all of tumblr: we fucking hate bots

also tumblr:

pls... if you’d like, share the other coswave thoughts???

oh man, i have. so many. none of this is going to be cohesive.

i spend,,, more free time than I probably should thinking abt these two bc like i said a while ago in another post, im in a transformers dnd campaign and one of my player characters is Cosmos and what kind of person would I be if I didn’t try to include Soundwave and the cassettes in there somewhere when they’ve got so much good story potential

but as for y’know, the actual IDW comics versions of them. honestly? poetic cinema. IDW gave us Cosmos, someone who’s never listened to, someone who has more than a couple instances of people just either hearing him but not listening or, even worse telling him to shush. IDW gave us Soundwave, someone with an outlier ability to hear everything, even people’s thoughts.

IDW also gave us Cosmos, who was given mostly spy work, then gave us Soundwave, who was the communications officer for the Decepticons. It always makes me wonder if maybe they crossed paths before and we just never got to see.

Also, in terms of interactions I think about A LOT, when Cosmos was outside Sanctuary Station for the first time, Soundwave didn’t go outside to fight Cosmos. He went out there to invite him aboard. Y’know, “May I invite you in?” Cosmos was just understandably a little jumpy because it’s Soundwave and then we got the very fun overgrown tape deck line.

(Also after the tape deck line, we get the First Instance of “Little Autobot” which is, hilarious, because Cosmos is like just a little shorter that Soundwave when he’s not fuck off huge like in MTMTE, but is also a Really Soft nickname imo)

Actually wait, I’m not done about the first use of Little Autobot. SOUNDWAVE GOT HIT DIRECTLY IN THE CHEST WITH LIKE THREE DIFFERENT MISSLES/PROJECTILES AND THEN INVENTS A PET NAME ON THE SPOT.

Not to mention the Princess Bride-esque “As you wish.”

There’s also this panel.

Soundwave sees Cosmos sorta begrudging(? i dunno, that’s the vibe I get from Cosmos’ expression) look and just immediately basically goes Oh shit, he’s not treated so well. ”Hey stay here.”

I wonder if Soundwave ever sees a bit of his past self in this convo. Or at least, I can see Cosmos saying he doesn’t serve Optimus, letting it slip he’s maybe not treated like an equal among the other autobots, and insistence on talking to Doc even though Jetfire tells him Doc’s ‘just a tool’ (or at least the mention of it with Cosmos’ “Or drones…”) echoing Soundwave saying way back when that he didn’t serve Ratbat and the fact that himself, Ravage, Laserbeak, and Buzzsaw weren’t exactly ‘equals’ back then either, since Soundwave at first didn’t have a good grip on his abilities and that wasn’t any use to the senate and Ravage, Laserbeak, and Buzzsaw were beastformers and were therefore not seen as equals because they ‘weren’t cybertronians.’

I’m also never gonna let go of the lines “You said I could call you, and I think everybody else is dead and I’m all alone and I don’t know what to do and… and… I’m scared Soundwave.” “You are not alone, Cosmos. And there is no reason to fear, little autobot.” because that makes me Soft every single time

There was also always this line that got me bc it shows Cosmos cares about Sanctuary Station (and what it stands for) and what it means to Soundwave just as much as Soundwave does.

Coswave is good because Where Else are you going to get Two Dudes who are both genuinely compassionate and kind but Also people you don’t want to mess with. Soundwave can be terrifying but even the comics describe him as having a heart of gold and Cosmos comes off as genuinely kind and compassionate (which he is) but also has so much sass and has the capacity to be a being of Pure Rage.

ETHOGIRLS UNITE

Bdubs gatekeeping Etho's face

Jk, here's the full thing.

I like drawing a little less than perfect teeth

+ The rough sketch that I absolutely love

SEROOOOOO

and now for something completely different from ducks

click to read! I would’ve posted them all vertically but man uh this got really long and y’all don’t need me cluttering up your dash I know

anyway listen man Sero is a Really Good Boy okay

I FOUND IT

SAVE NOW

I would have aced biology if the teachers all taught the course like the narrator

OH MY GOD I FOUND IT

your heart is a muscle the size of a rat

the combined energy in this is fuck u bruce

Bruce once said, half-jokingly, that anyone who wanted to marry any of his kids had to beat hik in single combat first. Unfortunately, joking on the Bat looks dead serious to everyone not in his circle, so now Wally is busy learning Muay Thai, Roy is brushing up on Krav Maga, and Conner has resigned himself to living in sin. Steph just figures she'd ask Cass to fight her battles for her.

Conner: I’m sorry. I love you, but we can never marry.

Tim, thinking about who he might need to politely go ask Jason to take care of:

Conner, entirely serious: I’m never going to be able to beat your dad.

Tim, hearing “beat UP” because he was thinking about Jason punching Luthor:

Tim: I feel like further explanation might be necessary here.

Wally: Okay. I think I’m ready to fight Batman.

Dick, only half paying attention: *nods* I understand completely. I have the same urge all the time.

Jason: What do you MEAN you can’t marry me because Batman will beat you?

