broken like all the others.
"TIME TO GET FUCKED"
Her biceps swelled as she dumped all her power into the breaker. This was the part where the bolt was supposed to turn. Where she got to win. To have at least one little thing in her life turn out her way. But it did not.
She grunted, those grunts turned into growls. Her frustration and rage crescendoed into outright yells, "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!". Almost as if the universe wanted to kick her while she was down, she caught a glimpse of herself reflected on a deactivated data pad as she screamed that question.
She let go of the breaker and thew her arms into the air. She was still looking at her reflection, "What the fuck is wrong with you?".
This was supposed to be the one thing she was good at. Her current failure reminded her of her abysmal scores in that stupid English class she had to take. Not that she really gave a shit about it, but she needed to pass. After a prior incident involving a gratuitous lack of self-control and a dumbass fellow mechanic, Sergeant Revni had creatively punished Khe'siri by enrolling her in English classes on base.
Now she was stuck in that class with a bunch of hopeless cunts who think they'll be able to fuck their teacher. Not only did she not like her classmates, but that human language was stupid. It's hard to learn a language when you hate it and the class.
Then there was that teacher of theirs. He was always parading around the room acting like he was everyone's friend with his tight little pants and fat ass. Guys only ever brought her trouble. Now she had to sit there and listen to a preachy little human male teach her his primitive language.
And now this bolt.
Thinking about the mountain of failures that was her life caused her temper to flare once more. She stormed over to the data pad and threw a punch fueled by her searing anger. The screen instantly cracked into a spiderweb pattern, and the entire back side now domed outwards. Not feeling satisfied, she grabbed the tablet and launched it across the room where it exploded against the opposite wall.
"FUCK!"
She stood there panting and looking at the floor while the hurricane in her mind gradually wound down. She turned to head back to the breaker for one last final try when she noticed something.
Oh my fuck.
The entire casing for that ankle joint was bent. It would be impossible to pull the bolts now. Fixing a broken arm had just turned into brain surgery. Khe'siri gritted her teeth and sneered, "Oh just wait till I find the bitch that drives this thing..."

