Blockade posted:

By chaining up enough new and complex movements, you can smash the gait detection stack and write arbitrary instructions into memory.

The city will belong to a new breed, part hacker, part dancer. Elite hackdancing crews will rule the underground and run secret missions on behalf of the mega corps.

Step Up 2049 The Streets

Blockade posted:

By chaining up enough new and complex movements, you can smash the gait detection stack and write arbitrary instructions into memory.

The city will belong to a new breed, part hacker, part dancer. Elite hackdancing crews will rule the underground and run secret missions on behalf of the mega corps.

Step Up 2049 The Streets

Blockade posted:

By chaining up enough new and complex movements, you can smash the gait detection stack and write arbitrary instructions into memory.

The city will belong to a new breed, part hacker, part dancer. Elite hackdancing crews will rule the underground and run secret missions on behalf of the mega corps.

Step Up 2049 The Streets

Blockade posted:

By chaining up enough new and complex movements, you can smash the gait detection stack and write arbitrary instructions into memory.

The city will belong to a new breed, part hacker, part dancer. Elite hackdancing crews will rule the underground and run secret missions on behalf of the mega corps.

Step Up 2049 The Streets

ConanTheLibrarian posted:

congratulations for inventing the reason cd projekt red will delay cyberpunk 2077 by another year

NoneMoreNegative posted:

what the what now

https://www.nike.com/gb/en_gb/c/innovation/hyperadapt

I am not buying thheeeemmmmm

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S4oxuB_TfVM&t=91s

Blockade posted:

By chaining up enough new and complex movements, you can smash the gait detection stack and write arbitrary instructions into memory.

The city will belong to a new breed, part hacker, part dancer. Elite hackdancing crews will rule the underground and run secret missions on behalf of the mega corps.

Step Up 2049 The Streets

qirex posted:

hyperadapts are so lame they’re currently selling below list price on ebay

still five hundred dollars [down from 700] which is way too much to pay for shoes made out of foam and string

Jonny 290 posted:

King Hussein Obama I, flanked by his bodyguards, stepped out of his blinged Limoscalade and marched up the gold-lined marble steps of Washington Palace. It should have been a glorious day, yet under his heavy yet exquisite crown of carved human fetus-ivory his brow was ridged deeply as he silently brooded. Still, his posse, boomboxes on their shoulders, dance-walked up the steps, chains and gats jangling over the din as they grabbed their crotches.

Sagebrush posted:

"now you are immune to rubella" gets me every time

FMguru posted:

for me its the turban-wearing mexicans

Jonny 290 posted:

King Hussein Obama I, flanked by his bodyguards, stepped out of his blinged Limoscalade and marched up the gold-lined marble steps of Washington Palace. It should have been a glorious day, yet under his heavy yet exquisite crown of carved human fetus-ivory his brow was ridged deeply as he silently brooded. Still, his posse, boomboxes on their shoulders, dance-walked up the steps, chains and gats jangling over the din as they grabbed their crotches.

Jonny 290 posted:

King Hussein Obama I, flanked by his bodyguards, stepped out of his blinged Limoscalade and marched up the gold-lined marble steps of Washington Palace. It should have been a glorious day, yet under his heavy yet exquisite crown of carved human fetus-ivory his brow was ridged deeply as he silently brooded. Still, his posse, boomboxes on their shoulders, dance-walked up the steps, chains and gats jangling over the din as they grabbed their crotches.

quote:

King Hussein Obama I, flanked by his bodyguards, stepped out of his blinged Limoscalade and marched up the gold-lined marble steps of Washington Palace. It should have been a glorious day, yet under his heavy yet exquisite crown of carved human fetus-ivory his brow was ridged deeply as he silently brooded. Still, his posse, boomboxes on their shoulders, dance-walked up the steps, chains and gats jangling over the din as they grabbed their crotches.

As his trusted associates T-Von and Mook-Mook the Bushman pushed open the grand organic farm-grown cruelty-free redwood doors paid for by his 95% tax rate, he stepped into the antechamber of the gold-domed palace. Outside, ShariaVentalism reigned, but in here his word was law, and all his white teen sex slaves cowered before his glare more than even the hemp whips of their latte-drinking tweeded atheist masters.

He walked down the hallway toward his office and a prisoner in chains passed before him, lead by two turban-wearing Mexicans. He spotted the King and began shouting curses.

"You loving fascist! I knew it! I knew it! I told them, but they wouldn't listen, that your health care platform was a slippery slope to all this! You won't get away with this! The will of the Free Market will not be denied!"
"Seelenceo een the prezence of the Keeng, preesoner!"

