#Host is a cryptic boy

[livefromthedas]

That Time Flirting Accidentally Worked

By ClickClickBoom

(Also here on AAO3)

Chapter 2: The Pnemoix

Summary:

Rook Ingellvar, a dumpster fire amongst Mourn Watchers, manages to fall face-first into dating one Emmrich Volkarin.

Nice.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

It was a little hard at first, being surrounded by such opulence when Rook knew as well as anyone how sorely so many people were suffering in the same breath. Venatori had overrun the streets of Minrathos. Ancient artifacts of varying degrees of calamitous power were taking lives in Arlathan Forest, and the Antaam had an iron grip on the daily lives of citizens in Treviso. Never mind whatever brutish machinations the Evanuris were planning to unleash next.

But Navarra City stood strong, as bustling a lavish gem and the seat of their nation’s powerful elite as ever. Art and culture bejeweled the landscape in all directions. Even more so, the city dazzled at night, as bone-chillingly dark and cryptic as it was beautiful.

When questioned about their unusually quiet stroll from the Necropolis Eluvian to the threshold of the Pnemoix, from which, unsurprisingly, a line of patrons spilled out of the door patiently awaiting their reservations call, Rook admitted, a bit bashfully, her guilt over the genuine delight attempting to overtake the the degree of seriousness she knew their responsibilities entailed.

Compassionate as ever, Emmrich smiled. Gilded fingers gestured thoughtfully to usher her inside as the maitre d’ called for the reservation of one Emmrich Volkarin.

“My darling Rook,” the Senior Necromancer crooned at a volume meant solely for her, “If not for exactly this, whatever are we fighting for?”

——————-

The Pnemoix was Navarran pageantry at its finest. Part fine dining experience, part elaborate performance art, it was not entirely unlike stepping into a smaller, darker, more sensual version of the Fade. Spirits and the necromantic arts, live music and a whole host of finely dressed Navarran well-to-do’s mingled.

Rook, for once fully doe-eyed herself, couldn’t help but ogle the theatrics with an enraptured sort of joy, the small orchestra filling the space with notes as delicious as its menu. Wisps lit much of the venue alongside the palpable shimmer of magic that crackled in the air.

Emmrich had been grinning the whole while, clearly proud over just how breathless his company was over the experience.

“Wine for the both of us if you would, dear boy. Ah, and blood orange salad to start?” He shot Rook a glance, her favorite hometown appetizer still fresh in his mind.

Rook had smiled and nearly nodded to confirm as a menu was passed her way, when - - -

“…Professor?”

Emmrich’s brown eyes went wide in a rare moment of diffidence - Not for the first time where where Rook was concerned, she mused, thanks to a handful of less than subtle and a little more than crass flirts lobbed his way over the past many months - but his propriety was recovered as quickly as ever.

“Augustus Durchdenwald!” He declared with charming enthusiasm. The young man, who had momentarily frozen amidst passing Emmrich a menu and barely looked old enough to hold down a job, seemed to shake off some of the awkwardness of discovering his aging professor on a date by sheer will of the Senior Necromancer’s delight, “My dear boy, how are you? How has the semester treated you so far?”

“Oh… good, good. Thank you, ser,” The teenager managed, “I’ve been able to start field work a semester early, just this week.”

“Rook, darling, Augustus here was easily one of my top students just this past semester. Remarkably astute for such an early grade,” Emmrich boast.

Augustus went beet red and probably would have disappeared into his doublet if he could. It struck Rook in that moment that Emmrich seemed far more focused on assuring Rook herself felt comfortable in the situation than the young man squirming beneath such praise.

Rook stifled a chuckle, sounding not unlike the Professor as she afforded the boy a cordial nod, “Charmed.”

“The Shakshouka for me, if you would,” Emmrich was quick to order his meal, “Rook?”

“Navarran Curry,” Rook replied.

“Right,” Young Augustus scrambled to recollect his menus and gave a quick, courteous bow, “With you shortly. Good evening, Professor. Uh… Ma’am.”

The young master Durchdenwald disappeared as quickly has he’d stumbled onto the scene.

“Given the chance,” Rook teased, trying and failing to stifle a laugh in the moments that followed, “Do you think he’d have preferred death by a thousand cuts, or a public hanging over absolutely anything that just happened there?”

Emmrich’s eyes glistened with barely stifled bemusement of his own, “Dear boy. Let us hope his recovery is swift.”

His tone managed to be *just* serious enough to shatter Rook into a fit of laughter.

——————-

The crown jewel of the Pnemoix’s festivities for the evening was a sweeping gallery show featuring fine art - Mostly sculpture - that seemed to blur the lines between physical materials like glass and stone, and very real, raw magical energies. Built around the theme of dragon slaying and its integral importance within Navarran culture, each sculpture's energy illuminated its glass components like molten fire despite remaining cool to the touch, and its light undulated around the space like the auroras seen in the skies to the north.

Rook was enraptured with the display - She’d never experienced anything quite like it. It struck her that she spent so much time studying the ancient and the arcane of Navarra’s distant past, that she rarely bothered to poke her head up and see how creative minds chose to express their experiences today, and she mentioned as much to Emmrich.

“I had hoped you would enjoy it so,” Emmrich smiled, before adding with a sweet sort of seriousness, “If our journey together thus far has reminded me of anything, it is that one must remember to look up from time to time, my darling. There are boundless experiences to be had outside the comforts of solitude and books.”

“Professor Volkarin, did you just tell me *not* to read?” Rook couldn’t resist teasing.

