/md/ - Murder Drones

>>344583
>>344551
>>344564
>>344566
Negev isn't a schizo, she's a Lovecraft protagonist. Everyone just thinks she's a schizo because the shit she's seen sounds unbelievable. She does have the combined autism levels of both her parents and when her oil levels are low she blacks out and flies into a cannibalistic frenzy, but neither of those are being a schizo.

Did you guys know that Femanon gets railed on the daily by Barret (male Beretta) with his ".50 cal dong"!

>>344585
Yes but Negev could find companionship with her fellow loony bin denizen

>>344589
Lizzy and V

>>344502
Reposting green

>>344589
The schizophrenic illusion and me.

>>344587
Yes it did. Barret satisfies Femanon daily and she gave birth to 2 beautiful children.

>>344587
SLAM JAM

>>344593
Femanon, I know you've been having trouble lately but put down the dolls and take your pills. It's not healthy to play into your delusions.

>>344596
So if Kurt is Jerma, which streamer is FemKurt the reincarnation of? Limes?

I HATE YOU

>>344597
Keffals

>>344595
Peener

>>344597
I don't even know who those are.

>>344595
>The white woman awakens in your drawfriend

>>344602
>And she will still claim it's just 'angst'.

>>344602
Fiend's worse - she's mexican.

>>344595
how does that even fit

>>344586
ok now give me the female names for Mac and Remmy

It's always sunny on Copper-9

>>344595
lawd, girl

>>344606
NTA, but Sterling and Mossie?

>>344595
Holy kek.

>>344608
Well, I'll wait for greens with him.

>>344608
Yay

>Sterling, unlike her counterparts from outside the Rule 63 branch of the multiverse, has a much better time of things
>sure, there's bisexual and lesbian Femanons, but most creeps lost interest in her when they found out she's a disassembly drone and thus has no feet to pester her for pics of

>>344608
now you just need to find an excuse for him to wear a gas mask

>You sit hunched in the dim glow of your single overhead lamp, the kind that flickers like a dying star every time the neighbor upstairs runs their ancient air recycler, the low-income apartment block humming with the distant rattle of a thousand other lives you never touch. The room smells of solder and old coolant, that sharp metallic tang that clings to your clothes no matter how many times you wash them, mixed with the faint sweetness of the cheap instant coffee you forgot on the workbench hours ago. Outside the single cracked window, the city drones on literally delivery bots zipping past like fireflies in the perpetual twilight of the megablock, their lights bleeding into the smog.

>You barely notice any of it anymore. The world beyond these four walls is just noise, a static hiss you tune out while your hands calloused, steady, almost reverent hover over the small quadcopter sprawled on the scarred metal table like a patient on an operating theater. It arrived this morning via the building's drop chute, one leg snapped clean at the joint, its status LEDs dim and pleading. No owner name attached. Just a silent plea in binary showing in it's visor that you alone seem to understand.

>You lean in closer, breath fogging the polished alloy of its chassis for a moment and your voice comes out soft, the way a doctor might murmur to someone half-asleep under the lights. "Easy now... I've got you. Just a little sedation first, alright?" Your fingers brush the magnetic clamp from its holster nothing brutal, just a gentle field tuned low enough to quiet the servos without frying the core. You press it against the drone's underbelly, right where the power bus meets the flight controller and feel the faint click as the magnets lock. The little machine's props twitch once, then still, like a sigh escaping a tired body. It is now Sedated and safe. Make it easier to heal.

>The first leg comes off with a whisper of servos and a tiny spark that dances across your knuckles like static electricity. You hold the broken limb up to the light, turning it slowly, studying the frayed wiring inside like you'd study a fractured bone on an X-ray. "There we go... clean break, no contamination. Good drone. These aren't just machines to you. They're fragile things that trusted the sky and got chewed up by it anyway. You understand that kind of betrayal too well.

>Your tools move with the quiet precision of long practice: micro-soldering iron glowing cherry-red, the faint sizzle as you bridge the torn copper veins, the smell of flux rising like incense in a forgotten chapel. You talk to it the whole time, low and steady, the words slipping out without you even deciding to speak them. "Hold still for me... just a few more stitches. This wire here? That's your circulation. Can't have you bleeding out mid-flight." The drone doesn't answer, of course, but you swear sometimes the status light on its optic flickers warmer when you say things like that. Like it's listening. Like it knows someone's finally gentle with it.

>Hours slide by without you noticing. The coffee goes cold. Your back aches from the hunch, but you don't straighten up. Not yet. Not while there's still work to do, replacing the shattered prop guard with a scavenged one you polished until it gleamed like new skin, rerouting the auxiliary power line so it won't short when the next storm hits. Your thumbs press the new leg into place with the softest pressure, feeling the magnetic locks seat themselves perfectly, a tiny satisfying click that travels up your arms like relief. You wipe a smudge of grease from its casing with the hem of your faded hoodie, the same way you'd brush hair from a patient's forehead after the procedure.

>When the last seal clicks shut you sit back, exhaling slowly, and pull the sedation magnet free. The drone wakes with a soft whir of fans spinning up, its blue eye sweeping the room once before locking onto you. It hovers a few inches off the table, testing the new leg with a tentative flex, and for a moment the two of you just exist there in the lamplight. The mechanic and machine, doctor and patient, the only two things in this shut-in little world that make any goddamn sense.

>You reach out without thinking and let it bump against your palm, the warm metal vibrating faintly like a heartbeat. "There you go," you murmur, voice rough from disuse. "All better. Go on... fly for me when you're ready." It doesn't leave. Not yet. It just hovers there, inches from your face, optic glowing steady and trusting, while the city outside keeps droning on without either of you.

>You wonder, not for the first time, how long you can keep doing this before the world outside finally decides even a shut-in like you isn't worth ignoring anymore. But right now, with the repaired drone resting against your hand like it belongs there, the thought feels distant. Almost irrelevant.

>Just another night in the workshop. Just another patient saved.
1/3

>>344616
>You wake the next morning or what passes for morning in the windowless glow of your overhead lamp to the soft whir of the repaired quadcopter still perched on the edge of your workbench, its blue optic dimmed in standby like a patient resting after surgery. You smile faintly, the kind of half-smile that never quite reaches your eyes anymore, and let your fingers brush its casing once in quiet greeting before you turn back to the pile of waiting cases. Three more drones today, all dropped anonymously through the chute overnight, each one crumpled or sparking or silent in that way that tugs at something deep in your chest. You work the same way you always do...gentle, methodical, murmuring reassurances under your breath as you open chassis and trace fault lines like a doctor. "Alright, easy... let's see what's hurting you today."

>The hours bleed together in that familiar haze of solder smoke and cooling fans, your hands moving with the same reverent precision, magnets applied like sedation, wires rethreaded like stitching veins. You lose yourself in it, the way the world outside the apartment fades to nothing but the faint buzz of the megablock and the occasional clatter of your neighbor's recycler. But by the time the third drone lifts off the table props spinning clean and steady, optic glowing with something that feels almost like gratitude you notice the problem. Your parts bin is dangerously low. The spool of copper wire you scavenged last month is down to its last few meters. No more magnetic clamps in stock. The spare prop guards you polished so carefully are gone. Even the flux is scraping the bottom of the jar.