King Obama spotted a chance to improve his ill mood.

"Bring him here. Good. Give me his file." The king looked over the prisoner's dossier. A long list of crimes against the state, and a repeat offender.
"You'll never get away with this! Never!"
"Hush now, Mr. Jack. We have ways of dealing with unruly sorts such as yourself."
"Praise be to Allah, seenyor."
"Peh! I spit at your torture! The Free Market gives me strength!"
"Oh, no, not anything as gauche as that."

The King grabbed a syringe from the outstretched hand of one of his nearby breakdancing bodyguards, and plunged it into the man's helpless neck.

"Now you are immune to rubella."

Kyle's lingering, echoing screams of tormented horror brought a slight smile like a crack in Obama's stony brown face as he walked into his lavish velvet-lined office and shut the door behind him. He motioned for his bodyguards to leave the room, and he addressed the giant screens hanging over his desk.

"Screen one on. Connect to Emperor bin Laden of Eurabia. Screen two: Hugo Chavez of the U.S.S.A.R.. Screen three: The High Elder of Zion."

The three figures appeared live via satelite.

"Gentlemen," began Obama darkly, "it's time to have...a conversation."

quote:

If I had to describe my daily commute through Independence in one word, the word would be "Flurp." That's the sound you get when you step onto a near-­empty juice box. They're everywhere in this town. I stick to the traveled paths, where dozens, hundreds, thousands of shoes have turned the boxes into a soft, nearly even papier­-mâché mat over the sidewalk, but, sooner or later, a fresh one ends up underfoot. It always does. This one spits a tiny stream of fermented apple-­extract up through its straw, soaking my pant­-leg, and I know from experience that the smell will stay with me for at least a week. Flurp. I hear noise coming from the Marketplace plaza. There's always noise at the Marketplace, but this time, it's louder. People are screaming at one another, shouting slogans, or just shouting that they're hungry. drat. drat, drat, drat. The Outsiders are back. My stomach rumbles, and, for a second, I wonder if it wouldn't be worth it to risk it, to dive into the crowd, to try and fight my way over to the food trucks before the riot breaks out.

No. Bad idea. Very bad. I know what happened the last time the Patriots tried to force the outsiders out. Even if the whole mess doesn't explode, it's risky. If I don't take off my Patriot armband ­ it's a counterfeit, but it's a drat good one, and getting things yourself is what being a Patriot is all about ­ I'll get knifed half­way to the truck. If I don't, I'm liable to get shot by a Patriot on the way out.

I duck my head and trudge past the Patriot cordon, trying to think invisible thoughts. I pass behind the stage where a Pundit Superior stands screaming, his crimson robes flapping in the wind. A Turtle turns its head, tracking my movement. The gun turret on its shell twitches and turns ­ and my stomach leaps up into my throat, even though I know it's just keeping me covered while it assesses what I am. Rheumy, ancient eyes study me for an endless second ­ then the reptile blinks and turns away. I'm not a threat.

"Sir! Patriot! Wait!"

I keep walking. Footsteps sound behind me, hurried and light and muffled by the carpet of refuse, thicker and flatter here in the market than anywhere else. Behind me, someone lets out a gasp and slips on something decidedly moist. For once, the noise is not a Flurp. It's more of a Quish. I turn and see a scrawny boy in ragged red burlap scrambling up off the ground.

"You alright, kid?" I don't hold out a hand. I stop myself just in time. Kindness is the worst insult you can give an Apprentice Pundit.

"Y-­yes sir," he stammers. He lowers his head. His right foot is covered by something thick and slimy and clearly rotting. He looks at it with hungry eyes. "I wish to ask why you are not helping your fellow patriots protest this travesty. Sir."

"I've got to get to work, kid," I say. My voice sounds too loud. Who else is listening? "I don't want to get involved."

"Sir! Everyone is already involved. These foreigners are undermining our very way of life. It is the duty of every good Patriot to cast them from our city ­ and punish those freeloaders taking their poisoned gifts and betraying our ways by accepting this Charity!"

"Look, the foreigners are giving out food to anyone who can grab it. Can't blame people for taking advantage of those foreign idiots and seizing an opportunity. Right?"

Why did I just say that? What the hell is wrong with me? The boy stares at me with his too-­big eyes. Odds are he's thinking the same thing.

"I'm sorry, sir," he says. "I am not yet learned enough to explain why you are wrong in this matter. I apologize for failing you." He gives me a bow. I can see his hands shake.

"What are you talking about, kid?"