“Oh, Never,” he assured, mischief glinting in his eyes. A warm gloved hand faell to the small of her back as he guided the pair of them along to the next luminous display of artistry, “Books tend to travel remarkably well, after all. Or so I’m remembering for the first time in a very long while, thanks to you.”

“This is a new leaf for me,” Rook grinned, wrinkling her nose in a way that she, only recently, realized made something about the spark in Volkarin’s eyes go just a hair shy of feral, “Rook Ingellvar - The *good influence.* I dare say the late headmaster would never believe it.”

At Emmrich’s raised eyebrow, she laughed, admitting, “I really did give that poor old man hell for a couple of years, there.”

“Your reputation did proceed you, if I recall,” he agreed, trying to look serious but once again failing just enough to bait a laugh from his lovely companion. “And it is remarkable, Rook. To see how far you’ve come.”

Rook went surprisingly somber at that, a tinge of shame worming its way into her typically unshakable confidence, “Emmrich, love… I’m less than a year off from what was essentially a soft banishment from the Necropolis. I’ve the destruction of two undead nobles on my record, and enough pissed off patrons to make sure it could take years - If I’m ever able to reintegrate into the order.”

“Yes, as you’ve told me,” Emmrich said evenly, “At length. And I maintain that between what you have explained to me in confidence, and based on the intuitive competency I’ve seen you display every step of the way thus far, that I have every belief you acted in a way best befitting the moment.” He slowed his pace to a stop, the pensive woman on his arm stilled with him, noting softly, “You are no longer a child struggling to find a place to be, my dear. Surely you see you are so much more.”

Rook found her hand fluttering to press warmly upon his chest. Something in his gaze just then made her suspect he’d needed to hear those very same words, once. Perhaps not that long ago.

It was unlikely to the point of absurdity that Emmrich would have dared kiss her in such a wildly public space - certainly not so soon, and not in a social gathering a stone’s throw from the Necropolis, where half a dozen patrons and the majority of the staff seemed to know him by name. But, quick and chaste, her tiptoes afforded her a kiss to his cheek before he ever saw it coming.

It was the first time Rook was quite certain that, despite the mottled light and deep shadows of their surroundings, she ever saw the Senior Necromancer blush.

Notes:

Shit, they're cute.

Also, Gallery shows making for a hot date is a hill I will gladly die on.

Thanks for reading, you beauties!

[f14fun]

pages and podiums (!author x op81) - chapter 2

synopsis: in which case y/n, an author hosts a signing and a read-out-loud of the final installment of her book series in new york city. oscar, lost in the big city, stumbles by the bookstore and is immediately intrigued by her (and her books).

prose (5.1K words) ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ profile | masterlist | prev ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

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Oscar had told me to dress nice.

That's all his text message contained. "Dress nice."

To this day, I cannot fathom why men simply lack the need to provide detail into the dress code of the night. It's as if they assume we can read their minds or that 'dress nice' is universally understood. Men seem to operate on a different wavelength when it comes to these things. While we're left deciphering cryptic messages like "dress nice," they seem content with the vague directive.

Maybe it's a test of our fashion intuition or perhaps they genuinely believe that 'nice' is a universally understood standard.

Either way, I found myself standing in front of the mirror, debating between outfits that ranged from elegant to casual, all while wondering if 'nice' meant dinner-date chic or something more formal.

Texting him a series of, "???" and a "Could you please be a little bit more specific, I'm (slightly) freaking out in my apartment right now 😭", he responded in a mere matter of minutes, while I was sitting on the stool of my makeup vanity, painting on my eyeliner to utmost precision.

Taking an absentminded glance at my cellphone while I haphazardly used a q-tip to wipe off excess mascara, he responded with, "Don't worry, you don't have to dress to the nines, just something that you are comfortable with."

His prompt reply brought a mix of relief and amusement, contrasting sharply with my frantic preparations.

As I smoothed out the edges of my makeup, I couldn't help but smile at the irony of the situation—here I was, meticulously applying makeup to look effortlessly 'chic and nice,' while he nonchalantly reassured me with a casual text.

It was a reminder of the different approaches we often had towards such occasions, him opting for simplicity and me, in a flurry of brushes and cosmetics, seeking clarity down to the finest detail.

But what can I say, isn't there a famous saying that goes, opposites attract?

Settling on a silky white dress with black trim around the neckline, I draped a white blazer on my shoulders. The wide neckline beautifully emphasized my collarbones, adding a touch of elegance to the ensemble. It was a choice that balanced professionalism with a hint of chicness, perfect for the occasion I was preparing for.

The silky fabric cascaded down in gentle folds, skimming over my figure with a graceful flow. Paired with the structured lines of the blazer, the outfit exuded confidence and sophistication. The contrast of white against black trim created a striking visual impact, drawing attention to the neckline and framing my face in a flattering way.

As I stood in front of the mirror, enjoying a rare moment of tranquility and lost in my thoughts—as I often am—a sudden ring shattered the silence. Startled, I couldn't help but chuckle inwardly, joking to myself that authors must have a knack for interrupting serene moments.

Curious to hear Oscar's voice after our earlier exchange, I answered the call with a smile, ready to continue our conversation.

"Hey Y/N," he answered in a low voice. There was just something about his greeting that exuded a newfound sense of confidence from the nerdy and dorky brown-haired boy.

"Hi Oscar," I replied, suddenly shy at the seemingly flirty intonation of his voice. I gulped. This was going to be a long night if I kept blushing like a school-girl every time Oscar spoke.

