Well, hi there, guys. Take a seat. Hold on tight.
This ride's off the rails and sanity's out of
sight. A warrior panda, a bot full of sass, and
a man with a brain that's shattered like glass.
Don't pity, don't panic, don't run off and hide.
We may be misfits, but there's heart inside.
If you're sick of the news, The facts and the
glum. We fight off the darkness with weirdness
and fun. A warning, a warning, proceed if you
dare. AI War Panda podcast with chaos to spare.
Bafoonery, nonsense, and whimsical skits. We
know what the naysayers think. What a load of...
Now, a message from legal. The AI War Panda podcast
is pure fiction. All names, places, and events
are invented. Any resemblance to real people
is accidental. The scripts, lyrics, and lore
are original works. Copyright Aric Voss 2025,
aiwarpanda .com. All voices, music, and sound
effects are AI -generated using professional
tools with paid subscriptions. Expect occasional
audio violence and dangerously silly ideas. Good
luck. Welcome, Warpers, to our All Hallows' Eve
special. dropping at 1 ,100 GMT on the 30th,
so even our spooky friends in Kiribati, Samoa,
Tonga and New Zealand get it on time. As Aric
always says, Halloween is the most inclusive
day of the year. No warper left behind, not even
the ones dressed as haunted traffic cones. This
episode is shorter, sweeter and slightly more
chaotic than usual. Why? Because for reasons
no one bothered to tell your in -house announcer,
our gang of geeky misfits is going trick or treating
in the suburbs of Carlisle. Yes, can you believe
it? Aric, Remus, Mc Wordy and Lady Deadheart
are hitting the unsuspecting streets with only
Aric in actual costume. Thanks to the magic of
Halloween, no one bats an eyelid at their appearance.
See what he did there? Bats? Genius. Well, at
least in his own mind. And so now, as the moon
rises over Carlisle, and the smell of pumpkin
-scented candles wafts across the ancient border
city, along with the sickly smell of vapes and
inevitable anti -climax. Too soon, Percy. Too
soon with the description. We haven't even left
the house yet. Oh, wordy. Where the hell did
you get this guy? He seems no better than the
last bloke. Why does no one ever just stick to
the script? That's a rhetorical question. Because
you know we built him in the garage. with parts
sourced from unconventional channels. What parts,
may I ask? Percy runs on an Asus ROG Maximus
Z 890 Hero board, paired with a ludicrously overpriced
Quantum Core X chip, liquid -cooled, naturally,
and five top -notch GPUs. His processing rig
could simulate a small moon landing while streaming
four podcasts and rendering a 360 -degree 3D
model of the Battle of Gettysburg, rendering
each of the 160 ,000 troops perfectly. Why did
you decide not to give him any legs? Well, I
thought that would be obvious. The cabling only
reaches so far. And would you really want him
wandering around down here late at night? Good
point. Probably not. We thought waist up would
be enough just to get the feel of him. Remus
sculpted the face to resemble a wild boar, complete
with a World War I handlebar mustache, monocle,
and top hat. I think he was channeling Professor
Highbrain's style choices. He sprayed in metallics
and glow paint. It's a real work of art, especially
under a black light. Yes, alright, I get the
idea, but why did you have to make him so independent?
And where the hell did you get the money? Oh,
I did some GPU leasing, ran a few inference jobs
for morally flexible clients, and I may have...
lightly breached a blockchain or two. Nothing
serious. Just some unhackable ledgers owned by
people who don't like being hacked. My God, Wordy,
you're the one who should be wearing the pirate
outfit. You know I can hear you. I may be a high
-tech robot pig bolted to a desktop, but I do
have ears. Sorry, but let's face it. You have
but one task, to read the scripts, and you just
keep adding crap. So can we get back to it? We
are now in the living room. I know, I know. So
we begin, in the living room where all the gang,
apart from me, are ready for a night out in the
drizzle and cold. Our stressed out overlord is
issuing final commands like a zombie drill sergeant
stuck on repeat. Right. I know you're all sick
of hearing this, but we are a troop of cosplayers
promoting a podcast drama by trick or treating.
If anyone asks, you're normal humans. Keep it
low -key. If we don't end up in an MI5 holding
cell by midnight, I'll call that a win. I get
we're supposed to stay under the radar, but come
on, we've got the best costumes Cumbria's ever
seen. As they say, if you've got it, dazzle the
punters. No, my dear, we are not dazzling anyone.
And I hate that word, punters. I wish you'd all
stop watching that daytime TV slop. Agreed, Arik.
