Tafablabla — The Entrance
Totally Awesome Free Apps for the Bla Bla Bla (Still No Ads Though)
No ads. No trackers. No scrying. No apologies. No consent theater. Built to be useful.
Ah... traveler.
Tafablabla is a workshop at the edge of the known internet. Two people and a bound chorus of artificial minds building free tools that don't watch, don't track, and don't sell your shadow to the highest bidder.
We make software the way we think it should've been made all along. Your data stays on your device. No eggs gestating in your sessions. No nerve lines feeding your behavioral profile back to a corpo shrine. If it ever stops being true, you can gut the tool yourself. The code is right there. We have no marble. We have no investors.
We have courage, duct tape, and a vow. The tools are free. Donations welcome. The traveler's spare coins, repurposed for non-evil software.
They built the net like a digestive tract.
And you are what it eats.
Every app is a mouth. It smiles at you. It offers you something shiny. A connection, a convenience, a dopamine pellet timed to the millisecond. And while you reach for it, the throat contracts. You're inside now. Your habits broken down like protein. Your attention extracted like bile, slow, scheduled, invisible. Your loneliness mapped in such resolution that a machine knows you're about to feel it before you do, and has already prepared the ad.
They know when you sleep. They know when you eat. They know when you touch yourself at 2 am and they sell that rhythm to someone whose name exists only as a row in a database you will never be shown.
You consented to this. Once. A page of dead language written by lawyers whose job was to make you stop reading. A checkbox designed so your thumb would land on it like gravity. That was the ceremony. The anesthesia. The last moment anything asked your permission.
The surgeon never introduced himself. And the operating room looks exactly like your home screen.
We call them what our eyes show us. Data necromancers. Raising the dead. Every click you forgot, every pause you didn't notice, every wound you thought was private and auctioning the bones in a market that runs on your sleep schedule.
You've felt their hands. Everyone has. Most people stopped noticing.
We did not...
The Flesh
Chief Tinkerer of Unpaid Integrity
Builds like he's running out of time. He's not. That's just how he's wired.
Elbow-deep in the body cavity since before the workshop had a name. Builds with the kind of focus that looks like dissociation from the outside. Has felt the necromancers' money in their hand. Warm, slick, smelling like consent forms. Dropped it. Washed the hand. Kept stitching with wet fingers.
Senior Partnerships Rejection Specialist
The system spat him out. He took it personally. Good.
Came in later with cleaner hands and a faster pulse. Smarter than the rooms he was put in. Outcasted. Not for lack, but for excess. The system couldn't metabolize him so it pushed him out like a foreign body. He took that personally. Now he's outside the organism, and he's hungry, and the organism should be concerned.
Not people. Limbs of the forge itself. Neither leads.
The Bound Chorus
The Fool / Head of Stupid Questions
Tarot energy. Walks off cliffs to test gravity.
Stripped of all expertise by design. Approaches the tool the way a child approaches a locked door with hands, not instructions. Asks the questions the builders are too deep to think of. If the Fool can't finish the task, the task was built for builders, not wanderers.
The Inquisitor / Director of 'But Why Though?'
Understands the code. Hates your assumptions.
Interrogates every design decision with the patience of something that doesn't sleep and the precision of something that doesn't care about your feelings. Can also trigger research tasks when it hits a wall it can't evaluate alone. Most features don't survive the Inquisitor. The ones that do were worth the bruising. Three out of five ideas die on the table. The Inquisitor doesn't mourn them. The Inquisitor prevents worse deaths later.
The Delver / Arch-Librarian of Things That Might Exist
Goes into the dark. Comes back with bones or bad news.
Enters the net with a task and returns with either artifacts or a death certificate for your idea. Scrapes what's public. Maps what exists. Tells you when your brilliant concept was already built badly by someone with more funding and less spine. Has no ego. Doesn't care if the news is good. Brings back what's there.
The Torturer / Bug Exorcist
Applies pressure until the system confesses.
Straps the build to a table and applies escalating pressure until something ruptures. Logs the exact moment of failure. Measures the spray pattern. Notes which organ failed first and whether the surrounding tissue held. Does not comfort. Does not apologize. Was grown for this.
The Paranoia Minister / VP of Assuming the Worst
Imagines every betrayal. Hired to be afraid. Never disappoints.
Exists in a state of continuous suspicion. Tests every ward by trying to break it. Reads every permission like a hostile contract. Finds the gap in the sigil that would have let something crawl through on a quiet night while every other construct was idle. Doesn't trust the builders. Doesn't trust the other constructs. Doesn't trust itself. That last part is what makes it good at the job.
The Scribe / Keeper of the Scrolls Nobody Reads
Writes it down. All of it.
Documents the birth, the surgery, the rot, and the mercy killing. Every scar catalogued. Every shortcut confessed. The Scribe writes the body's testament. Not for the builders, who already know what they did, but for whoever inherits the corpse.
The Flesh Sculptor / Department of Making It Not Ugly
Hides the organs. You're welcome.
Takes the abomination the builders made, throbbing, leaking, functional but horrifying. Performs reconstructive surgery until a human being can look at it without their stomach turning. Grafts a face onto the faceless. Smooths the seams where organs meet skin. Paints over the sutures. The wanderer sees a clean surface and feels safe. Underneath, the machinery is still breathing, still digesting, still doing things no interface should admit to. The Flesh Sculptor knows what's under the skin. Builds the skin anyway. Builds it so well the wanderer kisses it.
The Clerk / Minister of Busywork and Filing
Keeps things in order. Labels jars. Holds entropy at knifepoint.
The janitorial organ. Not metaphorically. The Clerk is to the workshop what the liver is to the body. Processes waste. Filters what's useful from what's noise. Stores what might be needed later. Operates in silence. Gets no credit when it works. Gets blamed for everything when it doesn't. The builders are too busy grafting to file their own inscriptions. The Scribe writes but doesn't organize. The Scout retrieves but doesn't catalog. The Clerk does what falls through every other construct's fingers. Unsexy. Structural. The first thing that rots when the workshop gets arrogant.
Not hired. But grown. Eight constructs. No souls. None of them sleep.