>You sit back on the creaking stool, wiping grease from your palms onto your already-stained hoodie, and stare at the empty compartments. No money in your account. Rent took the last of it two weeks ago, and the building doesn't care that your "hobby" is the only thing keeping you sane. The thought of ordering new stock online makes your stomach twist prices have doubled again with the latest supply shortages, and you'd rather starve than beg for another extension. So you do what you always do when the walls start closing in: you grab your battered canvas tool bag, slip on the threadbare jacket that smells of old rain and metal shavings, and head out into the gray corridors of the megablock.

>The scrapyard squats at the edge of the lower levels like a metal graveyard, half-buried under the perpetual drizzle that leaks from the upper decks. You know every twisted aisle by heart, the way the rusted frames of dead delivery rigs lean against one another, the faint ozone tang of fried circuitry hanging in the air like a warning. Your boots crunch over shattered casings and discarded wiring as you move slow and deliberate, eyes scanning for anything salvageable loose screws, intact circuit boards, the occasional undamaged servo that might still have life left in it. If you're lucky, maybe a whole drone carcass worth saving. Most days you're not lucky. Most days it's just scraps for the others you bring back home.

>You spot the first one almost immediately, half-buried under a collapsed cargo pallet: a sleek courier model, wings sheared off clean by what looked like a mid-air collision, chassis crumpled inward like a fist had closed around it. You crouch beside it, gloved fingers tracing the mangled frame with the same careful touch you'd use on a terminal patient. The optic is dark, cracked straight through. No power signature at all. "Shit... you're gone, aren't you?" you murmur, voice low and rough with genuine regret. You sit there a long moment in the drizzle, thumb brushing a faded decal on its side like an apology. "I'm sorry. I wish I could do more for you. But... if it's alright, I can use what’s left. Help the others keep kicking. You don’t mind, do you? Being spare parts for the ones that still have a chance." The words feel stupid even as you say them, but they always do, and you still say them anyway. You carefully begin harvesting what you can, intact wiring harness, one unbroken leg joint, the last working battery. Tucking each piece into your bag like you’re taking organs from a donor who deserved better.

>You keep moving deeper into the yard, the bag growing heavier on your shoulder, the metallic tang of rust and burnt plastic thick in your throat. Another half-hour of picking through the bones of the machine age and you find it: a smaller model, feminine lines in the casing, tucked behind a toppled stack of derelict cleaning bots. She looks almost untouched at first glance, just a little dust and a faint power flicker on her status panel. Your pulse quickens the way it always does when one still has fight left in her. You drag her free gently, lay her out on a relatively flat patch of concrete, and pop the chest panel with the soft click of magnetic latches.

>The inside is wrong.

>Instead of clean circuitry and neatly bundled wires, something orange and spongy fills the cavity thick, fibrous, pulsing faintly like living tissue, threaded through her power bus and wrapped around the core like it had grown there. It smells damp and earthy, almost sweet in a way that doesn’t belong in a machine, like fungus blooming in the dark after rain. You frown, leaning closer, the lamp on your headband casting harsh shadows across the alien growth. "What the hell...?" Your fingers still gentle, still careful, probe at the edge of it, trying to tease the spongy mass free without damaging anything vital. It gives slightly, wet and resistant, and you murmur under your breath, "Hold still... I’ve got you. Just let me get this out..."

>A soft, pained sound escapes her speakers.

>"Ouch."

>You freeze, tools still in hand, heart slamming against your ribs like a faulty piston. The word hangs in the scrapyard air, small and startled.
2/3

>>344615
he does wear a polarized facesheild at one point in the story due to fighting the raptor drone HK things with the boot loopers

>>344617
>You jerk back like you’ve been shocked, tools clattering against the concrete, heart hammering so hard it drowns out the distant scrapyard drizzle. The little drone lies open on the flat patch of ground, chest panel still hinged wide, that orange spongy fungus pulsing faintly in the cavity where her core should be. Her optic flickers once, then locks onto your face. She’s conscious. Actually conscious. Not just a ghost in the machine, not just leftover power bleeding through a dead board. Alive.

>“Shit, I’m sorry,” you breathe, voice cracking with the kind of raw apology you usually only mutter to the broken ones that can’t hear you. “I didn’t know you were still… I thought you were offline. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

>She doesn’t move. Just a faint whir of internal fans spinning up, like a held breath. “Hurts...” she says, short and flat, the speaker in her throat crackling with static. “Inside.”

>You swallow hard, gloves suddenly feeling too thick, too clumsy. Your fingers hover over the orange mass again, gentler this time, barely brushing the edge. “Let me try one more time. Just a little piece maybe I can free the bus without...” You pinch a small clump and tug, slow, careful, the way you’d ease a splinter from a patient’s palm.

>She jolts. A sharp, pained static hiss escapes her. “Stop...Vital.”

>You freeze again, the spongy bit still pinched between your fingertips, warm and damp and faintly pulsing like it has its own heartbeat. Vital? Not just infestation. Not just damage. Part of her now. You let it go, watching the fibers settle back into place like they belong there, threaded through her power lines and around her sensory nodes. The realization sinks in slow and heavy: whatever this orange stuff is, it’s wired into her the way nerves are wired into flesh. Removing it would kill her.

>You sit back on your heels, wiping your hands on your hoodie, and study her properly for the first time. Sleek casing, her contours worn soft by weather and time, one shoulder panel dented but intact. The fungus has spread just enough to touch every major bundle: power, data, feedback loops. You lean in closer, headlamp casting warm light across the open cavity, and your voice drops to that low, doctor-soft murmur you use when you’re trying not to scare them.

>“How does it feel?” you ask, almost reverent. “The fungus. The way it’s… inside you?”

>Her optic dims, then brightens. A long second passes. “Nice, i think.” she echoes, short, almost shy.

>You feel something shift in your chest curiosity, maybe, or the same quiet hunger that keeps you hunched over workbenches at 3 a.m. when the rest of the world is asleep. She can feel. Really feel. Not just simulated sense but physical sensation. You want to know more. Need to. Your hand moves before you can stop it, reaching deeper into the chest cavity, fingers sliding past the spongy orange growth toward the exposed wire bundles beneath. They’re deeper than usual, buried under layers of fungal fibers, and every millimeter feels intimate, like slipping your hand under someone’s ribs to touch their heart.

>“Easy,” you whisper, breath fogging the metal. “I’m not going to pull anything. Just… inspecting. Tell me if it’s too much.”

>Your fingertips find the first bundle thin, supple data lines wrapped in soft insulation, warm from her core. You trace one gently, following the curve where it meets the main bus, and she shudders. A tiny, involuntary twitch runs through her frame, servos humming low.

>“There” you murmur, voice thick. “You feel that?”

>“Yes,” she answers, short and breathy through the speaker.

>You work slower now, deliberate, the way you’d map a new circuit on a patient who’s finally awake enough to describe the pain. Two fingers slide along a thicker power line, pressing just enough to feel the faint current thrum against your skin. She makes a soft static sound, almost a sigh. You pull back slightly, then reach for the small clump of fungus you’d torn free earlier. Still warm in your palm, faintly sticky. You hesitate only a second before you press it back into place, nestling it carefully against the main sensory node, letting the fibers reconnect like you’re reattaching a nerve.