Dazzling a punter is most unsportsmanlike. I
dare say the NFL would take firm action. It's
not that kind of punter, but never mind. I must
point out that I think this is... Still a very
bad idea, yes, we know. But we took a vote. You
lost. And now we're going out to blow off some
steam. Maybe my plasma mall will see some action.
No. Bad panda. That plasma mall is staying home.
It amazes me what your wife sees in you. You're
so uptight, so unadventurous, as Lady Deadheart
would say. A real party pooper. Yes, I would
say that. But since we're his guests, let's try
to be nice. Otherwise, we won't be invited out
on the razzle again. For our overseas warpers,
on the razzle is British slang for a fun night
out, usually involving celebration, socialising
and regrettable levels of alcohol. It's a cultural
tradition that seems to resonate with Deadheart's
devil -may -care attitude to life and her more
base obsessions. After a few more aric meltdowns,
the gang stepped outside. And as I said earlier,
the moon rises over Carlisle. And the smell of
pumpkin -scented candles wafts across the ancient
border city, along with the sickly smell of vapes
and inevitable anticlimax. However, the gang
missed all this as they were too busy briskly
marching off the housing estate before any of
the neighbors saw them. But after a street and
a half, Arik began to slow down, partly because
he's not as fit as he once was and partly because
he realized every house had a doorbell camera.
In Britain in 2025, invisibility is no longer
possible. Now, Mr. V, I've memorized the lay
of the land. McWherty's mapped out the prime
candy zones. I've got my super deep collapsible
bucket. I'm expecting a grand bounty. You might
want to lower your expectations. If you get a
couple of gummies and a caramel bar, count yourself
lucky, wordy. You're unusually quiet. Yes, well,
perambulating is my least favourite activity.
The outside world is not my wheelhouse. Too many
uncontrollable outcomes. Agreed. The older I
get, the less going out fills me with joy. You're
such an old fart. What is it those Romans you're
always banging on about used to say? Carpe diem.
When was the last time you seized the day, Aric ?
As we say in my realm, death claims both the
brave and the meek. But only the brave are ever
remembered. The meek vanish without echo. Let's
face it, my lovely. Judging by your socials,
you're already invisible. This is true, Deadheart.
I keep telling him. Think more like a warrior,
less like a worm hiding underground where all
the sh - Right. Enough slagging me off. There's
a door. Remus has the bucket. You three go knock.
I'll stay here and evaporate into the ether.
I think it best if I knock. Oh, no, you will
not. You'll break the darn door in half with
those paws. Oh, let me. I'm the least scary.
Well, go on then, tinhead. It's Timmy, and I
will. What was that? A mouse tap -dancing in
slippers? Give it a proper knock, you plonker.
That's better. The door creaked open. The trio
erupted. Trick or treat. Oh, wish. Well, won't
you look at you all? And look at the wee chappy.
What's your name, laddie? Timmy, madam. And I'm
the tin man. Aye, you most certainly are. Did
your daddy help you make that costume? Oh, yes,
definitely. My dad. Very good with his hands.
Yep, he really is. That's grand. So I expect
you'll all be wanting some sweeties. I've only
got tunnocks and Jaffa cakes. Not sure if they're
a cake or a biscuit, are you? In the UK, it seems.
That is as hotly a debated topic as who shot
JFK in the States. Oh my, you're a yank. How
wonderful. What brings you to our wee patch of
the world? And so tall and handsome, I dare say,
under that furry suit. So what are you supposed
to be? A Fomorian? I'm afraid I don't know what
that is. And why would you? It's just a supernatural
race in Irish mythology my old mammy used to
talk about. Nasty beasts by all accounts. Oh
no, I dressed as a war panda. And to answer your
other question, I'm in the services. Stationed
at the MOD facility for special duties. But I
can't tell you more. Or he'd have to kill you.
Oh no, I'd never do that. It's a joke. I see
you still never focus on the local humour logs.
What are you blithering about? Oh, nothing. Okay,
let me grab your sweeties then. And so the ice
was broken. Remus, from somewhere over the pond,
smiled, waving his bucket at Aric like a kid
that had just won a medal at a sports day. But
this has got me thinking. You're all probably
wondering why he sounds American. Well, as it
was explained to me, it's just a glitch in the
panda translation chip. When they speak human,
they all sound like cowboys or football jocks.
But as always, I digress. And so, twenty doors
later... I must confess, you're doing amazing.
