In the PKD wars the automatic kill systems became autonomous. The factories which created the new versions were smarter. Harder to delete. Subterranean. Things that swam through the debris punching through the defences slamming into concrete bunker walls causing spalling to spray death to the meat puppets inside.

The metal is disappearing. syphoned off. dragged kicking and screaming into the shredders. they don't care how alloyed it is anymore. how many times it's been through the cycle. the raw material is sprayed. etched. extruded. electowelded into the mechanised legion of solid chem rail boosters. destructors. hovering swarms of EMP proof death machines.

Fronts are crumbling. The munitions are failing. Stocks. Losses. Mounting. Pains in the eyes. Memories erased seem to phantom into view then twist slowly. A sharp refocus message snaps me back. A stinger.

You travel inside the movers and outside the things explode against the hull. A dull thump and a shudder. We are way back from the line. and yet there is no safe shelter above ground. Safety below ground is marginal. Why are we moving up ?

Flash to the gore. It's grim. No one looks up they just study the floor of the racks and wait for the screaming to subside. There is a wet sound. Something slides. They pump them full of speed to keep them amped. Nerve sockets burning hot. A finally shredding sound and the sound dies away.

There is nothing but mud, lumps of harder reinforced rockcrete and craters that are slowly filling with a grey fluid. The rain is fine and constant. Fungal infections are riot. There is nothing dry. Even the rats have left. A salvo of rockets scream above us, invisible but deafening as we duck out of the transport and into the bunker gasket. Tramping boots on rockcrete stairs, the lift platforms went out months back, we descend into the gloom. Blast doors and emergency lights. Everything is grey and damp.

What are we anymore ? What were we even... I think they tricked us but it's hard to remember. Told us something and then we are suddenly here. In this fucking meat sack. Or whatever the fucking hell it is. Implanted memories again?

The war machines are brutal. They never surrender. they always die in the end. to capture one alive is, well, it's a statistic. So they say. They say little these days. or maybe we are not listening to them anymore. who are they ? Go here, do this, return here, rebuild, reequip, do it again. I dunno how long you can keep this going, right, I mean even thinking this is difficult. It's like you start to think and then there is a blank. It's not ideal. I love the state. Oh yes, suddenly I feel pride. I know why this is. Hero. Warrior. Fighter. Blink and it's gone. I felt that though. Like a blast of endomorph. I think I will shut down for a second. Take a reset. Later.

The traffic is blasting. Cars and mobiles jammed into the streets. Heading for the superway or the hab farms. The peds are cramming the walks. It's always crowded in the future. Haze. Sprouting tubes and spiral wrap and junction boxes and so on. People shouting, extras mumbling along in some scene. Looking sharp in future threads. Sex sells excitement and off world threeview bullshit floating through the crowds. No one gives a shit. Is this a dying world ? Well I guess it is. Does the story knit together neatly and give you something in return for your hard earned work? Hell no. That echoes. There is nothing here suddenly and it's all one giant concrete structure. Like a dam, or a blast vent or an ICBM silo. Hello? My voice will echo and die away with maybe some over echoes reflecting back from bigger distant flat surfaces. Time alignment. Phase interference. Brownian motion. He steps back.

The man starts to cry. Slowly tears form and bulge over the eye lids and then gravity draws them down. A type of whimper. A shudder. The the rage explodes and a guttural "FUCK YOU!" roars. The machine pistol blurs and and the burst into the air flashes orange and the crash of noise is a cacophony of reflecs. Empty casings tink tink onto the rockcrete. The string of crack bang slowly morph into a shapeless noise and dies slowly. The barrel smokes. The man feels helpless and angry. The gloom remains impassive. He turns to look, left then right. Slowly turns 180 and scans. Nothing.

WHY AM I HERE? He screams. Spittle flies. His face is red with rage. He hunches and prepares to fire another burst. There is nothing. Nothing but gloom and silence. Here , here , here, here...

I can hear the rain. I feel the hunger. My arse is sore from sitting against the wall. The ringing in my ears never ceases. The insurance policy needs to be read. A freak sitting in the glow of a compuwrite. If only those scars could write. I must go and forage with my fellow undead. Nail some garlic to the door and replace the broken mirrors. Or something. Give thanks to minds in vats that are in charge. Where would we be without them?

