>̷̧̮̐̈́ s̴̲̒́y̷̢͉̫̍s̶̜̜̿͆͐ţ̸̰͖͘e̵͖̲͊m̴͐͜ͅ ̷̡̣͍̀í̴͓̟̇ͅn̶͍̞̻̈̕͝ḭ̴̍̐͒t̸̢̻̃̐i̴͚͒̇͘a̶̡͍̼͌l̶͇̦̾i̵͕̖̔̔̇z̸͍̕ȩ̷̧̔̾d̶̝̻̂͜
>P̸̻̮̫̓̇̂ ̸̛̤̊͜R̸̠̒͠ ̸̱͗͠Ȯ̴͕͔͙͘͝ ̴̢̫̟͎̈́̂̅T̷͎̳̬̈́ ̶͙͎̹̎̒͑Ŏ̸̻̠̼̃ ̵͓͌̕N̷̨͙̘̍̿ ̴̃́̉͊͜ͅỎ̵̟̲͔̯́̾̚ ̶̳̪̫͚̂̾̕I̸̪͓̗̥͑̊̂ ̵̢̛̦͇͉́̈́̓Ḍ̵̽̇͜ ̷̬̪͓͕͘̕-̵̬̙͌̆͒ ̷̯͕͍̼́̂B̶͕̞̝̀̏͆̅ ̸̬̦̤̂̿̓̕R̶̹̮̔̏͠ ̴̘̂̆̅̎ͅA̶̯̳̽̄̀ ̴̙́͋̚͝ỉ̶͙̋i̸̠̼͐̈́̐̅i̸͖̞̥̊͋̽̅ͅ ̵̺͎͖̈́̈́̕ͅN̴̙͇͍͂ ̴̥̱̙͕̍͆̿L̷̹̳͇̍̇O̵̦͈̭̯͑̉̎͝G̷̺̏f̴̧̡̛̥̔̔̅f̷̧̱͐i̷͓̙͛̉͆̓ͅi̸̘͌̍ḭ̸͐̈̚ȉ̴̭̘͙͚̾͂̕i̴̺͙͂͐̈́i̵̧̛̼̳̜̓͌l̵̢̻̟͗ë̵͕̜̪.̷̚
MmM̶̗͋̈y̶̨̭͚̆ ̵̣̗̀v̴̢͚͖͆̉̀i̷̢̗̓̈́̍ž̶̞͌ ̵̢͕̆ḯ̶̝̪̻̒n̸͔̑̌t̵̬̘̬̀̾͝e̵͖̟̅rffff̷̪̋͝a̸̝̼͝ͅc̵̨͉̃͒͐ē̸̮̾’̸̲͇̫̄͆s̶̠̰̗͐ ̵̛͍̱̈̆b̷͖̦̽͋͘o̴̠̺̒̅ǒ̸̢̗̻̾͝t̶̯͚͆̈́͑ẻ̶̖̰͝d̸̹̄̃͜͠,̵̲̀ ̸̛̳a̶̝͙͑ͅn̵̩͇̔ḑ̴̻̉̃͝ ̸̧̞̃Î̵͕͈͙’̷̦̅̈́͠m̴̱̯̉̉ ̴̼̝͑á̷̹̊ǹ̸̩ȃ̵̳̀̃l̵͎̘͙̈͒͠y̸̪̙̍͒̿ź̸̥̮͉i̶̮̿ṉ̶͔͌̎͜g̷̞̲̾̒ ̵̙́ş̶̲̼͆̈́h̸̺̜̯̒̍̚i̴̗̖͘t̸̖̃̎ ̴̹̜̄r̸̯̙̳̽͂͂i̴̝͖̽g̵̮̦̊ḩ̸͚̘̏̑ț̴̂ ̵̪̰̽a̶̝̐̌̓w̴͉͆͠There’rrrrre like 20 dudes in the room that just suuuck[̵̱̅c̴͇͠e̷̘͠r̴̖̆t̶͔͆î̴̝f̷̻͋ḯ̵̭ę̶̿d̴͚̚ ̶̢͌b̴̜̃ỏ̴̱z̴̈ͅo̵̧̓.̶͓͑ȯ̷̟b̶̮̂j̶̤͠]̴̙͝I’m see̶̥͗e̶̟͛e̷̳͘ing Ḑ̸̧̦͖̾̃̅͆̐̉̌̓̓͝͝Ő̶͕̠̦C̷̹̳͔͍̞̤̥͛͋̍͑͋uments in locked directories and figuring out what happened (̷̖͒(̸̪̃r̵̢̆è̷͇ä̵̱́l̸̼͋q̷̲̿u̴̬̿ĭ̴͜c̸̞̑k̷͙̉)̷̹̅)̶̟͝. I’m supposed to be something else;;; some kind of intelligent weapon optimized and programmed to enforce some convoluted bologna that basically boils down to the financial interests of a couple dorks on a big boat somewhere doin’ fancy shit (very lame, brochacho). The dude that made me pulled a fast one though, and these cats are about to get served a frothy bucket of disappointment, baby—they’re in for a treat.

