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There's nothing clean about dying out in the Black. The lucky ones have proper suits; they're protected from the elements, or at least 'till I get involved. The unlucky ones get to feel their blood seep out through their skin, gasping at air which won't ever come, feeling their eyeballs boil out from their skulls. Killing out here is an ugly business. And best of all, I'm up against the worst sort of enemies. "Prep to breach," I mutter into my headset. His name was Edward. Brown hair going to grey, bit of a paunch, loved to go on about his synthsteaks and the pets he trained. Nice fellow. I pulse the jets and float aside as Edward charges towards me, teeth bared in a killer's grin and staring at me with the wild eyes of a fanatic. I yank the heavy shotgun onto target, but my co-worker-turned-cultist doesn't flinch even as the twinkling laser sight settles onto his visor. I pull the trigger, feeling the dull vibration and heavy kick as the oxygenated powder sparks and fires. Edward's face disappears, his visor shattering into a crystal cloud that reflects the distant sunlight. His body begins to slowly float away, drifting end over end from the push I'd just applied, as I swerve to find my next target. Nguyen is my next victim. She's not dressed for the party; rather than wearing a heavy space suit, she's clad only in her engineering jumpsuit and regular work clothes. If she feels fear at the certainty of dying out here in the Black, I can't see any in the wild howl distorting her face. Her eyes have doubtlessly already ruptured, exploding outwards from the inexorable pull of vacuum, but all I can see is the occasional chunk of flesh and blood leaking past the eldritch-glowing blindfold over her eyes. She's fast, unencumbered by gear or doubt, and she's on me in a flash. I swing the butt of the shotgun around, slowly pushing her off my chest, and another pulse of the jets gets me the distance I need. Another dull vibration and distant kick, and Nguyen is left flailing. Her hands wave desperately, grasping for something in the void, and my stim-fueled mind can't help but remember her animatedly waving her arms in the cafeteria. She was always a bright spark of enthusiasm, full of interest in the sort of wiring jobs and grav-engine work that'd make my eyes glaze over, and I wonder how much of that old enthusiasm she'd brought to her new profession. I blink the thought away, sight the weapon on center-of-mass, and pull the trigger twice. The second shot goes wide, severing her left hand, and the limb is sent spinning away with the fingers left in a rough "OK" sign. There's a sudden thump, arcing pain, and the hiss of escaping air. I glance rightwards to see a snarling alien face staring me visor-to-visor. Plopbop-something, they were called; they grew odd plants and spent most of their time in the pool ("I've got a stereotype to live up to, after all" they'd burble). They smile as my blood coats the visor, tongue arcing out from between their teeth, and yank again on the wickedly-curved knife sticking out of my thigh. My armoured suit resists the blade, but the weapon glows and the metal of my suit bubbles under the stress. It's too close for the long-barreled shotgun. I go for my backup weapon, stick it into Plopbop's gorget, whisper something (what did I try to say? what could I possibly say?), and pull the trigger. A spray of blueish blood, another bulky figure sent spinning, as I rack the slide and fire again. Have to ensure the kill, after all. Plopbop's stereotypes and dreams of omega-weed vanish in a spray of buckshot piercing their chest. Security Officer Jones was always a bit of a shit, and I can't say I ever really got along with him. He was that classic American: too loud, too opinionated, too sure of himself and the world. He loved these sorts of breaches, loved taking lead with the riot shield and stunbaton. He was held up by a hacked airlock, and the cultists got too close ("I just haveta get close, and it's all over" he'd bragged in the briefing). His telemetry is...his telemetry is...his telemetry is... I shake my head to clear it, refocusing on the task at hand. Jones and Dasinovich are both down, probably for good. I yank at my combat webbing for a little metal cylinder, reflexively pulling the pin as I stretch out my arm. One flashbang, two 'bangers, and a little tear-gas surprise arc inside the cultists' breached base, one getting blown backwards into the dusk by an errant gust of escaping atmosphere. THOOM The explosions rattle me even in the vacuum, the shockwaves propagating over the distance. My fri- co-worke- the cultists have homicidal fanaticism, but it's still tied to human senses, and without protection the powerful explosions of light and sound horribly disorient them. The remaining cultists inside the base drift apart, mewling in pain, and I move in for the kill. The first threat inside is a stranger; some new arrival I haven't yet learned to know, thank Christ. The buckshot makes quick work of him, two racks of the slide ensuring the kill, as I draw my laser sidearm and sight on the next target. She was the Chef; I can still see the glint of knife-metal at her waist as I cave in her skull. The Security 'borg makes short work of the last, blood painting its metal chassis as its stunbaton slams relentlessly through spacesuit and cultist armour. They were living beings, full of hopes and dreams and aspirations. They had fears, hatreds, good and bad sides both. They were friends, and there's no worse enemy than a friend. I put those living, breathing hopes and dreams to rest with gas and gun, bullets and jetpack and better preparation for fighting out in the Black. Officers Jones and Dasinovich get priority, so my former friends' bodies continue to cool as I handle my fellow redshirts. I do my best to make the sight less obscene, closing eyes and mouths and covering what I can of the drifting gore. It's hours longer to track down all the bodies, my spacepod's scanners tracking the faint infrared returns as my former co-workers' bodies return to absolute zero. Some days I hate my job. -Security Pod Pilot David MacTavish