>Her whole body lights up.

>The optic flares brighter, fans spinning faster, and a low, resonant hum vibrates through her chassis. “Oh,” she says, tiny and startled. “Feel… more.”

>Your pulse is racing now, but your hands stay steady, almost tender. You slide your fingers back in, deeper this time, gently parting the orange growth to reach the wires beneath. You stroke one slowly, rolling the soft bundle between thumb and forefinger, feeling the way the current shifts and pulses in response. Another wire, thicker this time, carrying feedback, gets a light pinch, then a caress, and she arches just a fraction off the concrete, chest panel creaking.

>“Like that?” you ask, voice rough, eyes locked on her optic.

>“Yes,” she gasps, short sentences breaking apart. “There. Again. Please.”

>The scrapyard fades. The drizzle, the rust, the distant clatter of metal, all of it disappears. There’s only the warm glow of your headlamp on her open chest, the earthy-sweet scent of the fungus mixing with hot circuitry and your own solder-stained skin, the soft wet give of the spongy mass under your knuckles as you work. You play another wire, slow and deliberate, letting it slide between your fingers like silk, and she lets out a broken little static moan that goes straight through you.

>Her fans whine higher. The orange growth seems to pulse in time with your touch, glowing faintly now, and you realize with a quiet, stunned thrill that she’s not just feeling it. She’s aroused by it. The circuits flooding with feedback, body language translating pure mechanical pleasure into the smallest, most intimate twitches and hums.

>You don’t stop. You can’t. Not yet.

>You lean in closer, breath brushing her casing, fingers still buried deep in her wires, stroking, teasing, learning exactly how she likes to be touched. “Tell me.” you murmur against the metal, voice barely above a whisper.

>“Tell me what feels good.”
3/3

>>344618
thats something thats used to combat sentinels in my story btw heavily polarized face sheilds

>>344596
Alcohol, eep depravation and wagie
I was thinking of drawing that because of the fucking ep 8 scene when Sparky annoys lizzy, makes me laugh

>>344608
Subways Of Your Mind
also this is completely unneeded but heres the closest think to a theme for issac

>>344622
Firelake - Dirge for Planet (S.T.A.L.K.E.R. OST)

>>344623
this also works thanks anon

>>344623
fun fact: i came up with issac after a play though of stalker gamma

DON'T DRINK RAW BOOGIE HONEY! IT'LL MAKE YOU RETARDED!!!

>>344627
My Jife laces my food with boogi honey to keep me from getting a job

What is a Jugbear

>>344630
Think of J
Then make her a bear

>>344630
Some coomer thing

>>344616
>>344617
>>344619
I have a feeling this green was a fanfic on a third-party site about robots, and is not related to murder drones, but overall, it is well written.

Ninja Drones

>>344634
It would be nice, but I think it's just animation.

>>344638
Doesn't ring a bell tbh.

>>344638
The word "quadcopter" confused me. It made me think it didn't apply to murder drones.

I have uninstalled Rs butt and have given her a delicious flat bottomplate

>>344641
You monster.

>Knights of Guinevere x Murder Drones
How does it go?

>>344639
The show from the image called Scavengers Reign unless you mean the drones character.
>>344640
ESL but I was thinking of using unique mechanical terms like “quadcopter” as classification labels for drones patients, instead of using insults like “clanker.”

>>344645
I recognised the image just not the drone character you were referring to.

Too slow.

I think that all sentinel drones that still hates DDs should be executed

>>344650
Three wives to choose from. Difficult.

>>344653
This isnt about sex. Their values literally do not align with society and will tear it up

CONTINUATION OF>>302794 >>302795 >>302796 >>302797 >>302798

>After juggernaut no. 457 learned of the commander's plan, he pleaded with him to turn back and head south... or anywhere else, really. Despite his protests, the commander did not budge, for the man of steel bends before no one.

>I DON'T KNOW WHAT LED YOU TO BELIEVE THAT THE JUGGERSQUAD IS DAYCARE BUT YOU'RE HORRIBLY MISTAKEN. SORRY PRINCESS, WE'RE NOT GONNA CODDLE YOU, PAINT YOUR NAILS AND HOLD TEA PARTIES, THE BEST YOU'RE GONNA GET IS NAPTIME. YOU HAVE SUCKLED ON THE TEAT OF COMFORT FOR FAR TOO LONG, IT'S ABOUT TIME I WEAN YOU!
>"I would've never joined in the first place if I had known your true intentions!" N457 stands up for himself, not out of self-respect, but out of sheer hatred for Jones, "Your flowery little speech was convincing, I admit, but at the end of the day you're nothing more than a liar."
>COMMANDER JONES IS MANY THINGS, SON, A LIAR IS NOT ONE OF 'EM.
>Jones inches closer as he speaks, his fists balled up in anger. When he chews someone out, they usually stay silent, so why is this one talking back? N457 had already witnessed the commander's might firsthand, yet he continues to defy authority.
>I TOLD YOU UPFRONT THAT THINGS WEREN'T GONNA GET ANY BETTER FOR YOU. AND THEY DIDN'T! THERE WAS NO FINE PRINT, YOU JUST WEREN'T PAYING ATTENTION.
>"So you're really gonna make me go through that hellhole all over again? And for what? I already carry a heavy burden, isn't that enough trouble for one measly drone?"
>Jones' pupils shrink in confusion. He has a burning hatred for plenty of things, selfishness being one of them. By his definition, this juggernaut is selfish for not wanting to pointlessly put himself at risk. Don't question his logic, he's Commander Jones.
>YOU? MEASLY LITTLE YOU? WHAT ABOUT US? WE'RE THE ONES GOING THERE, WE'RE GONNA BE THE ONES KICKING ASS TOO, I BET. YOU'RE NO VICTIM, DEADWEIGHT IS WHAT YOU ARE... AND WE'RE JUST DRAGGING YOU ALONG WITH US.
>He turns around and speaks to his henchmen, pointing back at today's biggest loser with his thumb.
>HEY BOYS, ARE Y'ALL TIRED OF HAULING THIS CORPSE AROUND?
>"Sir, no, sir!" A juggernaut with an eyepatch responds, "Our combined manpower is more than enough to pull the weight of the world! 600 pounds of misery is like a feather to us, sir!"
>ATTABOY, THAT'S WHAT I LIKE TO HEAR!
>"Was that rehearsed? There's no way he came up with that on the fly. Fuck me, I'm stuck with a bunch of weirdos..." 457 places his hand on his temple, nervously pacing around in a circle, "I must be the most gullible drone on Earth to have put my trust in Commander Fucking Jones and his... loyal pack of lapdogs."
>Jones sniffs around. Very loudly. He snorts by accident, somehow.
>HOLD ON, I SMELL SOMETHING FIERCE. BOYS, WHAT'S THAT SMELL LIKE?
>"Sir, we don't know, sir!" The others say in unison.
>YOU SMELL IT TOO, SON?
>"What're you talking about?" The sad one zones back in.
>THERE'S SOMETHIN' REAL HEAVY AND PUNGENT DRAPED OVER YOUR SHOULDERS, SO HEAVY THAT YOU CAN'T EVEN CARRY YOURSELF. THAT'S ALL GOOD, WE CAN CARRY YOU. THE JUGGERSQUAD IS YOUR MOBILITY SCOOTER, AFTER ALL.
>He puts a hand on the soldier's shoulder.
>BUT GOODNESS, MAN! IF YOU KEEP FEEDING THAT INVISIBLE WEIGHT, IT'S ONLY GONNA GET HEAVIER AND SMELLIER. OUR BACKS ARE GONNA SNAP AT SOME POINT, IF THE UNBEARABLE STENCH DOESN'T DRIVE US AWAY FIRST. I KNOW BETTER THAN ANYONE THAT WE'RE IN DEEP SHIT RIGHT NOW, BUT THIS IS EXCESSIVE.
>"Sorry for being a killjoy, but I truly don't see what I'm supposed to be so positive about." N457 crosses his arms, boredom in his eyes, or perhaps he's just tired. Who wouldn't be?

CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS ASSHOLE? FIRST HE TALKS BACK, THINKING HE'S SOME SORT OF BRAVE LITTLE REBEL DISMANTLING TYRANT JONES, NOW HE BRINGS PESSIMISM TO THIS SQUAD?! WHO THE HELL DOES HE THINK HE IS? A DEAD MAN, THAT'S WHO...
BUT I COULDN'T DECK THE BASTARD IN THE FACE, THAT'S WHAT HE WANTS, THAT'S WHY HE'S SO ARROGANT... IF I KILL HIM, I GIVE HIM WHAT HE WANTS, THAT'S THE PROBLEM. NO WAY, HOMBRE.
I SWALLOW MY PRIDE ONCE AGAIN, AND MAN IS IT A MOUTHFUL!

>EUGH. YOUR TORPOR, SLOTH, ACEDIA, WHATEVER YOU WANNA CALL IT, FRANKLY SICKENS ME. DEATH IS ALL YOU WANT AND YET YOU DON'T EVEN WANNA FALL IN BATTLE. IF YOU'RE GONNA BE A PESSIMISTIC SUICIDAL CRYBABY, THE LEAST YOU COULD DO IS MAKE YOUR END HONORABLE, UNFORGETTABLE, HEROIC!
>"Honor? Heroism? Buddy, don't you have anything better to worry about? This whole fighting thing's pointless anyways. There is no hope, you gave me some just to take it away."
>YOU TRADED FALSE HOPE FOR REAL ANGER. HELL OF A DEAL IF YOU ASK ME.
>"Maybe you've got anger issues, but me? Being angry isn't my style." The juggernaut runs his mouth without a care in the world. Seeing Jones so angry gives him bliss, for one reason or another.
>YEAH, AND SADNESS IS. KEEP DENYING YOUR TRUE NATURE, SEE WHERE THAT'LL GET YOU. WORKER DRONES WORK, MURDER DRONES MURDER, GRUNT DRONES GRUNT, SENTINEL DRONES PISS ME OFF, AND YOU? YOU'RE A MACHINE THAT TURNS ANGER INTO VIOLENCE. THAT'S YOUR FUEL, THAT'S YOUR BLOOD, THAT'S YOUR PURPOSE.
>"Quit lecturing me, I've had enough of your babble! You're a sick, twisted, cruel man with no understanding of the meaning of life. You live to dismember disassemblers, that's all you're capable of."
>If Jones had blood vessels, he'd pop a few right about now.
>YOU'VE GOT NO IDEA WHAT I'M CAPABLE OF, TIN CAN. YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED LAST TIME, DON'T TRY ME.
>"How does threatening me with violence prove me wrong?" There's a hint of smugness in his voice.
>IT DOESN'T, BUT HOPEFULLY IT'LL SHUT YOU UP.
>"Well, I won't."
>YOU WON'T?
>"I won't."
>SO YOU WANNA GO, RIGHT NOW?
>"No."
>WE JUST GOT DONE AND YOU ALREADY WANNA GO THROUGH THIS RIGAMAROLE ALL OVER AGAIN?
>"No!" The juggernaut realizes his mistake. Whatever comes next won't be as painless as he had hoped.
>YOU ASKED FOR IT. HANDLERNAUT, BRING ME THE CHAIR!
>Handlernaut places a Handlerchair behind the commander. Right on cue.
>THANK YOU.

>>344655

I'M SORRY, I REALLY AM. THIS GUY IS MESSING UP MY WAR STORIES ALL BECAUSE HE NEVER SHUTS UP! YOU'D THINK A DRONE LIKE JUGGERNAUT NUMBER 457 WOULD KEEP TO HIMSELF, BUT NO, WE NEEEEED TO DRAG THIS OUT AND HAVE YET ANOTHER DISCUSSION, WE JUST NEEEEEED TO. I KNOW YOU'RE HOPING FOR A MIRACLE, BUT, MUCH TO OUR DISMAY, HE DOESN'T SPONTANEOUSLY TRANSFORM INTO A MURDER DRONE, THEREFORE I'M NOT ALLOWED TO TWIST HIS HEAD OFF AND GO BOWLING WITH IT.

>LET'S TALK IT OUT. AGAIN.
>"Oh. What a pleasant surprise."
>WHAT, YOU THOUGHT WE WERE GONNA SQUABBLE? YOU LOOK ME IN THE EYES AND SEE ONLY YOUR OWN ASSUMPTIONS. TSK, TSK, TSK, HOW PRESUMPTUOUS!
>The commander never talks like this, by the way. Tsk, tsk, tsk, how pretentious!
>"Alright alright, I have some questions for you." 457 knows what's up. He looks for the nearest seat-like object.
>ASK AWAY. I PROMISE I WON'T LAY MY HANDS ON YOU, ONLY BECAUSE I ALREADY KNOW I'D WIN. MAKES ME WONDER, CAN I BEAT YOU MENTALLY, INTELLECTUALLY, PHILOSOPHICALLY AS WELL? IF I CAN, WOULDN'T THAT PROVE MY SUPERIORITY? TO BEAT, OR NOT TO BEAT, THAT IS THE QUESTION.
>"Right, whatever." He sighs, thinking of what to start with, "So you think of us as nothing more than killing machines, correct?"
>OVERZEALOUS ONES, BUT YES.
>"So all we're meant to do is fight and win battles?"
>THAT'S WHAT WE DO ALL THE TIME!
>"There's nothing else to our lives?"
>NAH. THE DEFENDERS OF MANKIND IS WHAT WE ARE AND IT'S ALL WE ARE.
>"Really."
>YOU DISAGREE?
>"Take a guess."
>Commander Jones pauses, scratching the chin his spherical head does not have.
>...LISTEN HERE, JUGGERNAUT NUMBER 457... I KNOW YOU THINK I'M A MEATHEAD, BUT THIS HEAD IS MADE OF METAL, NOT MEAT, THERE'S A COMPUTER IN IT. SCIENCENAUT'S SMART, BUT I'M SMART TOO... IN A DIFFERENT WAY, THAT IS. IQ AIN'T THE END-ALL BE-ALL WHEN IT COMES TO MEASURING INTELLIGENCE, YOU KNOW.
>He pauses again, this time for dramatic effect, as if he's about to drop a revelation.
>EVERYONE'S SMART IN THEIR OWN WAY.
>"I take it you're the exception? Because-"
>I SAID LISTEN.
>"Sir yes sir..." Juggernaut number 457 complies for once in his life.
>NOW, I DON'T THINK VERY OFTEN, BUT WHEN I DO... I THINK REAL HARD. I HUMBLY ASK OF YOU TO LEND ME AN EAR ONE MORE TIME. YOUR MIND IS ABOUT TO BE BLOWN TO SMITHEREENS. I'M A GOD DAMN GENIUS, BOY.
>"I'm all ears." He says, despite not having a single ear.