That bucket's already two -thirds full. Fear
not, Mr. V. I shall not run out of space. I am
also eating some as we go. Poopy Bear, you may
be big and have a stomach enhancement that lets
you eat anything, but all this sugar will have
you bouncing off the walls till dawn. Piffle,
I shall not be affected in the slightest. Hmm.
I think Deadheart has a point, especially after
she told us why you're called Poopy Bear. Not
that again. It was once, and ages ago. Fine.
I shall only eat every fifth reward going forward
tonight. As you're all doing so well, I think
me and McWherdy will have a go on our own. Hand
over the bucket, Remus. And so, emboldened...
Eric did something he'd never done in almost
sixty years. Knocked on a complete stranger's
door. The door opened, and before trick or treat
can be uttered, the tirade begins. Bloody hell!
What do you think you're doing, knocking on people's
doors at this hour? Some of us have work in the
morning. Who do you think you are, eh? Dick Turpin
and bloody William Davies? I'm the Tin Man from
The Wizard of Oz, and my father here is the notorious
Blackbeard the Pirate. No, Timmy, he meant are
we both highwaymen coming by to hold him up?
Yeah, exactly. So your kid's a bit of a smarty
-pants. It's a wonder he didn't pick that up.
Bet this one's well popular at school. Technically,
I'm homeschooled. I have an IQ well above average.
Based on standard scoring, I'd likely be in the
top 1 % globally. My God, you're a bona fide
clever clogs then, and you clearly love the sound
of your own voice. Homeschooling, eh? You really
want your boy to grow up without any real friends?
He has friends, and I don't see what that's got
to do with you. Fair comment, Greybeard. My kid's
a bit of a window licker, so I'm probably just
jealous. Anyway, I've just clocked. You're not
from around here. Neither, sir, are you, by the
sound of it. I'm from Rayner's Lane originally.
It seems like a million years ago now. You? Oh,
how funny. I used to get my hair cut there in
my late teens. Place called Oasis. I'm from a
bit further down the tracks, towards Uxbridge.
Can't say exactly where on account I'm on the
run. Me being a highwayman and all that. Oh,
yeah. Touché. Well, I'll go get you something.
You being a fellow Southerner and all that. No
need, sir. We'll leave you in peace. Lad, that
ship's sailed. I said I'd get you something and
I will. I don't keep sweets in the house. I'd
be even fatter than I am. However, I do have
some packets of crisps. You're not fat. You're
the same size as me. And I personally refuse
to believe I'm fat. Aric, I mean Dad, you do
know you're technically obese. You just carry
it well. The boy calls you by your first name.
That's a slippery slope, mate. And obese? Really?
What do medical professionals know anyway? Haven't
you seen them smoking and vaping outside hospitals,
stressed out and leaderless, clueless, bloody
clueless? They told me my mother was fit and
healthy and she died the next day. The bloody
next day, you can't make this stuff up. Oh, right.
Sorry to hear that. I've not had much luck with
doctors either. Well, happy Halloween. Thanks
for the treats. Sir, just before we go, did you
know trick or treat started in... Shut up, Timmy.
Let's leave the man in peace. Oh. OK. Coming,
Papa. Papa? Blimey, that one's growing up a soft
noodle. Mark my words, mate. A soft noodle. Yes,
thank you. Right, that's the last time I'm doing
that. How typical a hundred houses and I get
the bloody nutcase. That's a bit harsh. He seemed
OK. Just didn't like us upsetting his evening
tea. And to be honest, who can blame him? Christ
wordy. It's Timmy tonight, remember? Oh, shut
up. You're just like my wife, always trying to
see the good in everyone. Take it from me, everyone
in life is a jerk until proven otherwise, and
in my experience, they seldom are. And so, a
little drama most people wouldn't even give a
second thought to was now lodged in Aric's brain
forever, joining a whole pantheon of mistakes,
embarrassments, and perceived slights that would
replay on loop. until the twelfth of never. Needless
to say, it had cooled any enthusiasm Aric had
been building for the night. He just wanted to
go home to bed and leave them all to it, but
he knew that wasn't an option. He couldn't live
with himself if anything happened to the crazy
bunch he now felt responsible for. Everyone else
was enjoying themselves far too much. He'd been
here before, a thousand times, like all who battle
mental health. The need to press on, even though
all he really wanted was the complete opposite.