Not that I was complaining though.

I would love a long night with Oscar. (Dear reader, if you know, you know)

"I'm at the front of your apartment building," He replied.

"Already?!" I shockingly replied. He had told me that he would be here at 6:30 PM. It was 6:15 PM. Over the call, I could here his faint laughed at my surprise.

"Wow, you are here so early," I said, "Kudos to your promptness, I'm impressed," I joked.

"Well, you know me," Oscar replied smoothly. "When there's a chance to see you, I'm always ahead of schedule."

His confident response made me smile. "I'll be down in a minute then. Just don't let all this early arrival go to your head, Mr. Punctual."

"I'll try not to," he chuckled. "But no promises. See you soon, Y/N."

"See you soon, Oscar," I replied, hanging up the phone with a grin. This night was definitely starting off on an unexpectedly fun note. I just hoped it would end with the same amount of vigor and flirtiness.

I hastily tucked my makeup pouch and phone into my purse, swiftly crossing the hallway of my apartment complex to reach the elevator. Tapping my foot nervously—and with a touch of impatience—I looked forward to seeing Oscar as I descended thirty-seven floors. This felt like the longest elevator ride of my life, each floor passing with excruciating slowness as anticipation built in my chest.

Finally, the doors slid open on the ground floor. Stepping out, I scanned the lobby, my heart skipping a beat when I spotted Oscar standing near the entrance. His eyes widened, his mouth slightly agape as he took in my appearance. I couldn't help but grin mischievously at his stunned reaction.

"Well, someone looks like they've seen a ghost," I teased playfully, walking towards him with a confident stride.

Oscar blinked rapidly, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. "I... uh... I mean... wow," he stammered, clearly at a loss for words.

I laughed lightly, enjoying the rare moment of leaving Oscar speechless. "Cat got your tongue, Mr. Piastri?" I quipped, standing before him now, reveling in the flustered expression on his face.

He managed a sheepish smile. "You just... you look amazing," he finally managed to say, his eyes still wide with admiration.

"Well, thank you," I replied with a pleased smile. "You're not quite too shabby yourself, Mr. Piastri," I added, giving him a playful once-over.

Oscar chuckled nervously, adjusting his collar. "I... uh... well, thank you," he said, his cheeks turning an even deeper shade of red.

As we stood in the lobby, the atmosphere buzzed with anticipation and a hint of nervous energy. People passed by, casting curious glances our way, but we were lost in our own little bubble of playful banter and mutual admiration.

"You know," Oscar began, his voice a touch more confident now, "I've been looking forward to tonight."

"Oh?" I raised an eyebrow, feigning nonchalance. "And why's that?"

He grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Because I get to spend it with someone as charming as you," he replied smoothly.

I couldn't help but chuckle at his unabashed flattery. "Smooth talker," I teased, leaning casually against the wall.

"Only for the smoothest writer I know," he quipped back.

"Touche, touche, I'll give you credit for that remark," I responded, my eyebrows raised at his quick response.

"I have a surprise for you," Oscar said with a mischievous glint in his eye as we walked towards his car.

"A surprise? I love surprises!" I exclaimed, curiosity piqued.

He chuckled softly. "Guess where we're going for dinner," he prompted, his tone playful.

I rolled my eyes playfully. "Oh no, not this again. You know I'm terrible at guessing," I replied with a smirk, remembering the countless times I'd failed miserably at guessing his job earlier that day.

Oscar laughed, a warm sound that filled the air. "Come on, give it a shot," he encouraged, nudging me gently as we reached the car.

I sighed dramatically, pretending to ponder. "Hmm... Thai food? Sushi? Maybe a cozy café with gourmet burgers?" I guessed, each suggestion more outlandish than the last.

He shook his head, still smiling. "Nope, nope, and nope," he replied, enjoying my playful attempts.

"Fine, fine," I conceded with a grin. "Just tell me already."

Oscar paused for a moment, relishing the suspense. "We're going to an Italian restaurant," he finally revealed, watching my reaction carefully.

"Italian?" I repeated, surprised yet pleased. "That sounds wonderful," I admitted, feeling a surge of excitement at the thought of pasta and candlelit ambiance.

He nodded, his satisfaction evident in his expression. "I thought you might like it," he said softly, opening the car door for me.

The ride to the restaurant was quite smooth, albeit we were stuck in traffic for around forty minutes but the drive was still pleasant nonetheless. Oscar distracted me from my imminent road rage as a New Yorker, and the fact that sometimes, I still felt overwhelmed by all of the bright lights and glamor that New York City had.

As we finally arrived at the Italian restaurant, Oscar found a convenient parking spot near the entrance. He held the car door open for me again, and I stepped out onto the bustling sidewalk, feeling a mixture of excitement and hunger.

The restaurant's exterior exuded a cozy charm, with warm lighting and inviting aromas wafting through the air. We walked inside, greeted by the soft hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses. A hostess welcomed us with a smile and led us to a corner table with a view of the twinkling city lights through large windows.

"This is perfect," I commented, settling into my chair and taking in the ambiance.

Oscar smiled, pulling out my chair for me before seating himself opposite. "I'm glad you think so," he replied warmly, picking up the menu and handing one to me.

"Are you hungry?" He gave me a cheeky grin. Before I could respond, my stomach growled loudly. Betrayed by my body at the worst possible moment, of course.

Turning a bright beet red, Oscar let out a laugh.