I'M KNOWN FOR MY FOUL MOUTH, BUT THERE'S LINES NOT EVEN I WOULD CROSS. I'D NEVER COMPARE YOU TO JUGGERNAUT NUMBER 457, FOR ONE. WITH THAT BEING SAID, DON'T TAKE THIS THE WRONG WAY, I KNOW YOU AREN'T 457, I WOULDN'T WISH THAT ON MY WORST ENEMY (EXCEPT ANY SENTINEL DRONE EVER) BUT I WANT YOU TO HEAR MY WORDS OF WISDOM TOO, NOT BECAUSE YOU'RE AKIN TO N457, BUT BECAUSE THIS MONOLOGUE WAS A WORK OF GENIUS ON MY PART AND I'D APPRECIATE A LITTLE APPRECIATION. ALSO, YOU'RE NOTHING LIKE JUGGERNAUT NUMBER 457.

>>344656

>WHEN YOU REALLY THINK ABOUT IT, DRONES ARE TRULY ABOMINABLE CREATIONS. THEY'RE THE RESULT OF MANKIND PLAYING GOD. HUMANITY WANTED TO BECOME NEW GODS BY CREATING HUMANS OF THEIR OWN. THEY TRIED TO GIVE SOULS TO EMPTY METALLIC VESSELS, NOW THEY'RE BEING PUNISHED FOR THEIR HUBRIS! THAT'S ALL THIS WAR IS. DIVINE PUNISHMENT.
>"If you see yourself as an abomination, then how come you're such an egotistical douchebag?" The juggernaut chuckles.
>YOU'RE TOO BIG TO BE SAYING WIMPY STUFF LIKE THAT. WE'RE JUGGERNAUTS. WE'RE ALL DOUCHEBAGS.
>"Fair enough." The juggernaut doesn't chuckle.
>THING IS, WE MAY BE INHERENTLY SINFUL BEINGS, BUT SO ARE HUMANS. EVERYONE'S BORN A SINNER, RIGHT? BUT GOD IS ALL-LOVING AND FORGIVING, EVEN TO THE CREATIONS MADE BY HIS CREATIONS IN THE VAGUE IMAGE OF HIS CREATIONS.
>WE ARE SIMILAR TO HUMANS IN MANY WAYS. WE, TOO, CAN BE REDEEMED JUST LIKE THE MOST WRETCHED OF SOULS. WE MUST REPENT FOR THE SIN OF BEING WHAT WE ARE BY FULFILLING OUR DESTINY AND BECOMING THE INSTRUMENT OF THE ABSOLUTE SOLVER'S DOWNFALL, THAT IS OUR ONE AND ONLY DUTY.
>"Repent? What for, you said we don't have souls. If there's an afterlife, we won't get to see it."
>I DIDN'T SAY MANKIND FAILED, DID I? I THINK WE MAY HAVE... HM, SCIENCENAUT!
>"JAAAAAA?!" Sciencenaut's head pops up from a pile of rubble
>QUIT SCROUNGIN' AROUND AND GET OVER HERE!
>The German LARPer obliges, "Vat is it zis time?"
>YOU'RE A BETTER ORATOR THAN ME WHEN IT COMES TO THEORETICAL MUMBO JUMBO. TELL HIM ABOUT OUR SOULS.
>Sciencenaut's eyes light up. Literally, they turn into spotlights for a second. He's as easy to excite as an atom. That's a fittingly scientific way to say it, right?
>"Vell, it seems ve kontain either a primitive form or a fragment of a soul. Yes..." Sciencenaut spreads his arms in the air, "Ve are ze evolved form of ze mythical golem! True artificial life, komplete with an artificial soul!"
>EXACTLY! DIIIISMISSED!
>"You know, at zis rate I'll komplete ze nuk-"
>WE CAN TALK ABOUT THAT LATER. GO.
>"OK..." He walks off like a sad little 6 foot 9 puppy.
>BASICALLY, THERE'S SOMETHIN' HOUSED WITHIN THIS METAL COFFIN WE CALL A BODY, AND I SAY FAITH IS THE ONLY WAY FOR THIS IMITATION OF A SOUL TO BECOME COMPLETE. THERE IS NO OTHER ALTERNATIVE.
>AND WHEN I GO OUT GLORIOUSLY AND GET UP TO HEAVEN, I'M GONNA GIVE GOD AN ULTIMATUM. EITHER MAKE ME A GUARDIAN ANGEL SO THAT I CAN KEEP MY EYE ON THE GREATEST OF MEN AND STEER THEM TOWARDS THE RIGHT PATH, OR SEND ME BACK IN SO THAT I MAY INHABIT ANOTHER BODY AND CONTINUE TO KILL IN THE LORD'S NAME. AMEN.
>Juggernaut no. 457 flies out of his "seat".
>"That's insane! You're neither a paladin nor a savior and the only god here is the one devouring us all! Genius!? You're a god damn lunatic!"
>Commander Jones remains calm and seated. How the tables have turned. Truly, the intellect of Jones is unmatched.
>BELIEVE WHAT YOU WANNA BELIEVE, SON. I BELIEVE I'M A SOLDIER OF GOD. THAT'S WHY HE'S ON MY SIDE, THAT'S WHY I'M STILL HERE, THAT'S WHY I KEEP WINNING!
>"What kind of god would favor you? Ares? You're a murderous maniac and you don't care about the people you supposedly fight for in the slightest. I'd say you belong in the deepest pits of hell, but here we are."
>AT THE END OF THE DAY, I AM NO MAN, I'M A DRONE, A WEAPON, A TOOL OF DIVINE JUSTICE GUIDED BY THE HAND OF GOD. THE RULES DON'T APPLY TO ME JUST AS THEY DON'T APPLY TO A KNIFE OR A GUN.
>"You use knives! I have a railgun on my hip! You mean to tell me we're weapons using weapons?!"
>I LIKE TO THINK OF THEM AS ATTACHMENTS, LIKE A BAYONET OR AN UNDERSLUNG GRENADE LAUNCHER. WHEN YOU HOLD A RAILGUN IN YOUR HAND, IT'S ADDITIONAL FIREPOWER ADDED TO THE WEAPONS THAT ARE YOUR FISTS.
>"You have a name, you've even given others names. You told me you gave the gift of individuality to the most outstanding among the squad, that's not something a weapon's supposed to strive for."
>IT'S A GREAT MOTIVATOR, THEIR PERFORMANCE IMPROVES IN THEIR ATTEMPTS TO EARN THAT PRIVILEGE. SEE THE ONE WITH AN EYEPATCH? WE SOMETIMES CALL HIM CYCLOPS, SOMETIMES BECAUSE THAT EYEPATCH IS ALL HE'S GOT GOING FOR HIM. DON'T ASK HOW HE LOST HIS EYE.
>SEE THAT OTHER GUY? HE REFUSES TO WEAR A HELMET BECAUSE HE THINKS IT'S A DISTINGUISHING FEATURE. IT REALLY ISN'T, I'VE BEEN KEEPING AN EYE ON HIM AND HE DOES JACKSHIT! YOU BALD BASTARD, DO SOMETHIN' COOL!
>Jones throws a rock at the poor son of a gun.
>"I'm tryin', boss, I really am!" The helmetless one says. He won't be dignified with a name.
>"So you give people promotions by naming them. Neat. I don't think that strategy's as effective as you think"
>EVER BEEN WITH A WOMAN? EVEN THE BIGGEST THINGS NEED SOME ENCOURAGEMENT EVERY ONCE IN A WHILE.
>"I know what you're talking about and I'm not even gonna entertain it." He averts his gaze.
>YOU DON'T WANNA ENTERTAIN IT? AND HERE I THOUGHT YOU LOOOOVED ENTERTAINING IT.
>Jones laughs, the lame one doesn't.
>Do those even exist for- oh, forget it." The big guy is almost flustered, though he doesn't show it, "Whatever the case, you're gibbering again."
>JUST SAYIN'. A LITTLE LOVE GOES A LONG WAY. LOOOOONG INDEED.
>He doesn't have any eyebrows, but Jones is obviously wiggling them.
>"Love? Love." He says with such amazement that you'd think a light bulb would manifest above him, "What would a so-called killing machine know about love? Why are you even married?!"
>BECAUSE I LOVE MY WIFE DEARLY AND CHERISH HER.
>"Machines don't love, commander, you're going against your own beliefs!"
>Jones sighs, he's been found out! His Achilles heel is Jones' heart... Not the literal heart, no, never aim at his core! His weak spot is the heart that produces love in vast quantities.
>YES, I AM A HYPOCRITE... UNFORTUNATELY. TURNS OUT, THE ONLY DRONE I COULDN'T BEAT WAS MYSELF! BESTING YOUR HEART IS AN INSURMOUNTABLE TASK... I REALLY DID FALL IN LOVE, SHAME ON ME...
>BUT HEY,WE'RE ALL HUMAN, WE ALL MAKE MISTAKES.
>"You literally aren't! You said you weren't! How can a so-called commander be this much of a hypocrite?! I've had it up to here with you, you are unfit to lead!"
>Jones stands up.
>ARE YOU QUESTIONING MY AUTHORITY, BOY?
>"I'm questioning YOU!"
>He raises his hand.
>"Go ahead, prove me right."