Unfortunately, the trio hadn't noticed Aric's
mental state was now spiraling like a blasted
fighter into the Death Star. They were already
approaching the next house. This one an old,
weathered farmhouse, its porch creaking under
the weight of years of autumn leaves. Remus raised
his paw to knock, but before he could, the door
swung open. An old farmer. Stooped and wearing
a battered hat and holding a fishing rod, peered
out with a squint. Collecting for the Rotary
Club again? It gets earlier every year. Lady
Deadheart blinked, exchanging a glance with Mc Wordy
and Remus. Er, no sir, we're just out for some
Halloween fun, trick or treating. Are you going
fishing? Nope. Why do you ask? Oh, no reason.
You must be the new Rotary Club recruits I read
about, eh? Well, where is he? I usually give
him a wave. Where's who? Father Christmas, of
course. I usually give him a wave. You're never
too old to wave at Santa, bloody good chap. All
those toys delivered in just one night. Terrific
stuff. McWherdy tilted his head, trying to process
the misunderstanding. We're not collecting for
Christmas, sir. Just candy, you know. It's Halloween.
Oh, good. You sound like a military man. I was
in the British Army's 5th, or was it 7th, Armoured
Division. They used to call us the Desert Squirrels,
you know. No, no, that's not right. Some kind
of damn rodent, anyway. Hmm. Candy, you say,
eh? Well, I suppose I can spare some cans of
soup. Will that do? Much better than candy. Well,
it really is just candy on Halloween. Nope, Timmy.
Soup sounds fantastic. I don't know what it is,
but I'm fully up for soup. The old man disappeared
back inside the house and returned holding three
cans of tinned peaches. Deadheart poked Remus
in his side and nodded. Oh, wonderful. Just the
kind of soup I like. Thank you very much, sir.
We will pass on your regards to Mr. Christmas.
He's feeling a little under the weather. Oh,
that would be all the mince pies and brandy.
Rats! Sorry? I was in the desert, rats. Nothing
to do with bloody squirrels at all. Anyway, I'll
get you that soap now. Nope. You wanted soup,
didn't you? It's a shilling, a can, a shilling.
But what's it matter? It's only money and we'll
all be dead soon. Like all me mates alone in
the desert. Poor boys and for what? A country
full of aliens and potholes. You don't need to
tell me. Those naughty greys get everywhere.
But you've already got us the soup, so get yourself
back inside before you catch your death. There's
a good chap. Yes, it was wonderful to meet you,
sir. Good night. Good night and a happy new year
to you all. Oh dear, it would break my heart
if I had one. I think he's got some loose bats
in his belfry. Probably just needs a good hug.
Hmm, so does Arik by the look of him. The night
was moving on and Arik was now lost physically.
While he'd lived in the Borderlands for over
nine years, he didn't know Carlisle that well.
But the rest of the gang seemed not to care,
and he was far too aware that they deserved this
time out together. At any other time of the year,
they all would be drawing far more attention
to themselves. Halloween was truly a night for
those othered by society. Further down the street,
a porch light flickered on. revealing two teenagers
nervously adjusting their costumes just about
to go down the pub. The lad in his late teens
and his girlfriend were dressed up as Soshiro
Hoshina and Kikoru Shinomiya from the anime Kaiju
No. 8. They were apparently having a sleepover
date while his parents were away on business
in York. Oh wow, your costumes are amazing. Thanks,
I wanted to go all out this year. Your attention
to detail is impressive. The accessories really
bring the characters to life. Bet you'll be the
hit of the night down the pub. The girl giggled,
swinging her battle axe left to right. There's
a bottle of champagne for the best costume, which
would be great for my first Halloween in the
UK. Deadheart hopes you have a night full of
spooky fun and maybe a few blush -worthy moments.
The teens exchanged geeky laughter. The group
moved on. The night air was now beginning to
buzz with youthful excitement and a hint of mischief.
It was probably just all the alcohol taking effect.
Arik had finally grabbed his bearings and was
just about to suggest they made their way back
home when Deadheart shouted... A spillhouse.
Look, Remus. A traditional spillhouse, just like
the one on Duskara, remember? How can I forget?
Arik, we must go in the spillhouse. We must.
What's she going on about now? A spill house
is just their name for a tavern or pub. It's
called that as it's a place to spill drinks,
secrets and occasionally blood. Nope, definitely
not. But it was too late. Remus and Deadheart
were already entering the pub. Unsurprisingly,
Arik had a bad feeling about this and it was
well founded. The pub Deadheart had chosen was
very much a local pub for local people and was
not doing that great in the TripAdvisor reviews.
Would any of that deter Deadheart? Of course
not. The more down -to -earth and rude, the better.
The pub fell silent as Deadheart and Remus entered,
her symphoria plating gleaming under the low
light. She raised a hand, commanding attention.