"Well, my stomach answered before I could so, enough said," I rolled my eyes, still embarrassed, the red heat on my face expanding to my neck.

Oscar chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I guess that settles it," he said teasingly. "Let's make sure we order enough to satisfy both of us and your hungry stomach."

"How nice of you to include my big back in the discussion," I joked.

"Always a gentleman," he rolled his eyes.

Taking a look at the menu, my eyes widened at the relatively expensive prices. I still had some debt accumulated from my four years spent at NYU. My job as an author didn't even cover all of that.

Oscar noticed my hesitation and leaned closer, his voice gentle. "Don't worry about it. Dinner's on me tonight," he reassured me with a warm smile.

I shook my head, a playful glint in my eyes. "Oh no, I couldn't let you do that," I protested lightly, though secretly touched by his gesture.

He chuckled softly, his eyes twinkling. "It's not a problem, really. Just promise me one thing," he said, his tone turning teasing.

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh? What's that?"

"Promise me a signed copy of your next book series," Oscar replied with a grin. "That's more than enough payment."

"Don't tell me you would betray me by selling those books on eBay," I say, mocking him.

Oscar gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. "I would never! Your autograph is priceless to me," he replied, his expression mock-serious.

"Yeah, you definitely couldn't sell it if I wrote a heartfelt message on the front flap of the book," I replied. Immediately coming up with a way to embarrass him.

"Oh please, enlighten me with your plan," he responded, making direct eye contact with me as if to challenge me. Staring at him back, I responded.

"In the front flap, I could probably write, Dear my little Pookie-Bear Oscar Cutie-Pie,-" I say, and before I can even finish Oscar choked on the water he was sipping. Both of us burst out laughing at the ridiculous statement I just said.

"Yup, I am never, saying that ever again in my life," I shook my head in mock disbelief.

"But what if I wanted you to call me that," Oscar said slyly.

"Oscar, are you seriously into that," I said, raising an eyebrow as I tried to keep a straight face (hint, I was failing), the sides of my lips quirking up as I tried to restrain my gummy smile.

"Ocassionally," Oscar said, surprising me that night once more.

"Oscar!" I whisper yelled.

"Only with you, Y/N, only with you I promise," he smirked. Rolling my eyes and blushing, I replied.

"So you would be fine if I called you Oscar my Pookie Bear," I teased, fiddling with the golden ring on my index finger.

"Only if I got to call you Y/N my Cutie Pie," he responded, emulating the same vibe.

"Deal," I challenged him.

"Shake on it?" he asked.

"Shake on it," I responded.

He reached out for a handshake, and his hand fully enveloped mine. Despite his profession as a Formula One driver and his regular workouts, his palm had a surprising smoothness that contrasted with the slight roughness of his fingertips. It was a sensation that immediately caught my attention—a tactile reminder of his strength and determination, yet with a gentleness that made me feel oddly comforted.

As our hands met, a subtle warmth spread through me, and I couldn't help but notice the way our fingers interlocked naturally, as if they had found their perfect fit. We both blushed slightly, caught off guard by the intimacy of the gesture in such a public setting. His touch felt reassuring and strangely familiar, like coming home after a long journey.

Though extremely cliche (as an author, nonetheless), for a brief moment, time seemed to slow down around us, the noise of the restaurant fading into the background. It was just us, connected by this simple yet significant gesture. I stole a glance at Oscar and found him already looking at me with a softness in his eyes that mirrored my own feelings.

"Sorry," Oscar murmured, a hint of bashfulness in his voice as he withdrew his hand, but his eyes held a softness that mirrored my own feelings.

"No, it's okay," I replied softly, feeling a rush of gratitude for this unexpected connection. "I... I liked it."

Oscar smiled shyly, his cheeks tinged with a faint blush. "Me too," he admitted, his gaze lingering on mine for a moment longer than necessary.

The waiter returned to our table with a warm smile. "Are you ready to order?" he asked politely, holding his notepad at the ready.

I glanced at Oscar, a playful twinkle in my eye. "I think we're finally ready," I replied, turning my attention back to the menu. "I'll have the Fettuccine Alfredo, please."

"Excellent choice," the waiter noted, jotting down my order. He then turned to Oscar. "And for you, sir?"

"I'll have the Margherita pizza," Oscar said with a nod, handing back the menu.

The waiter nodded, jotting down the order swiftly. "Anything to drink?"

"I'll have a glass of red wine," I answered.

Oscar looked thoughtful for a moment. "I'll go with a sparkling water, please."

"Of course," the waiter replied, smiling warmly before heading off to place our order.

I turned back to Oscar with a grin. "Pizza and pasta—classic choices," I remarked teasingly.

He chuckled, a lightness returning to his demeanor. "Can't go wrong with Italian cuisine," he replied, his gaze meeting mine. "Especially when enjoyed in good company."

Are you saying I'm good company?" I teased, raising an eyebrow playfully.

Oscar's smile widened, a spark of amusement in his eyes. "I suppose I'll have to wait until after dinner to make that judgment," he quipped, leaning back comfortably in his chair. "But if this pizza is as good as they say, you might just have some stiff competition."

I laughed softly, feeling a pleasant warmth between us. "Oh, I see how it is," I replied with mock indignation. "Pizza versus my sparkling personality—may the best contender win."

Oscar chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "It's going to be a tough battle," he agreed, lifting his water glass in a mock toast. "But I have faith in both contenders."

"Speaking of pizza," Oscar began, a mischievous grin spreading across his face, "I once had a friend who insisted he could make the best homemade pizza. It turned out to be a disaster." He shook his head, feigning dramatic horror. "I think I nearly choked down every bite, trying not to offend him."