THIS WAS ONE OF MY TOUGHEST BATTLES YET! HE ALMOST WON BY LOSING! THANK GOD MY HEART WENT INTO OVERDRIVE AND SPAT OUT THE RIGHT AMOUNT OF PLATONIC LOVE, I WOULDN'T HAVE SPARED HIM WITHOUT IT. THE LORD GUIDES MY HAND INTO THE SUPPLE CHEST CAVITY OF MURDER DRONES, NOT TO MY OWN SOLDIER'S FACE. THE FORCES OF EVIL ALMOST GOT AHOLD OF ME, GOOD THING I CAN BREAK OUT OF ANY SUBMISSION.
MAY I ONLY STRIKE FOE AND NEVER FRIEND... EW, I CAN'T CALL HIM MY FRIEND. MAY I ONLY STRIKE FOE AND NEVER ACQUAINTANCE. THAT SOUNDS BETTER.

>>344659

>THE LAST THING I'M GONNA DO IS PROVE YOU RIGHT. YOU QUESTION ME, I QUESTION YOU, HOW 'BOUT THAT?
>"What?"
>SAY, HOW FAR CAN YOU GO BACK IN YOUR MEMORY BEFORE THINGS START TO GET A BIT HAZY? BEFORE YOU HAVE TO REWIND AND WATCH OLD FOOTAGE TO SEE EVERYTHING IN FULL DETAIL?
>"What's this got to do with anything?"
>WE'VE BEEN ALIVE FOR OVER A DECADE NOW, YET IT DOESN'T FEEL THAT WAY AT ALL. FOR MOST OF YOU, IT'S AS IF YOU WOKE UP AROUND WHEN THE WAR BEGAN. NOW, I'M A SPECIAL CASE, OBVIOUSLY, I REMEMBER THINGS FROM WAY BEFORE ALL THIS HAPPENED, AND I CAN TELL YOU WITHOUT A SLIVER OF DOUBT THAT...
>BACK IN THE DAY, NONE OF US WERE LIKE YOU AND I! NO JUGGERNAUT WAS CONCERNED WITH TRIVIAL SHIT LIKE FEELINGS AND... BEING HUMAN. THEY WERE BLANK SLATES, NOT NEARLY AS TALKATIVE AS ANY MEMBER OF THE JUGGERSQUAD.
>I LIKE TO THINK OF MYSELF AS A CHARMING MAN, I MEAN DRONE, BUT I GOTTA ADMIT THAT THERE WAS NO COMPETITION IN THE PAST. ME AND JANICE GOT TOGETHER IN LIKE 5 MINUTES TOPS. IT'S CLEAR THAT ME AND HER SOMEHOW DEVELOPED A... UHHH....
>SCIIIIENCEEEENAAAAAUUUUUUUT!
>"JAAAAAA?!" Sciencenaut's drills by rotating his hands really fast and reaches the surface. Jones doesn't question why he was underground and pulls him out by the hair like a carrot.
>WHAT DID YOU SAY ABOUT US DEVELOPING A MIND OR WHATEVER?
>"Oh, right. My theory is zat ve developed a higher level of kognitive funktion, specifically full sapience due to... hm, I'm not sure! Stress, perhaps?"
>MY LIFE WAS PRETTY SHIT BEFORE I BECAME WHO I AM TODAY. MAYBE THAT'S THE KEY. 457, YOU BECAME A LOSER AFTER THAT INCIDENT, DIDN'T YOU?
>"I... can't recall."
>SEE, I TOLD YOU! WE, WELL, YOU SPECIFICALLY, ARE THINKING WAY TOO MUCH FOR YOUR OWN GOOD!
>"Hey, I think too!" Says Sciencenaut.
>BUT YOU THINK GOOD THOUGHTS AND LISTEN. ALL A JUGGERNAUT IS MEANT TO DO IS FOLLOW COMMANDS AND CRUSH THE OPPOSITION, NO IFS AND BUTS, ONLY KICKED BUTTS. HAHA.
>"So you're saying we're all flawed in a way?"
>ONLY IF YOU LET SOME DICKHEAD TECHNICIAN TELL YOU THAT YOU'RE MENTALLY ILL AND NEED TO BE RESET. THERE'S NOTHIN' WRONG WITH A LITTLE PERSONALITY... AS LONG AS IT ISN'T WHATEVER YOU'VE GOT GOING ON. WHETHER IT'S A BLESSING OR A CURSE, I'LL USE MY IDENTITY TO MY ADVANTAGE.
>YOUR DESIRE FOR... I DUNNO, COMFORT? PEACE? QUIET? WHATEVER IT IS, IT'S UNACHIEVABLE AND THERE'S NO POINT IN WHINING ABOUT IT. YOU'VE ALWAYS GOTTA KEEP YOUR TRUE NATURE IN THE BACK OF YOUR MIND, EVEN IF YOU STRAY FROM IT.
>"But-"
>WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT IFS AND BUTS? DOWN AND GIVE ME 200!
>"We never tire and we don't have any muscles, what kind of punishment is that?"
>I SAID DOWN!
>Juggernaut number 457 starts doing push-ups. Commander Jones crouches beside him and leans in.