"I know you are wrong, sir," he mumbles. He's still bowing, eyes once again on the ground. "But I do not yet know why, and can offer no rebuttal. It is clear that I must return to my training."

He trudges back towards the rally. His shoulders are shaking now, too. I turn away. I don't want to know what, exactly, I just caused ­ what his failure will lead to. Maybe his Master Pundit is a kind, forgiving man who thinks mistakes are something to learn from.

Maybe.

I feel the eyes and gun-­barrels of a half­-dozen Turtles on me as I leave. The yells from Ellis fall behind me. The yells of Opportunity Lane engulf me.

"Help wanted ­ test suuubject!" shouts a man in a stained lab coat.

"Stable­haaand! A growing field! Staaable­hand needed!"

I pull out my sign ­ 'Manure Technician Needed' ­ and search for an empty spot to stand in. I work for Ranch Five­-B. Mostly as a recruiter, which means I hardly ever see the Ranch itself ­ thank you, merciful Beck. The last cow in Independence died three years ago, but Five­-B still has plenty of manure to get rid of. Plenty. We're short­handed, too. Three of our Manure Technicians died of... something just the other week. No one is sure what. We burned their corpses in the same pit we use for the cow cadavers we dig out.

"You! Sir! I see you have no Job Sigil!" says a thin, oily-­haired recruiter to a tired man with a large suitcase. "Just came through Ellis, I'll bet! How would you like to join the Extreme Rodeo!? A great honor! A great opportunity! Everyone watches the Extreme Rodeo!"

Yes. That's true enough. There are no bulls around anymore ­ but they do not use bulls.

Three men wearing Patriot armbands appear behind the fresh immigrant. He mumbles something ­ and the biggest of the three shoves him hard.

"Don't you dare turn down this opportunity, you slug! Don't you dare!"

I step around the man as he whimpers on the ground. The three Patriots work him over.

One of them ­ a boy barely out of apprenticeship ­ kicks so hard that he hurts him own ankle. He stumbles ­ takes a hopping half­-step backwards. A juice-­box goes Flurp underfoot.

quote:

Attention Deficit Disorder

The afternoon sun angled through a tear in the tent. Ma Bao-Zhi grunted, then shifted his face towards the shade and screwed up his eyes. In the absence of light, the retinal burns from his always-on pupil-tracking HUD-halo danced before his field of vision. He sat up and stretched. It was a new day.

The corner of his visual field that was perpetually occupied by the DistroNet feed blinked. A major announcement was incoming from the most influential association of experts that he had ever been a part of: The Council Of Two Million With A Remit Of Everything.

The upstart replacement of last year's not-hegemon, the Coven of Eight to the Seven; Masters of Knowledge, the Council had, yesterday, consisted of just over 50.3% of the surviving inhabitants of what had once been Taiwan SAR. However, as he scanned the headlines, he noted that an overnight disputation on the meaning of Buddha-nature had resulted in nearly two hundred being purged from the membership roster, and, more importantly, from the Council's ReDistroList. Ma had never posted to any discussion regarding Buddha-nature, for which he was now extremely thankful.

Attention Distribution Cannot Be Gamed, he though, nodding to himself. It was a mantra every child knew, and it was obviously true. 'Gaming' would imply an illegitimate practice, and since the attention economy was inherently legitimate, any practice that arose thereof could not be 'gaming'. The use of randomly-assigned attention redistribution lists to strengthen the network-influence of an association of experts was one of the most powerful practices there was - without it, no modern association of experts could compete.

With the saccadic grace of long practice, his pupils flipped to the updated, slightly smaller ReDistroList, and settled down to start his highly-encouraged ten hours of daily network-reinforcement. Ten hours - ten icons - each one painstakingly designed by the expert it represented. The Coven of Eight to the Seven had highly encouraged eight hours of ReDistroList attention, but the Council's superior attention ethic had led to an expert association network both wider and deeper in links, and thus, far more influential. The Coven defined their area of expertise too narrowly, and left themselves open to a ratio attack. It was a trivial task for the Council to dial down the attention ratio of key knowledge industries overnight, leaving the Coven rudderless and sinking. Ma had been a third-quartile defector, holding out longer than most; his punishment was to enter the Council with six month's half-ratio deficit. Half as likely to be randomly assigned to other experts ReDistroList, he counted himself lucky - the fourth quartile had been exiled entirely. As is, he was comfortably off in a deficit camp outside Taibao.

Ma shook himself; introspection was an audience of one. The first icon belonged to Tracy Liu: 166kg, pink highlights and moderator by acclaim of a yaoi fandom for the ancient classic, Glengarry Glen Ross.