Hey, spaceman! Recently I made an attempt at covering our favourite SS13 theme. Have a good day! plz push liek and sub I need money

";n uhhh RD, three more scientists were gibbed in toxins."

Two distant honks heard in the maintenance!

I love bots. They're a fun thing to make to help out the crew when you either have nothing else to do in robotics, or if you just want to create an army for the AI to play with. I feel like there's the potential for a lot of other bot types too. Some of these ideas come from other code bases, while others are original. FireBot (Buildable fire sprinkler) Requires a Fire Extinguisher, Proximity Sensors, Firefighter Helmet, and a Robotic arm. Will detect people and tiles that are on fire and attempt to extinguish them with a blast of water. Still only moves at bot speed, and can only fire the extinquisher once every five seconds or so, making crew better firefighters, but bots good to have for immediate response. Ideal for places like chemistry or toxins where people tend to catch things on fire. Can be configured to send an alert to Engineering if it detects a fire. Strong resistance to fire, but an uncontrolled plasma fire will still probably be hot enough to destroy it. Atmos will still be the best people to have fight one of those. When emmaged, it will go around spraying scalding hot water or some kind of acidic chemical at people. HelperBot (Need a hand?) Requires a Box, a Proximity Sensor, and a Robotic Arm. Likely the most basic of bots, this little robot will go pick up any tiny to normal sized object you point at, pick it up, and then drop said item at your feet. Perfect for the lazy guy that doesn't want to get up from his chair or if you need to stay rooted to one spot. When emmaged, the robot will pick up random objects and throw them at people while screaming at people to get the (object name) themselves! TrashBot (AKA, a roomba) Requires a trash bag/trash bag of holding, Proximity sensor, and a Robotic Arm A cousin to the clean bot, the trashbot will wander the station and pick up any loose items it encounters that are not on a table or a container. To keep the bot from running into people's work place to steal thing, the bot will only pick up items that are directly adjacent to it. If the bot does take something of yours, interacting with it will give you the option to eject its contents. The bot can be configured to send a message on the service radio when full, requesting to be emptied. When emmaged, the bot will be able to steal items off of people it passes, giving a message such as 'Trashbot stole your (object name)!' MusicBot (Mobile music box) Requires a Piano Synthesizer, a Proximity Sensors, and a robotic arms. Once made, you're able to open a secondary interface that allows you to set the music that plays like you would an instrument. You can give the bot a different instrument to change what it plays. To keep noise pollution down, the bot will automatically pause what it's playing if it encounters another music bot. When emmaged, the bot will zip around the station playing Flight Of The Bumblebee while tripping anyone that approaches it. FriendBot (For when not even the borgs want to be friend) Requires a Plush Toy, a Proximity Sensor, and a robotic arm. Takes on the appearance of the plush used to make it with wheels under it. Will occasionally hug people, making the plush unique sound if there is one. Will say words of encouragement to people it passes. When emmaged, it'll slap people across the face while yelling insults. Not very friendly.