Shall we Start this Post off with a Bang?
I know its anti-cap...but he put me into hull and I came back for revenge after bouncing off a station.
The Fit Involved
So I have been testing a rather peculiar fit combination on SISI out of curiosity in pertaining to one of my favorite implant sets the Halo Implant sets. As you can see with the fit above with the new "signature suppressor" originally the Target Lock Breaker module from circa 2020. That our Paladin has now gotten down to about...oh 91m signature. [Sadly CCP hasn't updated SISI to allow the Guri-Malakim Observability Booster...this entire Capsuleer Day Month...GRUMBLES CCP get on your game please!] So the Paladin is capable of a 61.9m Signature in K space or a 42.5m in J Space. [And that is small for a Battleship Hull.] Although the Paladin doesn't hold a candle to the Vargur being able to get down to a mind whopping 31m in J space.
Now what makes that kill on SISI even more spectacular was my Marauder Skill was Lv 3. Thanks to a SISI Warrior who I ended up solo dueling back and forth, he gifted me another 5M SKP on SISI...we got the Marauder Skill to Lv 5. And that opened some very interesting changes to the ships overall effectiveness. Actually, increasing its lethality over a bit of what I was expecting. Which opened up some more fitting options and intrigue. This gentleman prefers the Rapture Implants which allows for full cap stable fits some of which are very powerful and very oppressive. Sadly on SISI due to CCP considerations, which I believe is correct. We don't have ways to test on mass the Abyssal Mutaplasmids and Abyssal Mutated Modules on SISI. So whatever Abyssal Mutated Modules on Tranquility that are on the mirror for SISI are what you get. So I can't test the FULL POWER of many of the fits, but Pyfa allows me to see how some of these fits work. Once the baseline concept is proven.
So why Signature Suppressor? Well, there are a few interesting notes here. For a limited amount of time the signature suppress reduces your signature size. Most people use it in game to slow down an enemies combat probe for gank attack. [Although you need to get the signature down to around 25m before you really see some difficulty...especially if you are running ECCM on. It does help with ships that are 300m shrinking them down to 100m which can be useful in frustrating a scanner.] But once on grid signature sizes determine who gets the lock and shot off. [And with the new Lancer T2 Dreads...that also might be a very special counter to that weapon. Especially considering the Lancers are going to be squisher than the T1 and Navy Dreads.]
Note time frame of locks.
Also activating the Signature suppressor at key moments in a fight can even give your ship an odd edge in starting or escaping a fight. Notice the Signature Lock Times. I know its from 25 to 500, but remember this can extrapolate to dreads 1km signature size. So the Rev can lock me at about oh ~5sec if I am at 500m signature. Non Halo Fitted and Non Signature Suppressor fitted Paladins are about 420m. But if I were to be jumped by a Rev and I see him on grid and then hit my signature suppressor. I can push my ship down from passive signature reduction with the Signature Suppressor in 378 down to 115 active. Which means he has a 8sec lock time. [Granted he could use Signature Boosters...but who would be that insane? Oh wait.] which further gets messier if the player has fitted damps or even ECM bursts for added defensive measures. But My Paladin on the other hand can lock that Rev around ~3-2.6sec. [Or faster]
But even more interesting is the Combination of Signature Suppressor and Halo can also drop massively the incoming DPS. Acting in some cases like a Pseudo ADCU [Assault Damage Control Unit.] for the amount of time you have it active.
Note the DPS cluster below.
As this Pyfa Graph shows, the amount of taken by one fit versus the Halo Fitted Ships is rather interesting. The Dash Line is showing various states of the ship with or without modifications to signature size with Halos in. The Pale Solid Line is a non-Halo Paladin fit. You can see in the graph also the signature sizes of variable type fittings. K Space Paladin is the maximum signature shrink possible on a Paladin in K space...with the J Space Paladin showing the maximum [total] signature shrink possible on a Paladin [in J Space Wormholes] and I even worked it back...eliminating various boosters, and even shutting off the signature suppressor. So the range of possible signature sizes are 42.5 to 300m with Halo Implants In. I have noticed and even asked players attacking me on SISI to keep logs and figure out when I pushed the signature suppressor on. And there have been some interesting question marks raised indeed.
The Signature Suppressor has in some cases cut incoming fire in half, and depending on the target attacking you and its velocity can further induce cases like oh "Missing" alot of shots. That being said, this signature adjustment of fire feeds into another interesting little experiment contemplation of my SISI Experiments.
Oh that is interesting indeed.
So my experiments on SISI pertaining to Bastions have gone a bit further back...almost a full year. And I quickly noticed something of interest with the Bastion Module. When Activated the Bastion acts much like an always on ADCU. Massively buffing shield/armohull resists. Note fits resist set above. But the Bastion Module has another interesting little quirk as well. It equally affects all reppers shield and armor. [Sadly no hull reps maybe for the better.] add on the bonuses of the Marauder Skill, and well...things can get very very silly.
Le Silly Fit
​
Le Bonuses that Allow Silly Fit
So the Bastion Module does this...and then stacks with Marauder Skill bonuses...which then allows some fits to just go absolutely insane. Bastion Module I give you 100% armor repair bonus and 100% shield repair bonus and 30% resist bonus flat across shield/armohull. Further adjusted by modules/boosters and other fun stuff...like oh...abyssal modules.
The Frightening Thing about this, ITS NOT FULL POWER!
From looking at Pyfa it is possible to create fits capable of doing insane things. The Hexa-Rep Paladin might not be a perfect option for most players, but it is an interesting proof of concept. And it did take quite a bit to kill it. I was also able to adjust my tank to my opponents DPS level and just tank it. The Golem and I got into a rather hilarious slap fest until they called in the Phoenix to kill me, and even then it still took them some time, because I just went from Quad Rep to Hex Rep with a few simple clicks. However, the Pyfa information research has also noted. It is possible to get the Small Armor Reps via Abyssals to 1506hp cycles. [1548hp with overheat.]
Most players will pan the fit because its "a flaming shit pile" in their words, but I want to point out to players that the rep cycle speed is of interest. And also the fitting capabilities can be adjusted to fit the situation. We know the maximum capabilities of the armor reps in different facets of gameplay. Depending on which way the ships are fitted and podded. The Paladin has actually a relatively powerful advantage of surprise over some of the other ships of its class.
Think of it like this.

1. Hex-Quin-Quad-Tri-Dual-[Mono] Armor Reps are possible on a Paladin.
2. It is possible to fit a shield tank [Dual Rep] although not very Cap Stable...possible but tricky.
3. Depending on Pod type installed the performance can be wildly adjusted to fit style and concepts.
4. Cross Weapon adjustment. Due to the Massive number of lows, you can fit the ships with non-bonused weapons and make them actually kind of problematic.
5. Due to Laser Crystals for main weapons, Paladins can carry large amounts of Cap Boosters and/or Rep Paste.
6. Due to Bastion and Hull Bonuses you can fit the ship a bit more quirky on the defensive. [Undersize Reppers being buffed.]
7. Relatively small signature if you are deliberately trying to use signature mechanics.
8. Alot of potential in fleet comps or strategies.
9. Relatively long range, and hits most ships EM/Thermal Holes. Can be a threat option against Dreads 1v1. [Titans not so much] it can bang up Carriers fairly okay, probably in situation kill them 1v1.

I would say please look at this ship, and maybe consider some of its more interesting characteristics.
Also one of the things I enjoy about this test is the concept, where if you fit the ships carefully, you can start causing the enemy headaches, because now the amount of firepower to take down one ship begins to multiply, and this can actually invert the Blobbing issue. Also these ships can also gain fairly large benefits from Titan Anomaly Generation as well. Which can further massively adjust these concepts even further. Add Fleet Boosters, and now you see what I see the potential right here.
Okay its time to get out there, and figure out some new fits.
Let see what adventures in fitting we can pull off!