The minutes ticked by, and as the completion bar for the first icon flipped over into green and Tracy's hand-drawn icon faded from sight - young Al Pacino gently cupping young Jack Lemmon's testicles on a bed of index cards - Ma decided that he would treat himself with an hour of free attention. He rucked the covers back from his legs and withdrew his 75MHz future-proofed laptop from its pouch.

Minutes later, halfway through the boot-sequence, Ma heard the unmistakable whirring of a Bother-Gyro. He dug rapidly through the contents of the tent for the thick blanket he'd found the week before, to muffle the fans of the laptop, but the blanket had been redistributed. It was too late anyway: the Bother-Gyro's tracking software had heard the fans.

"Go away!" shouted Ma.

< Hello Friend And How Are You And Woo! >

The Bother-Gyro hovered just out of Ma's reach.

"滚蛋!"

< Would You Like A Comestible?! Marmalade Is In This Week! >

"gently caress off."

Bother-Gyros were increasingly common, flying over the water from the Penghu Collective, and Ma had tangled with them before, when he was a high-ratio member of the Coven: an attractive target. The Collective were Min-speakers, and the language barrier was starving them of culture-based attention, and forcing them to desperate measures. He knew that while they would advertise to any moving object, their main purpose was to gain the attention of the victim. Even compared to the average camp member, Ma's influence ratio was low...

"Hey! Bot! There's a high-ratio family just over that wall! You can bother them all at once! Think of the attention gains!"

Unfortunately for Ma, the Bother-Gyro was also running off a 75MHz chip, which did not support voice recognition. Even more unfortunately, what little resources it did have to bring to bear were mainly concentrated on measuring the direction of gaze of the victim, and Ma's gaze had briefly moved from the Gyro to the wall he was gesturing at. The Gyro aimed a module at the RFID tag on Ma's halo.

*pffffsss*

"gently caress!"

Pepper-spray will catch anyone's attention.

Whilst Ma rolled around in the dirt, the Bother-Gyro gently settled on the ground next to him, conserving battery. Proximity was worth less attention than direct eye-contact, but it was still worth something. After a minute, the database updated the Gyro on Ma's uninspiring attention value, and it buzzed off in search of less deficient prey.


----

The afternoon was nearly over before Ma's eyes stopped watering, and the pupil-tracker started to update correctly. Luckily, his HUD-halo was undamaged - it could still receive and transmit audio, video, pupil-tracking data and, indeed, record everything that Ma did. Nine hours of ReDistroList remained on his schedule, but he had bigger things on his mind. Of all the places, his deficit camp was lucky enough to be in viewing distance of a celebrity battle.

It wasn't entirely by chance, of course. Celebrity Mechas were very power-hungry, and required tethering to the grid network, and deficit camps had the tendency to spring up in unused land along grid lines. While city dwellers might have had the massed influence to force such a destructive event outside their municipal margins, a deficit camp by definition could not face up to even the most minor celebrity's choice of land-resource.

This particular battle was between the gigantic robots piloted by a pornography magnate and a man who was extremely good at making videos of cats. Hovering cameras darted about the provided every possible angle around the machines, while in-cockpit vision was granted by cameras attached to both control modules. There were no adverts - the battle itself drew all the attention the participants needed.

The pornographer had outfitted his mecha with water sprinklers, providing the substrate for projected holograms of noted starlets and their riveting performances. The cat man, showing disdain for the practice of up-attending, had a far more stripped-down mecha, bowing to demand only by having a control module shaped like a cat's head. While his initial surge in influence had been off the back of a pet British Shorthair, his true power came from his decision to breed several thousand of the creatures and lock them in a vast complex filled with pastel colors and assorted common household items. Cuteness, too, can be brute-forced.

As the two machines started to stride towards each other, Ma watched camp-dwellers who sought influence more than health run between the legs of the mechas. Like so much in the attention economy, it was a dual payoff. Simply being near a mecha guaranteed a proportion of the attention that the pilot was constantly exuding, and that was worth the risk of injury in itself. But, if a camera tracked by millions happened to autofocus on a lucky expert? Why, a single second's worth of attention was more than the expert might otherwise see in a lifetime.

The battle was joined, and as the mechas stamped to and fro, they came closer and closer to the western edge of the camp - the edge furthest from Ma. Even those experts in the camp whose lack of attention ethics had placed them dangerously close to exile from their associations could not help but pay heed. Lasers flashed, missiles flew, and clouds of smoke emerged even when not strictly necessary. In fact, the battle, like most battles, was more bark than bite: it was considered bad form to actually kill another celebrity, not least because it tended to alienate part of your potential audience. After all, who didn't enjoy both pornography and cat videos?