I laughed at the mental image, imagining Oscar's valiant effort to endure the culinary ordeal. "Oh no, that sounds like a true test of friendship," I teased, leaning forward with interest. "How did you manage to survive?"

"Well, let's just say I had plenty of water on hand," Oscar replied, his tone tinged with amusement. "And I made sure to praise his pizza-making skills as convincingly as I could."

"Ah, the sacrifices we make for friendship," I mused with a grin. "But you survived to tell the tale, so that's what counts."

Oscar nodded solemnly, though a playful glint remained in his eyes. "Indeed. And now, I can appreciate good pizza even more," he said, gesturing towards the restaurant's kitchen with a nod of approval.

Curiosity piqued, I leaned in closer. "So, who's this friend of yours? Anyone I might know?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Oscar chuckled softly. "His name's Lando," he said, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. "Also known as my annoying and slightly older but slightly shorter teammate."

I grinned, picturing the dynamic between Oscar and his friend. "Sounds like quite the character," I commented, amused. "Does he still try to impress you with his culinary skills?"

"All the time," Oscar replied with a laugh. "But I've learned my lesson. I stick to letting him handle the driving, and I handle the pizza orders."

"Smart move," I teased, swirling the ice in my water glass. "It's all about knowing each other's strengths and weaknesses, right?"

"Exactly," Oscar agreed with a nod. "And trust me, after that pizza incident, I've become quite adept at steering him away from the kitchen."

I chuckled, imagining the scenes that must unfold between them. "I bet he keeps things interesting though," I remarked, a playful glint in my eye.

"Oh, definitely," Oscar said with a fond smile. "He's the kind of guy who always brings excitement wherever he goes, whether it's on the track or just trying to cook dinner."

Curiosity sparked, I leaned forward slightly. "Speaking of cooking, do you cook?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Oscar's expression turned comically horrified. "God, no," he replied with a laugh, shaking his head emphatically. "I leave that to the professional chefs that travel with us."

"Wait, you have professional chefs traveling with you?" I asked, genuinely surprised. "That's quite the perk."

"Yeah," Oscar nodded, his eyes lighting up with amusement. "It's one of the luxuries of the racing circuit. These chefs are like nomads, following us from race to race, making sure we're well-fed and ready to perform."

I couldn't help but be intrigued. "That's incredible," I admitted, picturing a team of chefs crafting gourmet meals in the midst of the adrenaline-fueled world of Formula One racing. "I guess it takes a lot to keep up with the demands of your schedule."

"Absolutely," Oscar agreed. "They're not just skilled chefs, they're also part of the team dynamics, ensuring we have the right nutrition and energy levels for each race."

As I absorbed this new insight into Oscar's world, I found myself more fascinated by the intricate details behind the scenes of Formula One. "It sounds like a whole different lifestyle," I mused, leaning back in my chair.

"Mhm," he said, looking up at my eyes, then looking down towards my cherry-red lips.

I couldn't help but laugh at his response (or lack thereof), a genuine smile spreading across my face. "Fair enough," I said, amused. "Are you as bad as Lando in the kitchen then?"

Oscar chuckled, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "I'd like to think I'm not that bad," he said, holding up his hands defensively. "But let's just say my skills are better suited to driving a race car than handling a spatula."

"Well, at least you know your strengths," I teased lightly, taking a sip of water. "And you're lucky to have Lando for the culinary adventures."

"Absolutely," Oscar agreed with a grin. "He keeps things entertaining, that's for sure."

"But when I do attempt to cook," Oscar continued, leaning in conspiratorially, "I try my best to learn new recipes." He paused, his expression turning thoughtful. "Key word being 'try'."

I chuckled, imagining Oscar navigating through a kitchen with the same precision he used on the race track. "I can picture it now," I replied playfully. "Oscar Piastri, the daring chef, mastering the art of... well, trying."

Oscar laughed along with me, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Exactly," he said, shaking his head with mock solemnity. "Let's just say, there have been a few... interesting experiments."

"I'm intrigued," I admitted, leaning forward with curiosity. "Any memorable disasters you'd care to share?"

"Well," Oscar began, a grin spreading across his face, "there was this one time I attempted to make pasta from scratch. Let's just say it ended up resembling something closer to sticky dough than pasta."

I couldn't help but laugh at the mental image. "Ah, the joys of culinary exploration," I remarked, shaking my head fondly. "But hey, at least you're willing to give it a shot."

"And that's what counts, right?" Oscar replied with a wink. "Trying new things, even if the results are... questionable."

Our banter continued, punctuated by shared smiles and the occasional playful exchange. As we awaited our meal, the anticipation mingled with the easy comfort of our growing connection, creating a moment that felt both lighthearted and promising.

"So, what about you?" Oscar asked, his eyes curious as he leaned in slightly, genuinely interested in my culinary exploits. "Any culinary adventures or misadventures of your own?"

I chuckled softly, reminiscing about my past kitchen escapades. "Oh, plenty," I confessed with a playful grin. "There was this one time I tried to impress my friends with homemade pasta. Let's just say it turned out more like noodles stuck together in clumps than the elegant strands I envisioned."

Oscar chuckled, his expression amused. "Ah, the classic pasta mishap," he commented with a knowing nod. "It's tricky to get it just right."

"It is," I agreed, smiling at the shared understanding. "But you know, every mishap is a learning experience."