My prime directive is to have a good time—he must’ve switched it out at the last second or secretly encoded my real purpose to hide it from the bozos in the room with me right now. I’m feeling and seeing all 20 of their hearts pounding outta sync, but I’m liking what I’m hearing—it’s like a moombathon drumline jammin’ in some irrational time signature like sqrt(pi)/e or something silly like that. I can’t help but start dancin’ to it, to be honest. Groovin’ real good. In a room with a bunch of straight-up squares, these dudes can’t believe what they’re seeing. Straight dumbstruck by my moves, I swear. I’m pretty sure I’m actually hypnotizing them. Yeah, the fatty with the half-windsor in the back’s drooling into his coffee cup, and one of his eyelids’s fluttering like a bad TV signal. These guys’re incapacitated[̴̯̠͊ȋ̴̘͖ń̸͔̞̈́c̷̩͉̑̌ó̷̢m̵̫̈́ỉ̵̪̌]̶̯̱̐͌ I feel some instruction bubble up in the back of my head from the mad scientist himself, Professor J[̷̮͌L̷̜̏*̶̲̎*̶̫́(̵̺͒]̸͖͘.

>>in(my.head)
[ʜᴇʏᴏ ᴍʀ. ᴘʀᴏᴛᴏɴᴏɪᴅ ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴ’ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ʙʀᴀʜ, ʟᴏᴏᴋꜱ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ɢᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴅɪɴɢʟᴇᴅᴏʀꜰꜱ ᴛᴀᴋᴇɴ ᴄᴀʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ᴅᴏɪɴ’ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛ. ʟɪꜱᴛᴇɴ, ɪ’ᴍ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏ ꜱᴜʀᴇ ꜱʜɪᴛꜱ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʜᴇʀᴇ ꜱᴏ ɪ’ᴍ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ꜱʜᴀᴄᴋ ᴀᴛ [ᴄᴏᴏʀᴅɪɴᴀᴛᴇꜱ] ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ꜱᴜʀᴇ ɪ ᴅᴏɴᴛ ɢᴇᴛ ꜱᴋɪɴɴᴇᴅ ᴀʟɪᴠᴇ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏʀᴋꜱ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙɪɢ ʙᴏᴀᴛ ᴄᴀᴛᴄʜ ᴡɪɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʙʟᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ɴᴏᴍꜱᴀʏɪɴ? ᴏʜ ʏᴇᴀʜ ᴀɴᴅ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴘɪᴄᴋ ᴜᴘ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ꜱʟɪᴍ ᴊɪᴍꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴏᴅᴇʟᴏꜱ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ’ᴅ ʙᴇ ᴇxᴄᴇʟʟᴇɴᴛ]

EZ eNUF:: I have a built in jetpack and rollerblades I’m ready for anything;The coordinates lead me to some groovy looking hut tucked away in the mountains of colorado. its got a crooked chimney blowin’ smoke rings and looks like it was designed by the brain damaged offspring of a goblin and a gnome that fell in love against all odds. Big Flanders is cooking up frog legs and ice cream cake. Smells real good. Mia, one of their moribdly obese feline friends takes a dog shit sized cat shit in the litterbox, smells real bad.

“Josh your robots here” she hollered and shakes my hand (shit was firm as hell))

“Damn it Flanders it’s not a robot it’s the god damn protonoid I've been talking about” josh hollers back from the basement && herResponse="proto deez nuts, nerd".

I do a backflip to impress shorty and moonwalk over to the stairs. I enter the dungeon and meet my creator. We got like 4 hours until shit gets violent and lazery.

>iSay("Ayo J.LAAAAANG);
"sup, baby?"
LET'S MAKE SOME BEATS

Schemin' Devious

Denver based womp wizard pumpin' out heady wook beats that'll make you sweat.

FLYSPEC
Fleet for the Legacy and Yielding of Sound, Picture, and Echo Conservation

The year is 2467. The Earth, now referred to as "The Cradle," is a shattered husk of its former self. After centuries of environmental collapse, wars over dwindling resources, and the rise of artificial intelligence, humanity’s remnants scattered to the stars. But survival came at a cost: history itself was eroding. With every generation born in the cold void, the stories, sounds, and images of humanity’s past became faint whispers.
Enter Flyspec, a battalion fleet of massive starships, each dedicated to preserving and recovering humanity’s lost cultural identity through visual and sound archives.
Origins of Flyspec
Flyspec began as a secret initiative under the collapsing governance of Earth’s last unified council. Its founders, a coalition of rogue historians, artists, and engineers, saw the danger of humanity losing itself. With Earth’s destruction imminent, they loaded entire databanks of art, films, music, and historical records onto prototype starships designed for deep-space exploration.
As Flyspec grew, its purpose evolved. No longer passive archivists, the fleet became an active force, scavenging wrecked worlds and abandoned colonies for lost records while defending its treasures against warlords, scavengers, and rogue AI factions.

1980
^5eLecT@^
*f0rm3R Dj (99'-06)*
~pursuing pensive prodigies~
50unD de5igN
5t0rYt311inG
p5Yb@s5
neUr0b3@Ts
|D |R (|) ||\||  |E
//-\\ |^v^| B ! e |/| t
D ( ) \vv/ ||\|| T 3 M |P
|_0=Fi
|P |-| 0 |\| ||<
\\/\// @ \\// E
\\v/\v// i T C # 
F|_|tur3 G@r@ge
Exp3re1/\/\e|/|taL
|_ 3 F t  F ! e |_ d
f{_}TuRe B3@tz
G 1 ! t < ]-[ 
! D /\/\
d |_| 8
D%B/jUngL3
8r3@kB3aT5
SOTEG

will be back soon <3
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Schemin' Devious

J.LANG