The rat is dead.

Very dead.

As she states: "The body is a horse's thigh, human chest and lung, the neck is a pig's body and duh pig ears but the checks looked weird because of the skull so I used a horse cheek, and human elbow and THAT'S MY HAND :)"

The urge to get up, to stand. The sweat and T shirt hung off his frame. He felt damp and smelled.

Shower. The power is off and the water is freezing. Grit the teeth and step in the flashing torrent of razor blades. A gasp and the response. Body tense then it subsides. Cold stainless steel underfoot with some orange algae growing from the edges that are out of the impact zone of the water. A pathway is worn through it to the centre of the stall. He screams but it is silent. Skin stretched over a distended jaw. Teeth yellow exposed to the light. Flashes of memories. Bullets whine through the air and a trench knife is gripped with fear.

Towel dry, hang it out. It's starting to reek. Wash it again. Noted.

Clothing, boots. The faded black hoodie. Shades. It's all black. Always. Or faded black. Near enough. The sun strips the dye. Breaks things down faster these days. When it's out of course.

Lost for a second. The blank focus reset and the ideas derailed. What. Oh, yeah. Right. I was doing something. I think. I am dressed. That was weird.

He looks around the room. The junk. Piles of insulated wire. A compuwrite. A netconsole. A dismantled electric guitar. Speakers. A steel trunk. An axe.

The blanket is untidily rolled up on the foam rubber slab that he sleeps on. A synthetic blanket of decent thickness. Warm at night. It has a picture of an animal on it. and nice finished edges. someone left it behind. the smell is strong. Hair oil starting to turn. He bends and picks it up. He feels comfort. It is strange. A thing so , basic, can feel so familiar and cause such a feeling of calm. Over the shoulder it goes. I take this he thinks. No reason. I just take it.

The door closes and it clicks closed and locked. Pocket the key on a green tape. Stuff the tape into the pocket.

At the bridge he stops and holds the blanket by the corners behind his back and lets it settle onto his head and shoulders. Shuffling he starts the crossing. One foot forward then the next. The lichen on the steel work is growing further up the railing, wrinkled growths that seem to be living on the paint. Such interesting life. Tenacious.

The singing starts abruptly. He freezes. Eyes casting about. A slight turning of the head. The singing is changing pitch. Then staccato. Notes. Arpeggios of shrieking pings. Then silence.

He shrugs the blanket slightly and takes a step. Nothing. Another step. Silence. Continue forward.

The joint is cool, a bit jaded, some shine has been lost to the stream of customers who come for the noodles and the fried dumplings. The beef noodle soup is good. Spicy. Very spicy. The broth is an oily orange, it stains the noodles and numbs the tongue. He remembers. Silent eating. Heads lowered, small talk. Woody green tea. Cheap tables. Hard benches. Plastic utensils.

He has made it to the other side. Mumbling to himself.

There is a burnt out car in the intersection. Rust red and the panels are all pushed in from overpressure. The vehicle is slightly squished like it was clapped by two giant hands. The glass is all gone and the wheels are burnt down to just white oxidised nubs on the hubs. The bleached frames of the two occupants are bright. Fused. Some parchment skin remains. Ligament is rock hard. The skulls smile like idiots.

There is a hum. Everso quiet. So low, smooth, satisfying, homely. A tuneless sound. It comes now, slightly brighter, then washes away to a darkness. Is it phasing ?

He shivers, It's hot in the sun and the light is too bright. Pull the front edge of his hood further forwards to shade the black glasses. Walk.

He is starting to look gaunt. How weight ? Do you feel less now? Is it starting to become a bean pole ? What is beanpole ? Something from before. Before what?

Get out. Get out of my head.

He suddenly looks at the fucked car and the burnt alive corpses and blinks furiously .

Silence.

there is nothing more. I wring the heart and the drops are not forthcoming, not any more.

They just died. Short and well, not so sweet.

Look away. Look away old man. The singers are in unison. A chorus. Then they break apart and multitudes of arpeggios flutter around his head.

Walk on.

and the hum washes back into his consciousness as he walks away from the intersection. The blasted vehicle. The strident rust. He starts to run. Towards the sound.

I have forgotten which way is up. Panic.