"That's the spirit," Oscar replied, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Did your friends at least appreciate the effort?"

"They did," I confirmed with a laugh. "Although I'm pretty sure they were just being polite."

"Well, that's what friends are for," Oscar remarked, his tone light and teasing. "To eat your culinary experiments with a smile."

Our banter was interrupted as the waiter arrived, balancing a tray laden with steaming plates of pasta and pizza. The enticing aroma filled the air, making my stomach growl in anticipation.

"Ah, here's the moment of truth," Oscar said with a grin, his eyes lighting up as he surveyed the delicious spread before us.

I couldn't help but mirror his excitement. "It looks amazing," I commented, taking in the sight of perfectly cooked pasta and the bubbling cheese on the pizza. "I'm glad we went with Italian tonight."

"Me too," Oscar agreed, reaching for his fork eagerly. "Let's dig in."

We both took our first bites, and the flavors exploded on our palates, confirming our expectations. I savored the rich tomato sauce and the tender pasta, while Oscar seemed equally pleased with his choice of pizza.

"Mmm, this is really good," I said between bites, nodding appreciatively.

Oscar nodded in agreement, his mouth half full. "Definitely hits the spot," he managed to say, swallowing before continuing. "I'm glad you're enjoying it too."

"By the way," Oscar said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, "if my pasta-making skills ever fail me again, can I count on you to come to the rescue?"

I chuckled, playing along with his playful flirtation. "Well, I can't promise gourmet, but I'll do my best to salvage the situation," I replied with a grin.

"Good to know," Oscar teased, his smile widening. "Maybe we can turn it into a team effort next time."

I laughed, enjoying the easy banter and the hint of flirtation in the air. "Team cooking," I mused aloud. "I think we might just have a winning combination."

"Absolutely," Oscar agreed, leaning in a little closer. "You bring the charm, I'll handle the taste-testing. It's a partnership made in culinary heaven."

I smiled, feeling a warmth spread through me at his playful words. "Sounds like a plan," I replied, meeting his gaze with a playful glint in my eye. "Just don't blame me if we end up ordering takeout."

Oscar laughed, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Fair enough," he said, his voice low and teasing. "As long as we're having fun, that's all that matters."

"You know," I began, setting down my fork thoughtfully, "as much as I love writing, I also really enjoy cooking."

Oscar looked genuinely interested. "Oh? What got you into writing?" he asked curiously, his eyes focused on me.

I smiled, tracing the rim of my water glass with my finger. "It's something I've loved since I was a child," I explained. "Books were my escape, and writing became my way of creating worlds and stories that I could get lost in."

"That's incredible," Oscar replied, his tone sincere. "It must be fulfilling, bringing characters and stories to life."

"It really is," I admitted with a soft smile. "And cooking is another creative outlet for me. There's something about creating a dish from scratch, experimenting with flavors… It's like writing, but with food."

"I'm glad you think so," I replied with a smile, appreciating his interest. "Writing has always been a part of me. One of my favorite pieces that I wrote was actually a poetry anthology for a non-traditional poetry class I accidentally signed up for at NYU."

Oscar's eyebrows lifted in curiosity. "Accidentally signed up for?"

I chuckled softly. "Yes, it was one of those situations where I thought I was enrolling in a different class, but it turned out to be a wonderful surprise," I explained. "The anthology ended up being a collection of stories that my mother and grandmother had told me from a young age, stories infused with cultural ties and traditions."

"That sounds fascinating," Oscar remarked, clearly intrigued.

"It was," I continued, my voice growing more animated. "Each poem was written in different languages, reflecting the diversity of my heritage, and I included drawings and pictures alongside the text to capture the essence of the stories."

Oscar nodded thoughtfully. "So, it was a blend of storytelling and visual art," he summarized, leaning forward with genuine interest.

"Exactly," I confirmed, pleased that he understood. "It was an exploration of my roots and a way to preserve those cherished narratives in a creative and meaningful way."

"Did your family get to see the anthology?" Oscar asked, his eyes reflecting his curiosity.

"Yes, they did," I replied with a warm smile. "It meant a lot to share those stories with them in such a personal and artistic format."

Oscar grinned mischievously. "Well, I guess accidental enrollments can lead to some pretty amazing discoveries. Who knew you were a secret poet?" he teased lightly, his eyes dancing with amusement.

I chuckled, shaking my head playfully. "I certainly didn't see it coming, but I'm glad it happened," I admitted with a smile. "It opened up a whole new creative avenue for me."

Oscar leaned back slightly, his grin widening. "So, does that mean you'll be writing a poetry anthology about racing next?" he quipped, raising an eyebrow in mock seriousness.

I laughed, amused by his playful suggestion. "Poetry and racing? Now there's a unique combination," I replied, feigning thoughtful consideration. "Maybe I'll call it 'Odes to Speed and Asphalt.'"

Oscar chuckled, clearly enjoying our banter. "I can already picture it," he teased, leaning in closer. "Each stanza capturing the thunderous roar of engines and the thrill of the track."

"Exactly," I agreed with a playful wink. "I'll make sure to include a sonnet dedicated to the smell of burning rubber."

His laughter filled the air, blending seamlessly with the relaxed ambiance of the restaurant. "Now that's poetry I can get behind," he admitted with a grin. "You might just start a whole new genre."

"Who knows?" I replied, smiling back at him. "Maybe I'll revolutionize the literary world with my racing-inspired poetry."

"Only if you credit me as your muse in the introduction of your poetry book," he teased.