Roy: But Bruce said-

Jason: I don’t care what Bruce said. Actually, no. I do care. How DARE he-

*cut to Jason fighting Batman*

Roy: So does this count, or…

Bruce, at six am in a bathrobe and slippers: Steph, what are you doing here?

Steph: Outsourcing.

Cass: *comes flying at Batman from two stories above*

What Humans call the "Thousand Yard Stare"

As more and more Humans interact with and integrate within Coalition stations, reports, closer to hushed whispers really, began to circulate of some Humans being... discomforting... to be around.

Initially we thought it was just rudeness or passive aggressive behavior or any number of subtle actions or choice of words, no matter how advanced or civilized there will always be some assholes.

However, when some of these "offenders" were presented to us peacekeepers, we found them to be perfectly polite and reasonable. As our conversation continued and shifted topics, whenever there was a lull or the focus was on another speaker for a longer time, the Human's gaze drifted somewhat.

Sometimes she would look to the side and it was harder to tell what her exact expression was, but every so often she would be looking at one of us, but... not. It was as if she was staring at something behind us, through us even. Beyond the walls of the station, it even felt as though beyond space and time itself.

It was one of the most unnerving and chitin-chilling feelings we've ever felt, but then the Human seemed to notice our change and became that friendly and cheerful person once again:

"Sorry, my mind drifted there for a bit. What were you saying?"

And the conversation continued as if nothing was out of the ordinary for the Human.

Upon our return to our office, one of the Human peacekeepers heard about our impromptu assignment and offered this explanation after we told him what happened:

"Oh yeah, I think that person was a retired firefighter or rescue worker of some kind. Professions like that can be dangerous and you'll eventually encounter something horrible at a disaster site or crime scene. Probably saw someone die, or a person they rescued later didn't make it, or it was a kid... It's the toughest when you're the last one a child sees before..."

There it is again. That look, but with a tinge of sadness this time. We didn't know he was carrying such memories. The untimely death of anyone is a difficult time for those that survive, especially when it is the young whose life was still just starting. It seems Humans with their heightened senses and sensitivity to the feelings of others these kind of experiences imprint a far stronger memory than for most.

"Anyway, we've got a bunch of names for such things, but typically we call it the thousand yard stare. It's an old measurement unit, don't worry about it. I think the meaning may have changed a bit over the years, but basically some people go through traumatic stuff and they decide, consciously or not, to sort of... detach themselves from reality. It's a coping mechanism.

A few people thrive on horrible things, but they're the exception. Most of us would go crazy or depressed or any other infinite bad possibilities our brains can go in if we don't find a way to separate ourselves from certain realities. It can get real bad otherwise. It's rare, but a few go truly nuts and try to inflict their pain unto others. Most end up suffering alone for a long time. And some can't take it anymore and decide to end it themselves.

Thankfully therapists and support options are widely available, so those kind of scenarios are really rare, like... suicide accounts for about three out of a hundred thousand deaths last time I saw those charts. Plus drones and automation take care of most of the dangerous tasks, leaving the vast majority of cases to be caused by interpersonal relations actually. A broken heart is one of those traumas we'll never get rid of it seems. That's just life, I guess."

Apparently my director went to see a production of West Side Story a few years ago, and the guy playing Chino forgot his gun before coming out for his final scene. Once it got to the big scene where he is supposed to shoot Tony, he screeched “Poison Boots” and kicked the actor playing Tony until he went down. The girl playing Maria then had to jerk the shoe off of Chino’s foot, and had to do the gunshot scene asking “How many kicks Chino? How many kicks, and one kick left for me”. 