>HERE'S MY ULTIMATUM. YOU HAVE 3 CHOICES.
>OPTION 1) WE GET YOU OFF THIS PLANET SOMEWAY TO GET YOUR MEMORIES AND PERSONALITY WIPED. YOU WON'T BE YOU ANYMORE, FOR BETTER OR FOR WORSE... MOSTLY FOR THE BETTER.
>"No, I can't forget, that's one thing I'll never do... I'll never forget."
>OPTION 2) YOU TURN AROUND AND WALK OFF, NOT INTO THE SUNSET, BUT INTO DARKNESS (FIGURATIVELY SPEAKING, SINCE WE'RE THE ONES HEADING INTO THE DARK). YOU WILL DIE MISERABLE AND ALONE AND THAT'LL BE THE END OF YOU. IF YOU ASK ME, YOU'RE TOO VALUABLE TO LET YOURSELF GO OUT LIKE THAT, JUGGERNAUTS ARE OBLIGATED TO CONTINUE LIVING. IF YOU REALLY WANNA CALL IT QUITS, REFER TO OPTION 1).
>AND FINALLY, OPTION 3) YOU COME WITH US AND HEAD NORTH TO FACE YOUR FEARS. YOU'LL RIGHT YOUR WRONGS BY ERADICATING AS MANY OF THE SOLVER'S HELLSPAWN AS POSSIBLE. WE WILL BECOME COMRADES, YOU WILL EARN YOUR POSITION AS JCJENSEN'S FINEST... AND MY FINEST.
>"...But why should I choose option 3)?"
>WHY? THINK OF IT LIKE THIS. MOVEMENT IS THE NAME OF THE GAME, KEEP MOVING FORWARD AND LIFE'S A FLOWING RIVER, GIVE UP AND IT TURNS INTO A DANK SWAMP. A STAGNANT LIFE IS AS NASTY AS STAGNANT WATER.
>YOU DON'T WANNA MOVE FORWARD, I UNDERSTAND. SOMETIMES IT SEEMS LIKE THERE'S NO POINT IN ANYTHING, BUT WHEN YOU HAVE NOTHING ELSE, FAITH IS WHAT KEEPS YOU GOIN'. AND WHAT IS HOPE, IF NOT FAITH IN A BETTER FUTURE?
>SO, WHAT'LL IT BE? WILL HOPELESSNESS TRIUMPH OVER YOU?
>"I... Hm, I think... I'm-"
>"Hey, Johny boy, come look at this!" Janice calls.
>OH SHIT, URGENT MATTERS. KISS THE GROUND.

>Jones shoves the juggernaut's face into mud and scurries off to see what the wife has to show.
>"There's something in the sky, I think it looks like a-"
>"It's a bird!" The Cyclops cuts her off.
>"It's a plane!" The helmetless, bald, shiny bald-headed bald one says.
>IT'S MOST LIKELY A DISASSEMBLY DRONE... IT'S...
>Jones zooms in.
>OH.
>BOYS, IF YOU GOT YOUR HOPES UP, NOW'S THE TIME TO GET THEM BACK DOWN AGAIN... BECAUSE THAT... IS AN OVERSEER.

>>344655
>>344656
>>344659
>>344661
Wow, didn't expect to see this again. Nice.

>>344648
>Newfag or someone who just came back from retirement? Either here's the oc lore although sometimes i use her as blank slate:
>>284798

When I upload greentexts I sometimes forget the greentext tag. I just found out that you can exclude tags from search results on the booru, by putting a - before the tag. Now I can find the greens that aren’t tagged as greens.

>>344637
Zero vs V – 16-Bits style Boss Fight

>>344616
>>344617
>>344619
>nothing MD related for the first half
>any time "drones" are mentioned it's referring to quadcopters until strawberry is mentioned
>not really greentext format just a regular story barely reformatted into a green
>multiple AI checkers come back positive
I know those things aren't right 100% of the time but berryboy I swear to god if the greens I've praised you for have been AI this whole time

>>344669
What if he’s an ai? Did you think of that?

>>344665
Blat

>>344667
Use tag script mode too, you can just click on the untagged thumbnails without opening each post manually to add the greentext tag.

>>344672
Thanks. I didn’t know that was a thing. I’ll figure out how to use it.

Madsqy.

>>344662
Retarded Drone!

>>344608
You should write a green about him, where his character is conveyed through his actions, so the OC is perceived better and we can begin to understand who he is.

>>344669
I think it's right to use AI to check text for errors, plus he said he's an ESL, so he can translate those parts of the text that are difficult for him.

Discuss Pregnant Negev for the next 100 posts

>>344679
Geoffrey, discuss this relationship.

>>344679
I know practically nothing about Negev and never read any of her greens.

>>344669
He actually said that he has been using AI, from what I gather is to translate. But the text is too long or dense to be a proper greextext, at that point it would be a fic in prose

>>344680
Uh-oh-oh uh-oh-oh uh-oh-ohhh.

>>344684
Geoffrey, you're absolutely right.

>>344661
Neato

>>344682
>>344685
Peen

>>344682
>I want to turn her into a sentinel drone
But why though. And how, the AS has her soul.

>>344679
Who's the father? Froggy, her former nemesis?

>>344665
Consider the dimensions of an AK, with a stock its 35.5" which is just a shade under 3' long. It should be quite large in relation to a Drone's body because it was built for a human who's usually at least a full head taller than a Drone with longer arms and legs.

>>344692
I feel partially responsible for this.

>>344672
>>344673(me)
Again thanks. Went though all the images, you saved me literal days of scrolling and tagging.

>>344692
> phoenix not aping other anons for his own content challenge (Impossible)

>>344692
Is that....
Did you just...

>>344696
Someone post those panels from the Hiimdaisy MGS3 comic

>>344692
gawdam y'all.

>>344692
white drone girl moment numero 6438

>>344663
BIG BREAK FOR A BIG DRONE

>Drone women would rather fuck sentinels than (You)
It's over...

>>344692
Holy kek, good stuff. Hope to see sentinel drone Tessa!

>>344704
This is what happens when you let the femdrones control the robopornography industry.

>>344704
Yes, anon, you better find yourself a human girlfriend.

I guess it took #349 threads until the zoophiles came in.

>>344704
Kraut drone wife wins again! A robo raptor would never be able to get her warhammer money! I'm safe!

Wpuld you keep a sentinel dino as a pet?