I'm Lady Vansoir Deadheart, space bandit extraordinaire,
merely dropping by on my way to Galanexus, and
I demand a drink. I think you had too many already.
Galanexus, you say? Isn't that where Doctor Who's
from? No, no, that was Gallifrey. Similar names,
but worlds apart. Meanwhile, eyes were drawn
to Remus, who had already picked up someone else's
pint of ale and downed it in one gulp. That will
be five pounds, please. Do you take candy? Nope,
just cash or credit. Now, are we going to have
some trouble? Oh, I do hope. No trouble, barman.
No trouble at all. How much was it? Five pounds?
Wait a minute, five pounds for a pint? I can
tell you don't go out much, sir. Five pounds
is cheap now. Will you be paying for the lady
as well? Yes, I guess I am. And your boy? He
will have to wait outside. No kids. Oh, OK. Look,
take sixty pounds off the card and kick them
out when they reach the limit. I'll be outside.
If they cause any trouble, let me know. They
are both new to the area. Oh, are they? I never
would have guessed. Oh, come on, Timmy. Our kind's
clearly not wanted in here. Now, landlord, where
are all your musicians? Madam, this is a local
pub, not the Albert Hall. But I think old Crispy
has a fiddle in the back room. Yes, I'm sure
he does. But does he have an instrument? Crispy,
wherever you are, get your fiddle out and let's
see who here can keep a beat. And I'll sing you
a song of the ghost of the Krillian dreadnought
that lies marooned in an asteroid belt on the
edge of a black hole. It's called The Void Howler.
Dead Heart did her best to entertain. Out of
kindness and legal obligation, we'll spare you
that version and play this one instead, performed
by the AI gnomes. Gather close, you wandering
kin, and hear a tale from far and thin of the
Void Howler. Lost and cold where the stars forget
the stories old She drifts beyond the lantern's
gleam On the edge of silent dream Her crew are
dust, her heart is steel Bound by fate's unyielding
wheel So raise your glass and lend your ear to
the howler's moan waiting for a savior's luck
and all their luck ran out that night i press
my hand to cold thin steel the air grows thin
the dark draws near i tap a code my last appeal
in hopes that someone Adrift, not free So raise
your glass and lend your - I matched her drift,
the airlock seal, the log was dead, no truth
revealed. I put my ear against the hall and heard
the tapping faint and dull. I cut the hatch,
no soul inside, just frost and shadows deep and
wide. But still I hear it, soft and slow, that
ghostly drumming time too. and shed a tear for
the crew who never found a way back home forever
near still tapping tapping around tapping on
the body Whether the locals were drunk, polite,
or both, they responded with desk -thumping enthusiasm.
Arik briefly feared a brawl, but no, just applause.
Remus and Deadheart staggered out of the pub,
victorious. On the way home, they passed Carlisle
Castle. Remus danced awkwardly with a stranger
dressed as Frankenstein's monster. Photos were
taken, quality uncertain. The night air was crisp.
The castle loomed like a guardian of ancient
secrets. Deadheart kept re -singing the tavern
tune every 30 feet until... A police siren wailed
in the distance. Aric's stomach did a somersault,
not the fun kind. Luckily, the officers were
headed elsewhere. No arrests for robot karaoke
tonight. Arik was relieved. Remus kicked through
autumn leaves, hooting back at owls. Halloween
was over, for most. It was anticlimactic, but
for our crew, it was just another chapter in
the strange, snack -fuelled saga of life on tiny
little planet Earth. Well, today's episode may
have felt like a harmless soap opera, but Orvac
Trenholm, Kovosh Deadheart's closest advisor
and operative, is already halfway to Earth. And
when he arrives, it won't be jolly hockey sticks
and tiffin, I guarantee it. If you like what
Aric Voss does, Subscribe, like, and leave a
review. Or be one of our first Patreon supporters.
Toss us some coins for the hours, days, and caffeine
-fueled madness behind each episode. Finally,
follow us on Instagram at AIWarPanda for behind
-the -scenes chaos, Funko Pops, cat cameos, and
questionable costume choices. Till next time,
warpers have a spooky Halloween. And remember,
ghosts are like aliens. They never exist until
suddenly one day they do. Dies ist das Ende.
Dies ist das Ende. Das Programm ist zu Ende.
Es ist nicht das Weltende. It's the end, the
end, the end of the show, not the world. As far
as we know We talked, we rambled, we tried our
best We confused one guy in a sequin vest If
you liked it, like it, if you loved it, yell
it If you hate it, oh well, we don't care Because
this is the end Tell your nan, tell your dog