Humans are weird: Sports

Alien: Why do so many of your merrymaking outdoor activities revolve around throwing, tossing, kicking, or catching a circular object. Human: We call them “Sports” or “Games” and we use “Balls” first off. Human: The reason we use balls so much is because it eventually became frowned upon to use human skulls for our sports.  Alien: *Inaudible screaming*  ———————————————————————————————————– Alien: What’s the name of this game? Human: Kickball.  Alien: Yes, I see that you have done that several times now, but what is the name of the game?  Human: Kickball.  Alien: You seem overly fixated on this; please just give me an answer! Human: The name of the game is “Kickball”!  Alien: What a stupid name for a game.  Human: Fine. Want to learn about another one? Alien: Sure, what is it called? Human: *Picks up ball* Human: *Chucks it full force at alien who takes it in the face* Human: Dodge-ball.  ———————————————————————————————————– Human: This game is called Cricket.  Alien: How do you play? Human: I have absolutely no idea.  Human: It’s about as alien to me as you are.  ———————————————————————————————————– Alien: So is it called “Football” or “Soccer”? USA Human: Both, but it depends where you are when you say it.  Alien: Why does it matter?  Brazilian Human: *Shouts from down the street* HEY! DID YOU JUST CALL FOOTBALL SOCCER!?!?! *Angry crowd of Brazilian Football fans appears*  USA Human: When they catch us, don’t mention the UK or Spain. ———————————————————————————————————– Alien: So what is this sport? Human: We call it “Darts”. Alien: You humans have such simple naming conventions.  Human: If it ain’t broke don’t fix it. *Tosses dart* Alien: So you call it a “Bulls-eye” when you hit the center? Human: *Tosses another dart* Correct. Alien: What do you call it when you miss? Human: *Tosses dart* *Misses and hits nearby Human who had been walking by in the arm* Human: Collateral damage.  ———————————————————————————————————– Alien: So is this called “Hole-in-the-ground”? Human: No, this is Golf.  Alien: *Shocked* Finally, something original.  Alien: How do you play? Human: Try to stay awake long enough to contemplate the meaning of your existence while the other player takes thirty minutes to hit a ball then go find it in the bushes.  ———————————————————————————————————– Alien: Isn’t this golf?  Human: Sort of. We call it “Mini-golf”. Alien: How is it different? Human: It’s actually fun.  ———————————————————————————————————– Alien: So you just roll this round boulder into the pins? Human: Pretty much. It’s awesome to get a strike, you feel like a god. Alien: What if you miss? Human: Then you feel the weight of the silent laughter from all those around you. ———————————————————————————————————– Human: This is called Fencing.  Alien: *Observes the match* Alien: They will need something better if they mean to kill each other.  Human: *Chuckles* You’re right, but I doubt you hav- Human: *Sees Alien reach into techno bag and withdraw energy swords* Alien: *Chucks them at the fencers* Alien: FIGHT TO THE DEATH! ———————————————————————————————————– Alien: I do not understand this game.  Human: *Decides to mess with alien friend* Human: The ball is actually a tiny pig that can’t decide which side of the field they would like to eat on. Both teams have their own preferences and are trying to get the pig to eat the grass on their side.  Alien: *Shocked* Alien: *Storms the field* Alien: I’m coming for you tiny pig! I will save you!!!! ———————————————————————————————————– Human: This is called table tennis.  Alien: This appears as dull as regular tennis. Human: The official version is yeah, but we made our own version that’s way better. Alien: What is it called? Human: Beer Pong. ———————————————————————————————————– Alien: So the purpose is to hit the opponent enough times until they stay down? Human: Pretty much.  Alien: There are far better ways to do this. Alien: *Reaches into techno bag* Human: *Grabs Alien friend* Human: Will you please stop arming the athletes!? 

You have been sentenced to death in a magical court. The court allows all prisoners to pick how they die and they will carry it out immediately. You have it all figured out until the prisoner before you picks old age and is instantly transformed into a dying old man. Your turn approaches.

Here’s a story about changelings: 

Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch. 

She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage.

Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings. 

“Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child. 

Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin.

“I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.”

“I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.”

“Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.”

Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine.

“We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…”

“Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.”

Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has.

“Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.”

Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project.

She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still.

“Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once.

Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.”

Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.  

They all live happily ever after.

*

Here’s another story: 

Keep reading

It occurs to me that as much as “humans are the scary ones” fits sometimes, if you look at it another way, humans might seem like the absurdly friendly or curious ones.

I mean, who looked at an elephant, gigantic creature thoroughly capable of killing someone if it has to, and thought “I’m gonna ride on that thing!”?

And put a human near any canine predator and there’s a strong chance of said human yelling “PUPPY!” and initiating playful interaction with it.

And what about the people who look at whales, bigger than basically everything else, and decide “I’m gonna swim with our splashy danger friends!”

Heck, for all we know, humans might run into the scariest, toughest aliens out there and say “Heck with it. I’m gonna hug ‘em.”

“Why?!”

“I dunno. I gotta hug ‘em.”

And it’s like the first friendly interaction the species has had in forever so suddenly humanity has a bunch of big scary friends.

on the topic of humans being the intergalactic “hold my beer” species: imagine an alien stepping onto a human starship and seeing a space roomba™ with a knife duct taped onto it, just wandering around the ship

it doesn’t have any special intelligence. it’s just a normal space roomba. there are other space roombas on the ship and they don’t have knives. it’s just this one. knife space roomba has full clearance to every room in the ship. occasionally crew members will be talking and then suddenly swear and clutch their ankle. knife space roomba putters off, leaving them to their mild stab wounds.

“what is the point?” asks the alien as another crew member casually steps over the knife-wielding robot. “is it to test your speed and agility?”

“no it doesn’t really go that fast,” replies the captain.

“does it teach you to stay ever-vigilant?”

“I mean I guess so but that’s more of a side effect.”

“does it weed out the weak? does it protect you from invaders? do repeated stabbings let your species heal more quickly in the future?”

“it doesn’t stab very hard, it gets us more than it gets our enemies, and no, but that sounds cool — someone write that down.”

“but then what is its purpose?”

“I don’t know,” the captain says, leaning down to give the space roomba an affectionate pat. “it just seemed cool”

holy shit

Here’s a story about changelings: 

Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch. 

She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage.

Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings. 

“Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child. 

Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin.

“I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.”

“I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.”

“Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.”

Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine.

“We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…”

“Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.”

Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has.

“Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.”

Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project.

She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still.

“Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once.

Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.”

Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.  

They all live happily ever after.

*

Here’s another story: 

Keep reading