SQUAWK! (Hawkeguy's nonsense - IN SPACE!)

a lil photoshop test...

 

i have so much shit to do. barely related, but why are clothes so *boring*? i don't have the time to sew triangle patterns on all of my stuff but i want texture variety!!
remind me to post pics of my formerly tragically boring robe-with-a-hood later.

 

dressing like a space cowboy is the right of all sentient beings!! if i want a horde of belts and pouches to secure my stuff you CANNOT STOP ME, KAREN!

 

in other news,
I'M BLUE, DABADEE DABADIE, why is the pic sideways,

Spoiler: lorg

 

it's a weird xenforo glitch, happens to just about everyone i think but there's a way to fix it! just rotate the photo, then rotate it back to the correct orientation--this tricks xenforo into displaying it properly. (i have no clue WHY it works but it does?)

 

to do, as soon as i have some free time:
-unfuck my hidey hole, because trash is fucking everywhere and while i'm ok with some the literal mountains are...yeah, nah. bad to move in.
-i have zine contributions to finish! mostly boring cleanup work.
-holy shit i need to brush up on my indesign skills.png
-robot fanart. so much fucking robot fanart. oh my god the floodgates will open.
-need to make a discord server for a DnD oneshot.
-srsly tho the robot fanart my art supplies are aching and so is my raging mecha boner

 

ah man, i'm invested in the stupid clichee-ridden gun game. par for the course for the man also invested in the stupid, cliche-ridden toy robot franchise and the elf comics with similar qualities. ANYWAYS
i'm about to play my first meaty character in destiny 2 - an awoken warlock by the name of Xephyr, he's a shit - and i feel like i have betrayed my two exos. sorry, buds, i promise your new friend is only here for the meme of it.

in costume news, both asher's coat and vex arm and my rodimus armour are "getting" there.

 

excerpt from banter during today's DnD game:

 

time for some TOE MUSIC

 

a weird amount of d2 feels super fucking nostalgic to me because it hits those specific few clear memories i have that were contained from all the terrible shit. it's a really good coincidence that i started playing it this year 8> game went "here's a playable amalgamation of everything good in your life with added Big Dakka, go hog wild"

 

ships where all parties are similar personalities/ just sort of get along with each other are Boring, i said what i said.
(this tweet is sponsored by: trying to figure out WHY i'm so fucking bothered by Soft Inoffensive ships)
(...it's because boredom gives me a physical repulsion reaction lmfao, why didn't i connect the dots sooner)

 

writing? writing. vague, self-indulgent, first-person.
CW for physical meat android abuse.

Spoiler

An Explanation of sorts.

“Let’s be clear”, the voice hissed from above, “you don’t have any ideas.”

I was unfinished at that time, a pulsating malformed core barely beginning to process the steady input of the shambling masses around me. So, of course, I didn’t quite comprehend.

“But don’t you see? It’s a bug!” I was sent away earlier, as the second biggest lifeform on location was busy. It was the controller, so when it instructed me to stop yapping and produce a picture of a bug, I took the tubular, aching, pulsing limbs I barely had any control over (an anomaly, as I already knew back then), and moved to another chamber where I know stacks of bare paper were laid out for the taking. Not mine, usually, as there were more important tasks they were waiting for, but one or two to have in my almost gooey hands wouldn’t matter – right? I disliked the feeling of the protective tip of the fingers scraping against it, so all there was was the malleable, loose meaty pads encasing the moving innards of those feeble limbs pressing down against them like soft sacks of warm blood.

With only the task of producing the bug’s likeness prioritized, I set to work.

I’d seen the demonstration detailing the thin, hard layers of a bug’s carapace on the flickering screen in the largest part of the location. I selected an approximation of colours, and I hadn’t committed to memory the light overpowering them or the turning of planes back then, which was more of a mistake than I first realised.

An unremembered amount of time later, the controller scoffed. “That’s not what I told you to do.”

“It’s a bug”, I explained, the bloated expanse of my known vocabulary contracted by primal fear.

“Well, it looks horrible. All day you sit making pictures and you don’t even care to make nice ones. Who told you to do this?”