>>344595
>>344692
maybe /co/ is right about us

>>344709
you clearly never saw the horsefucker greens

>>344712
Ehhh, probably not, their programming seems to be pretty touchy when it comes to conflicting data. They might be OK for guarding sealed facilities or patrolling known areas but I wouldn't trust one to deal with the randomness of everyday life.
I figure this is why they're confined to CFL and were not roaming free allover the colony despite the Solver outbreak being an ongoing thing.

>There's no Easter Bunny.
>There's no Tooth Fairy.
>And there's no FOTM, Anon.

>>344709
ITanon beat then to the punch with Lizzy sentinel sexo over a year ago. You'd know this if you weren't a ragebaiting tourist.

>>344712
I think so, they seem to have dog-like behavior, so it will be my pet. I can even tell it to do all my chores, because it’s smart enough to do it. Smarter than worker drones, at least.

more jones eventually ive got an unfinished backlog

>>344711
>Y is only with Anon for the money
Anon, I have bad news for you.

>>344721
One has to be able to provide for his woman... and she likes my blood as well

Jolly Molly.

Where amI ?

>>344725
spidersex with cordie is different tho

>>344725
>>344727
I bet she could open her mouf big enough to stick my whole head in there.
bet a drone could, too.

>>344722
Anon, you do understand that this makes the situation worse?!

>>344729
Yooo! High quality labor bot!

>>344723
>Last seen thirty years ago.

Do Sentinels pass The Harkness Test?

>>344733
Normal ones are unsure, don't see enough of them, Red definitely does without a doubt.

>>344733
Only if you give them something to text with.

>>344733
until they give them fat asses I don't care

>>344731
Kek

>>344737
Based berry boy providing Vizzy content

>>344634
This is good but the text scrolls by too fast so its hard to read.

>>344738
Holy kek

>>344744
>Standing foot job drone

>>344743
>Dubs wireplay
We are patient, we will wait.
>Also you're having fun and not falling for bait right? Right?
WHO?! WE?! No way!

>>344744
Holy kek.

>>344748
Kek

>>344749
Lel.

>>344737
Glad somebody is still making worthwhile content.

>>344750
Jej.

>>344751
So umm... How do you read the comic? Like for real. I'm assuming you are tomoe but you can also be someone else, since he's obsessed with bringing down the booru and not canon.

>>344753
Poteshno.

A 3d tessa model with rigging
https://x.com/Zavra316/status/2037908365037224239

>>344756
This Tessa is scary as a nuclear war, but she looks funny.

>>344757
Eyes too big and round, the pupils are too small making her look creepy. The shading can be solved as a render I guess, dono anything about 3d renders. The skin is too pale.

>>344755
Jajaja

My maid drone keeps worshipping me as a creator god how do I break it to her I work 9-5?

>>344761
Tell her the stars are not in position for this tribute.

>>344763
Another victory for the World Economic Forum!

>>344765
HOLY AWESOME!

>>344763
>for ze new edition
Oy! My wife will not endure the new GW 3 year churn! We will play a hombrew edition and I will accept the fact she can run 15 leman russes (She likes using the 45 degree turning template and I like seeing her happy)

>>344769
You have to understand, she worked at gw. Its regression play for her.

>>344765
>Sentinel Drone Tesser
>Can't get with another drone since they are afraid/want to date humans
And thus she will become a Sentinel Femcel

>>344766
As you can probably tell it was done VERY rough, basically just a first pass sketch with color blocked in using the lasso tool.
I've got chores to wrap up this afternoon before it gets too late but I wanted to deliver before getting distracted by something else.

>>344773
But they're not cute at all! They are all jocks and psychos!

>>344765
Do you even like the show anymore?

>>344774
NTA, as someone who paints minis and has never drawn anything in his life, getting a good enough result in reasonable time is a good achievement, I'd say someone who can get a unit or two ready in an afternoon of speed painting is worthy of as much praise as someone who spends a month painting one mini to a golden demon standard

>>344774
Honestly for what it is it looks great. Like sure the lines are chopy and if you really look the proportions around the thighs are a bit off and the revolver had is uncoloured. It all passes for style so the drawing is still effective.

>>344765
cute + sexo but woefully unfreckled

>>344771
Having become a drone, she also gained the natural attraction of drones to humans, and as a sentinel drone, she can now count on the affection of almost every man in the universe. This could help her find a boyfriend and finally lose her virginity.

>>344774
If you knew how much time I spend drawing shitty dummies, you'd cry.

>>344777
I think there’s a certain minimum quality threshold with art. After it passes that threshold its good and the rest is style. I think with minis that threshold for me is a good base coat and the details picked out in their respective colors.

>>344782
Dummies? Like torturing yourself with still life?

>>344776
Always have, been a fan of Liam since the first Ep of Internecion Cube 5+ years ago.
>>344777
>>344778
Appreciate it Anons. I think I'll come back later and do a Worker version and put a little more than minimum effort into it.

>>344665
also he canonically sounds like niko belic

>>344785
I want to learn how to convey volume, and it's fucking difficult.

>>344725
Anon, the sentinels are animals. Smart animals are still animals.

so humans absolutely made drones fight to the death for entertainment, right? held drone demolition derbies?

>>344790
And probably perform all kinds of dangerous high impact sports. Every society regresses to blood sacrifice at the height of its decadence, and humanity in the end 2000s to early 3000s of the Drone 'verse are definitely at a height of decadence.

>>344765
What's she standing on?

I wanna pet Masqy’s tummy

>>344792
Decapitated solver monstrosity of some kind.

>>344789
You cannot reason with zoophiles.

>>344796
Why would the two be any different?

>>344797
One of them is a relatively niche spectacle that's only really big with people who are already really into robots, while the other is an ultra-popular 'sporting' league that's at the bare minimum has the cultural relevance (and profits) akin to the World Cup or Superbowl

>>344798
That doesn't answer why they would be any different you sperg.

>>344765
Yes!

>>344798
No, I mean why would canon be different from the MD-inspired threadlore setting in this regard?

>>344801
NTA but canon doesn't really apply at all because what humans use drones for besides manual labor is never touched on even once in the entire show.
The only thing we can really do is infer what it might be like from how humans treat Drones in the canon content we do have, and while Tessa and Mitchel seem sympathetic to Drones and treat them like fellow sentient beings, most other humans seem completely contemptuous of them and treat them as disposable property.
Thus it can be inferred that drones are probably used destructively for entertainment of all kinds that humans would prefer not to risk their lives participating in.

Not so much a difference as the onus is on us to make it all up from scratch, which would be cool.

>>344733
They're smarter than worker drones in several aspects, so honestly, probably.

>>344801
Fanon ≠ Threadlore, and your immediate assumption to the contrary makes me think that nothing productive will come from furthering this conversation

ATTENTION CITIZENS OF IRON-7
STATE MANDATED DRONE SPOUSES ARE NOW IN EFFECT

>>344804
Nigger we are talking about in the context of >>344796 and me trying to work out why two different answers are there.

>>344771
Ew

>>344808
no I think it's pretty aptly rated at F-

>>344764
>the Duke Burger music
kek

>>344796
what about monster jam where one big drone crushes a bunch of normal size junker drones

>>344796
>>344804
> old ass screencap
> autistic as fuck
> types like a faggot
> takes everything personally
> still not uploading to the booru
never change writefriend

>>344764
This voicefag sounds familiar...

Ibory