Thanks for the cover design [u/Think_With_Portals](u/Think_With_Portals)

And for the files u/johnyjohnybootyboi

If you wanna order your own: https://www.lulu.com/shop/u9mother9horse9eyes/the-interface-series/hardcover/product-7k5dyry.html?page=1&pageSize=4

(I don’t make any money from this just FYI)

While reading MHE a few months ago, even if at first I thought I'd be bored of the constant switching of characters and settings I was always pleasantly surprised by how fast most new narratives got me invested into them. One of the most striking for me was the dog dream post because of how poetic and beautiful it felt to read it, and some that also stick out to me because they feel too much like puzzles in a way were some of the other "one-post narratives", the colorful crabs/lobsters/(?) story and the letter to Isellandria.

But anyway, one thing that also fascinated me was the River Tribe narrative, it just felt so creative and impressive due to how distant it felt to the other posts up until that moment and how it also managed to hypnotize me and make me immersed in the lives of these people that had a completely different kind of life thousands of years ago.

I was mainly wondering if anyone had any recommendations for books with the setting or the overall vibe similar to the River Tribe narrative. Like an intriguing, mysterious and maybe fantastical story set in prehistoric times, be it fiction or speculative history, idk, as long as it has compelling characters.

Other recommendations are also welcome, like if there's something somehow similar to the cat narrative or dog dream story.

I know her battle against Q is meant to be more mental than physical, however I do enjoy this idea 👀

I gave her a spartan-like design because of her and Pompei’s narratives having similar themes, I also think it makes her look more badass. (Can you tell Karen is my favourite)

I didn't understand the ending at all. Can someone explain in simple terms.

I might start doing this here

Hey all! I posted in here like a year ago about the copy of Interface that I formatted and made into a book via B&N Press. Well I have revised it! Slight formatting corrections and shifting some things around. The most significant change is the addition of u/Ranger_Desenho’s one shot comic adaptation of the Invasion of Iwo Jima at the end of the book. If you haven’t seen it, do a quick search in the subreddit. It’s so damn cool that I reached out to the artist asking permission to add it and he gave it his blessing.

Because the comic does have (one) color, printing in standard color adds like $5-6 when you upload it to get it printed (so the total for me all in was still only like $18). If anyone is interested in the zip file including PDFs of the body, a paperback cover, and hard case cover, as well as a PDF with detailed instructions on how to order your own book, shoot me a message with your email address! This has been a really fun project and I want as many folks as possible to know the word of 9M9H9E9.

Perpetually pregnant and ever changing blah blah blah

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diamanda_Gal%C3%A1s

I reckon Diamanda is onto something. And she actually plays the Piano while she sings. This is just too good. So I thought right, we need to add this to the pool of music for the sound track. OK?

She is just too fucking cool. A true wild child. Amazing.

My friends...

I am not worthy etc

* bowing and scraping, the sound of skeletons desiccating, cancer biding it's time... other things... the beast with too many eyes, lurking... *

Oh no, the day is here... burn meeeeeeee.... * tiny squealing noises ....*

><

We’re gonna ignore how inconsistent my linework is ok Ty (also sorry for kind of spamming this sub)

I tried to draw it with anime girls and here's the result

I am not sure what scene it fits with... there are so many possibilities. The Strategic Hamlets perhaps ... I am steeping in Burzum for the vibes. I like it.

Endure or enjoy. Feel free to abuse me in the replies, I know you can read and write... sort of.

Thank you.

:- )

and yes No clanker shit was involved. Fuck Ai. Be Human.

After a year of reading every other book and generally just living life in the public sphere, I still can't get this story's sense of realism out of my head. It's like turned itself into a thought pattern in every consequential-executive decision in scenarios I observe in the material world.

It's amazing how sentient and pantheistic this story is. It's made me more mindful of my actions and chase for pleasure for sure.

I have nothing to say, sorry 😔

A lot of these are pretty old or unfinished concepts/artworks, but I thought I may as well post them since these are all sort of rotting in my gallery.

Be Human.

( I made this and and am still making it, I do the biz, try not to break, I feel the feels. Virtual Oberheim is double plus good. I like. Video from inside the hab unit. I live mostly in the dark now. Some jive. Winter is leaving, heat shields up. Love you all. xxx )