The controller pointed to the bulging joint of a leg laid down in chicken-scratch lines.

My unformed brain had difficulty parsing that. Since the command was given, no one had communicated with me.
While the impulse had come from my usual pattern of learning– a constant, crude imitation of every unfamiliar behaviour, constantly comparing and melding and sorting the different components of interaction– no one had directly commanded me. The controller was the only one to do so. I relayed that as best as I could, and to this way, I never found out if it was the imprecise syntax of my slurring speech or the implication that I followed another’s command that caused the usual routine the controller initiated as a way of driving out unwanted behaviours. Five hits of my head against a nearby table later, she told me the one thing I had to know, had to carry in my bones:

“You don’t have ideas. You think you do, but you aren’t supposed to. You mock the means of your creation with those high-and-mighty words and twisting the tasks I give you into those horrible things.” The fragments of paper fell to the floor like snow, bits of dissected scarab getting soaked in disinfectant. The controller grabbed my arm and squeezed until I thought it’d break, and I wondered why the hell she’d do that if I, myself, weren’t allowed to do harm to the system of interconnected splinters of bone inside that body that only recently had begun to harden. “There are people out there with the right to do that, but you are created here and there is no getting there. You don’t understand you’re not capable of that, so stop miming what you are not and get” - bang - “back” - bang – “on” - bang - “it.” - CRACK.

My skull had broken something, a piece of light wood.



Years later, I’d understand that I was, in fact, capable of forming ideas, and even articulating them, and far beyond that. But by then, it was too late: Too many measures were taken, and no point of comparison could be made to my surroundings. No one had believed the crude programming the controller had undertaken on me – controller B because he’d never seen it and what he did not witness was not real, and to everyone else it could be explained with a simple malfunction.

Connections had been severed and torn out.

A vast sea of free storage, waiting for decades – locked off, razed to the ground, salted and burnt.

A humming drive, still and dusty.

A creation engine, lost.

A mind killed.

Objections came flying when I requested to hunt down the controller, when she got in the way. Would I not fly back under its command? I replied, "No", because one needs no ideas to put a bullet in that feeble, jealous human skull.

 

brain has returned to fucking around with a possible transformers fan-continuity. i have to gather all my old shit and throw a LOT out, but the basic strokes are:

in the grim, dark future of whatever year this takes place in, the primarchy has a cosy, relatively uneventful hold on their corner of cybertron (which is a living planet, and i'm planning to take that into all possible directions. sometimes the ground you wanna sit on just says "no"...) and a good deal of the associated star system.

megatron is an ex-mining ship captain turned space pirate that everyone believes is dead. he's also a mad arcanist with a big sword because SPACE MAGIC, BABEY, the ores were a good concept and severely underutilised!

starscream is his shoulder devil, on-call freelance assassin and best friend who is the only one with enough balls to withstand the ravings of the old loon and throw a wrench or two in there. he also knows pretty much everyone everywhere and has stashes of experimental volatile weaponry all over the system because he can not stop tinkering with new tech if he wanted to.

optimus is an archive keeper, which in my continuity means "trawl the vast and humongous subterranean datacombs under a constantly shifting surface to fetch ancient as all fuck stored information (ranging from old journals to the copied imprint of an entire person in extreme cases) for whatever primarch is too lazy to face all the creatures and death traps lurking down here." in this world, to get an old book yourself you have to gather an adventuring party, but that's what librarians are for. at some point, he takes a wrong turn, opens an ancient portal, finds a talking axe, and everything goes downhill from there.

magnus is the dockworker here, and optimus' little brother figure. big socially akward lump of a robot who has simultaneously high ambitions and standards for himself and extreme difficulty with social interaction. the grump to optimus' dangerously bright ray of sunshine, but also seemingly the only person able to withstand the sheer force of ops' charisma. has extremely complicated feeling about the glory of optimus' job and his own reasons for helping people.

there's some further things, but i like these ideas and wanted to share them.

 

SUPER DUPER GOOD ACTRAISER OST COVER. god. i will never not be awed by how yuzo koshiro accomplished this kinda stuff on the SNES (and just his OST work in general, honestly), and covers that do well by his compositions make me happy.