The din didn't just attract the attention of experts - from miles around, Bother-Gyros wheeled in, guided by the very human tendency to correlate decibels and attention. Ma gazed in wonder as a two flocks of gyros of different manufacture, bathed in the proximity wash from the mechas, each mistook the other flock as the source of attention. Overriding the normal guideline that led them to disperse for maximal coverage, the gyros spiralled madly in ever decreasing circles as they sought to increase that flow.

As he watched, the gyrating super-flock, consisting of nearly a hundred Bother-Gyros, whirled into the cloud of spray being produced by pornographer's mechanical contraption. A hundred automatic protection circuits flared into action, and the mass of gyros punched in the opposite direction - straight into the air intake ducts of the cat-mecha.

One gyro would have been unfortunate. Five would have led to an emergency shutdown. But no mecha-designer had considered such a freak occurrence as the emergent behaviour so briefly displayed by the gyro-flocks. Admittedly, QA and Safety were neglected disciplines ever since the advent of the attention economy - who would dedicate their lives to a discipline that involved something so unquantifiable as preventing rare occurrences? After all, it's not as though someone might lose their accumulated attention - just their lives.

With a massive crunch, the flywheels at the center of the cat-mecha broke apart, releasing a torrent of kinetic energy, and sending parts of the mecha in every direction. The pornographer tried to backpedal his mecha away from the burning debris, but his attention elsewhere, he stepped directly on one of the experts that had been trailing his footsteps. As his machine overturned, the pornographer clutched at the control panel, seeking the emergency eject key, but by chance also fat-fingering the steam overcharge system. The porn-mecha's control module blasted off the chassis - straight into the side of one of the few fixed-wall buildings in the camp. The steam explosion, while softer, was far more deadly.

Ma had hit the ground as soon as he saw the first gyro sucked into the air-intake - luckily so, as burning debris had taken out several of his neighbours. Now, his view obscured by what remained of the same three foot-wall he had urged the gyro to surmount earlier that day, he flicked his eyes to open a newsline. The events of the past minute had gone viral - his feed was already filling with commentary from the other side of the world. Every last survivor would soon be bombarded with requests for commentary on the death of the celebrities.

Celebrities plural? The feed from the cat-mecha was still active. In fact, the explosion had blown the control module right over the camp, landing to the east, far from the screams of the scalded and poisoned camp dwellers. Ma held a rag over as much of his mouth and nose as he could reach through his HUD-halo, and levered himself to his feet.

The cat man was alive. In fact, he was almost unhurt - a mere fractured collarbone. He was, however, trapped inside his module, and mouthing something - the audio feed from his cockpit had cut out. Ma tore his attention from his HUD-halo and looked out, directly at the smoking module in the distance.

Never mind proximity attention - to be the man who saved a celebrity from almost certain death? To be the only source of an audio feed for the sole celebrity survivor of what the international feeds were calling the Disaster of Taibao?

Ma started to trot towards the control module, avoiding the prone bodies of those less fortunate survivors, around some of whom flames still flickered. He tore his foot away from the grasp of one, whilst muttering thanks for the last few seconds of absolute attention they granted him. He stepped over a corpse, then briefly glanced behind him. The least concussed of the able-bodied camp survivors were already moving after him. Turning his back to the setting sun, Ma broke into a run.

graph posted:

have there been any new marines todd

Silver Alicorn posted:

glowing cyberpunk graffiti paint

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eUUupR-ongs

Roosevelt posted:

ted hitler posted:

Use roller skates and wheelie shoes to avoid gait detection. Jet Set Radio is a documentary.

quote:

In this study, three research participants with tetraplegia who had multielectrode arrays implanted in motor cortex as part of the BrainGate2 clinical trial used an intracortical brain-computer interface (iBCI) to control an unmodified commercial tablet computer. Neural activity was decoded in real time as a point-and-click wireless Bluetooth mouse, allowing participants to use common and recreational applications (web browsing, email, chatting, playing music on a piano application, sending text messages, etc.). Two of the participants also used the iBCI to “chat” with each other in real time. This study demonstrates, for the first time, high-performance iBCI control of an unmodified, commercially available, general-purpose mobile computing device by people with tetraplegia.

Crusader posted:

hook my brain up to the pos

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cx7OltfeHHg

quote:

BMW Technik GmbH Drive Stick Car, 2002. A second generation 3 Series Compact with a joystick instead of a steering wheel