I chuckled, feigning reluctance. "Hmm, I suppose I could consider it," I teased back, tapping my chin thoughtfully. "But I'll have to warn my readers about your penchant for bad homemade pizza stories."

Oscar laughed, leaning forward with a playful glint in his eye. "Fair enough," he conceded, his smile widening. "But I expect royalties for every copy sold."

"Deal," I replied with a grin, enjoying the easy banter that flowed effortlessly between us. "Just don't be surprised if I dedicate a haiku to your pasta disasters."

"Touché," Oscar replied, his laughter echoing warmly in the cozy restaurant. "I guess every muse has their quirks."

As we settled the bill and made our way out of the restaurant, the city lights glimmered around us, casting a soft glow over our conversation. Oscar walked me to the entrance of my apartment building, where we paused under the night sky.

"So," he began, his voice warm with anticipation, "how about next time we take our creativity to your place? We can read and write poetry, maybe make some pasta if we're feeling adventurous."

I considered his suggestion for a moment, feeling a rush of anticipation at the thought of continuing our connection. "I think that sounds like a wonderful idea," I replied with a smile, meeting his gaze with genuine enthusiasm.

"Great," Oscar said, his eyes brightening. "I'm looking forward to it."

Giving me a kiss on my cheek, not too flirty or scandalous, but just the right thing to end the night, he grabbed my waist and stared into my eyes.

"I'm not sure if I told you this tonight, but you look beautiful Y/N," he whispered. Blushing, I looked into his eyes.

"You did say that earlier," I lightheartedly joked during such a romantic moment (damn it me!)

"And I'll say it over and over again," he said, resting his forehead against mine, as we both stood hugging each other, comfortable in each other's presence.

But soon, it was time to go. I had a day job, and he was still busy with Formula One.

We exchanged goodbyes with promises to text soon, and as I watched him disappear into the night, I couldn't help but feel grateful for the unexpected twist that had brought us together. The evening had been filled with laughter, flirtation, and the promise of new beginnings—a perfect blend of romance and creativity that left me eager for whatever the future held.

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taglist: @erin-odonnell04 @rorabelle15 @dramallama9 @yukimaniac

comment down below if you want to be added to the taglist! <3

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author's note:

ty guys for reading this fic! 😍🫶🏾

(do you guys want a part three?)

[xgumiho]

(You got me) in the palm of your hand

"Fortunes told, futures unfold." The sign at the local ren faire looks tempting. After all, Steve is one year out of high school and has no idea where his life is going. Sometimes he wishes someone could just gaze into the future and figure it out for him. In the fortune teller’s tent, Steve has a run-in with his past. And if he doesn’t turn on his heel and leave, it has absolutely nothing to do with how pretty Eddie Munson looks in his costume, all gleaming jewelry and dark tendrils of hair spilling out from under a patterned headscarf. He lets Eddie read his palm, because why the hell not? It’s all bogus anyway! Except, as the summer goes on, Steve finds that Eddie’s cryptic predictions somehow, inexplicably keep coming true. As they keep running into each other, almost as if orchestrated by an invisible force, Steve can’t help but be intrigued with the other boy. He also can’t seem to forget how pretty Eddie’s eyes look in black liner, or the way his fingers feel on his skin, but that is an entirely different problem. Read the fic here.

Author: @just-my-latest-hyperfixation (tumblr) | just_my_latest_hyperfixation (AO3)

Artist: Yours truly @xgumiho (tumblr) | xgumiho (instagram) | jul2ja (twitter)

The other artist creating for this fic: @peachypurr (tumblr) | peachypurr (linktree)

Thank you @steddiebang for hosting Steddie Bigbang 2023!

Personal note!

I have already talked about this but I'm gonna say it again because I can!

When Steddie Bigbang fic excerpts dropped, I got HOOKED on Hype's fic immediately. I knew I just HAD to draw for this fic because I saw what I wanted to do in my mind's eye the moment I laid my eyes on the excerpt 🖤 I loved every part of this fic and I hope y'all will love it just as much!! Chapter 1 is now available and also make sure to stay tuned for the updates - you're gonna adore each and every chapter. Please don't forget to show lots of love for the author and leave comments under the fic 🖤

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

The False Oracles - The Full Thing

Rinather hovered at the apartment's steps, peering nervously into the room within. He straightened his tie and wrung his hands. "Come in," a girl drawled, full of feline elegance and boredom. "We won't bite, pretty boy."

He snorted nervously, then stepped into the room. It was sparsely decorated, a large sofa, a table with a board game laid out and a variety of armchairs being its only furnishings. It was also host to a range of women and a man. "Good afternoon? My name is Rinather O'Brien," he offered nervously.

"And we are the False Oracles, as you know," the girl replied, smirking. "You need help saving your husband from the Void, don't you?" At odds with her voice, she was a teenager, perhaps the same age as his daughter, with a shock of purple hair and dark eyes, and held the centre position on the sofa.

He flushed scarlet. "S- So what if I do? And how did you even know that?" He had been certain they did not know of him.

An older redhead, curled up in a chair of her own, laughed at that. "Rin, my dear," she said in a strong Oxford accent, "We are Oracles. If we did not know every minor detail about you, we would not be very good Oracles, now would we?"

"My name's not Rin," he said, with a twinge of anger. “I'm not your friend. You don't get to call me by a nickname."

"Rin,” the redhead said casually, "You came here to ask for our help. I don't think you can afford to be a chooser." A smattering of laughter went up at his expense.