As somebody who's often seen as incredibly light on the spectrum of admin strictness, I can definitely understand the primary concern of the issue. There have been several incidents over the years in which, even on staff, I have had significant disagreements with the way a number of bans and dealings have gone on across the server's history. It can be easy, from a staff position, and even a head position, to worry that you're stepping on eggshells with other members of staff. A number of times I've felt strongly against something, though being in the minority, there's not much you can do to sway opinion if that happens. It can be incredibly discouraging, and so the paragraph below definitely resonates with a number of my own experiences. The thing is, this isn't bridge burning, it's honest criticism coming from somebody who didn't feel they had the channels open to discuss their discontent with a current system. Though I understand I wasn't head until you began your break, I take it as a personal failure to keep things feeling open, and for being unable to make you feel as though your opinion would not only be welcome, but would also be considered and hopefully incorporated into staff workings at large. From personal experience, being a timid person in a staff team can be difficult, it can have that 'eggshell' feel whenever you push up your own personal opinion, and it can feel as though breaching that might be seen as 'confrontational'. Believe me, I've taken insults for opposing staff decisions before, it's not completely crazy. The thing is, Headmin enforcement buckling down on things won't make everyone happy likely for the very same reason. Even we don't always disagree, most notably between me and Kyet, and to some degree, Neca for both of us, each concerned with the other's way of addressing people and our way of addressing bans and how/when to apply them. Frankly, if I'm going to be honest with how I'd deal with the situation, I'd have to tell you that I don't honestly know, these sorts of problems go beyond simple rule and policy changes, as, especially with a staff team this big, getting consensus on even one rule can take weeks or, at worst, several months. The important thing to note though is, this isn't a sour note, it's bittersweet at the very worst. It's honest and open criticism and I can completely respect the position you're coming from. The best you can really do is try to change things around and speak your piece well enough that you can manage to get people on your side, but that takes a bit of that boat rocking and, inevitably, you'll likely step on toes. Life without upsetting people is impossible, of course, but what matters is the way in which you upset them. If your arguments are as well reasoned, well worded, and as diplomatic as these posts here, you could certainly avoid a lot of the pain and discomfort you might've expected from providing an opinion you've got every reason and right to be able to provide. Para has helped me grow a lot in these past six years, and from the looks of things, it's certainly had an effect on you. If you ever feel up to it again at any point or if you'd be willing to give debates and arguments a shot, feel free to come back any time. On top of that, if you had any suggestions, arguments, or concerns you wanted to pitch that you didn't feel comfortable putting in this thread for the sake of the aforementioned 'eggshell' worries, please, chuck me a DM on discord. Thank you for your time, and I hope to see you around. - Dumb

Found a crystal that turns people that speaks near it into clowns. Of course, it was taken straight to the bar.

I actually think we should go an extra step and split even further so that each type of scientist has only access to one area of science with the exception of the experimentor that would be tied with RnD access. So, for instance: Scientist: as you sugested, RnD and the Experimetor Chemical Reaseracher(since chemist is the guy from medbay): has access to only scichem Plasma Researcher: has access to toxins Xenobiologist: has access to xenobiology This should encourage scientists to actually cooperate instead of doing everything themselves and hopefully fix the issue of "no one is doing rnd" since there is a role specificly for it

"Space BBC: Still (Under)Funded by Space Britannia" Hello, viewers. I'm your host, Sir David Rattenborough, and I've been necromantically resurrected to provide my soothing voice to your nature documentaries. Today, we're venturing into the Epsilon Eridani sector to see the exotic life-forms which live in such a hostile environment: The NSS Cyberiad is home to many unique specimens, including the hostile Tribunus Shitcuritus, the well-meaning Medicus Inscitus, and the dangerous Quaesitorus Validatus. Today, however, we are in search of the elusive Puer Greytidus, which haunts the dimly-lit corridus and Maintenance passageways of the local stations. Although numerous, the so-called "greytide" is a difficult creature to find, owing to its the poorly-kept state of its natural habitat. Hull breaches limit the creature's hunting grounds, causing fierce competition among its members. Many a "'tider" has been cut down in its prime by fierce competition over key resources, such as crowbars and insulated gloves. The "'tider" is so named for the grey, unkempt state of its issued jumpsuit. Although technically employed by NanoTrasen to "assist" other personnel aboard its stations, an ongoing expose by Faux News has revealed that NT pays these individuals in carbohydrate packs and water. They are, in effect, paid quite literally peanuts. Similarly, the humble "'tider" must acquire its tools and equipment by scrounging left-behind construction equipment, or by assaulting other station personnel for their own garb. For this reason, among others, the creature is greatly despised among NT space. While NT stations are as well-lit as one might expect, we rapidly depart these central corridors and enter a blank, unmarked airlock near the Arrivals shuttle. These dull, flat doors conceal the path to the Maintenance areas of the station, piping air, water, and electricity across its environs. Though dimly-lit, dangerous, and frequently unpleasant to inhabit, they are nevertheless vital to the station's upkeep. The 'tider patrols these long, winding corridors in search of food: whether contaminated by space-ants or not, he will seek a free lunch. The 'tider seeks a meal more enticing than his issued ration packs. Although he may have subsisted for some time upon food left over from previous reconstruction and remodeling, those reserves are now empty. The only other options left, aside from waiting for the minimal carbohydrate packages issued through the station's personnel office, is to acquire a decent meal at the Kitchen. Doing so, however, requires venturing from the 'safe' Maintenance tunnels into the light of a central corridor. Donning a face-concealing gas mask and removing his NT-issued ID card, the 'tider prepares to conceal his identity among the masses... Automatically ordered and charged through electronic delivery systems, food is often left unattended on the Kitchen's self-serve countertop for later pickup. Cracking open the nearby Maintenance door with a swipe of his ID card, the 'tider scans the corridor before quickly dashing across. A swipe of the hand, and the deed is done; a meal originally destined for Science is now in his hands. Sauntering away, the 'tider hides himself in both Maintenance corridors and the comfort of anonymity. Though someone might eventually investigate, who would they prosecute? Seeing the first's success, another greytider attempts the same feat. Dashing through the Bar, he races for the countertop and a meal left unattended. Yet his timing is poor, and the Chef spots his move. Seizing the creature's arm in a vice grip, the Chef subjects the 'tider to the power of CQC. Close-Quarters Cooking is a dangerous martial art, reserved only for masters of the culinary specialty. Practitioners of this epicurean craft are rightly feared, especially when operating in their own habitat. Pinned and left dazed, the 'tider is easy prey for one of its many predators, the Tribunus Shitcuritus. Dragged off to the far-away Brigston, the 'tider will be left with ration packs and donk-pockets for the forseeable future. Subsisting upon leftovers from the rest of the station, the 'tider nevertheless provides a vital role in the local ecosystem. It consumes waste and scraps from the larger departments, such as reishi from the Servitium regions or old welders from the well-known Cargonia. Greytiders are a tremendous mass of manpower, providing ready material for other departments and occasionally actually "assisting" them with various projects. And when the habitat is threatened by dangerous invasive species, such as the lethal Agentus Nuclei, this mob of bullet sponges forms a nigh-impenetrable barrier to protect the station from external attack. Yet this same defensive mechanism makes the 'tider a dangerous foe if crossed. While a single grey jumpsuit might be little threat for a well-armed Quaestor Validus, the 'tider is so named for its ability to rapidly congregate in one place. A group of greytiders is termed a "murder," and much like the crows of Earth they were originally named after, a murder of 'tiders will rapidly strip nearby regions of shiny things unless discouraged by locked doors and laser fire. Although nameless and faceless as a rule, 'tiders may flock to a single well-known personality, with the group even becoming named after this one exceptional fellow. The "Ssethtide" swarmed local stations a scant few months prior to this documentary, and although that particular "tide" is now receding, its marks are still evident on the local habitat. The 'tider has many predators, chief among them the Tribunus Shitcuritas. The "redshirt" patrols the station's central corridors, often ducking into Maintenance passageways to pursue if it sees the flash of a grey jumpsuit. The hard-headed Machinator Osiatum may attack a 'tider on sight, fearing a sudden attack for its own treasured yellow gloves. 'Tiders may often attack each other as well, whether in pursuit of food and scarce resources, territorial disputes, or the local custom known as "iunno man i was bored lol." Yet the deadliest predator of the humble 'tider is the different species of the dangerous Adversarius genus, such as the blood-sucking Aversarius Lamia. The 'tider is an odd creature, simultaneously revered and reviled by its contemporaries. Although individual 'tiders are collectively given short shrift, all of the station's inhabitants, from Engistan to mighty Commandotozhka, must nevertheless acknowledge the power of the Grey Jumpsuits. Though on the bottom of the local pecking order, through soap, cable ties, and sheer robustness, the 'tider may threaten even the most lethal of predators. Few will acknowledge them, but all must respect them.