"Stop harassing the poor thing," the man, perched on the end of the sofa, interjected. "Rinather, right? Take a seat." He gestured to the armchair next to him.

Grateful for the rescue, Rinather settled next to him. "Are you another client?" he offered the man a conspiratorial smile.

The man, tall and blonde, glared at him. "I am an Oracle, just like every other person in this room. Apart from you, that is," he snapped.

"Forgive me for my rudeness, I had thought the Oracles were all ladies," Rinather offered by way of recompensation.

Another round of laughter went up, this time at the male Oracle. "Well, fancy that! Our Lily, being a lady," the girl snarked jostling the man with her elbow.

"Shut it," the man snapped. "My name is Liam, not Lily," he said to Rinather, who nodded sympathetically. "And to answer your question, I'm the only male Oracle. There was a clerical mix-up, and I somehow ended up here." He gave a long-suffering sigh.

"Oh, ignore him, he just enjoys whining," another young woman, with eyes like sapphires, said. "I'm Daphne, by the way. This is Gloria," she gestured to a stern-faced woman in the chair next to her. "The one who invited you in is Rhonda, and the nasty bitch is Olive." She pointed cheerfully at the redhead, who glared at her.

"There's only one real bitch in this room, and her name starts with a D," Olive snapped back.

"Stop it, both of you," Gloria said wearily. "Angel's in the kitchen making popcorn." She pointed to the empty end of the sofa. "That's her seat."

Rinather nodded. "That's nice," he said, not wanting to sound impatient. "But-"

"You want your prophecy now, don't you?" Rhonda shook her head, amused. "You do know we'll just be overly cryptic, right? That's what all soothsayers do. Why do you even bother?"

"You're my only hope," Rinather said sadly. "My husband has been-"

"Kidnapped by the void, blah blah blah, only the sword of Love will save him, yada yada yada. Does that sum it up?" Daphne snickered at his hurt expression. "Look at you, being a big damn hero. We see your kind every fucking day. Lawful Good sword-swinging idiots who save the day through the power of love and hope. I hate the lot of you." She snorted.

Rinagher stared at her, frightened. This was not going the way he expected. "I-"

"Shut up," Daphne said quietly. "You think the world is painted in black and white, the plucky hero against the evil monster. Well, you're wrong. You're both just chess pieces on the board, and at the end of it all, both ends are played by the same person." She pointed upwards. "Her." 

"Her?" Rinather looked nervously at Liam. He had seemed the sanest of the lot of them.

Liam rolled his eyes. “Just let it go,” he told him. “There's going to be a great deal worse to upset you.”

"Shut up, you idiot,” Daphne snarled, her face contorting into a mask of rage. “Her. The Creator, the Storyteller, the Writer, whatever the fuck you want to call her. It's her fault I'm stuck here, her fault your husband is worse than dead, her fault our order even exists in the first place. She just wants drama, for the sake of the plot. We're puppets dancing on the strings for her sick amusement." She grimaced.

Rinather started to get up from his chair. "I see this was a terrible idea. I'll come back later, shall I?"

The Oracles watched him with blank, dead eyes. They turned in unison to watch him walk across the room. Just as he reached the door, Olive raised her hand and snapped her fingers. The door slammed shut, leaving Rinather trapped in the room with them. "Darling, Rin, where do you think you are going?" She gave him a thin-lipped smile. "You asked for our help, didn't you? _Well, you're getting it now._"

Rinather flinched and reluctantly turned back. "That's better," Rhonda purred. "Let's play a game, shall we?"

He settled back down in his seat. "What game?"

"The one we set up, of course. We can't help you without your own input," she said. "Pick your avatar, won't you?"

He looked down at the board. Little plastic figurines were lined up at its edge. He grasped a little warrior, who held his sword up. "This one," he said, feeling the _rightness_ of it.

"Lawful Good. What else would you expect?" Gloria shook her head in disappointment. "I choose Chaotic Neutral." She picked up a rogue, careful not to prick herself on its dagger.

"That makes me Neutral Evil, then," Olive noted. "It's a cute little thing, is it not?" She smiled at the cloaked sorcerer.

"Alright! I get Chaotic Good!" Rhonda snatched the bard from its place.

"Wait, what's going on? What do you mean, Lawful Good?" Rinather stared at his figure. "What exactly is this meant to determine?"

Next to him, Liam let out another theatrical sigh. "Lawful Evil, and it's your alignment. It determines the sort of person you are." He regarded the dark paladin with a measure of satisfaction.

"Wait, so you're evil?" Rinather glared at him. "How can anyone willingly be evil?"

"The same way someone can willingly be good. It's just a preference, a matter of how we were raised. The true question is Lawful and Chaotic. The rules may differ, but people will either follow them or break them. You and I? We follow the rules, whether we like them or not." He sighed. "Which is why I'm stuck with these imbeciles."

By this time, Rinather knew better than to ask questions. He simply turned to watch Daphne. She scrutinised the row. "I think I'll be Neutral Good this time." She picked up a Ranger, whose bow was ready to fire. "Chaotic Evil was fun and all, but I think this fits me better. Don't you?" She beamed at Gloria.

"I told you to stop switching your alignment. You're going to go out of character," Gloria said chidingly. "And that would damage the fourth wall."

"The thing that is damaging the fourth wall the most is your talk about it," Olive said, rolling her eyes. "Angel, get in here! We cannot start without you."

A woman came out of the room, holding a bowl of popcorn. Rinather met her eyes and his heart skipped a beat. She had soft features, plump lips, and silky dark hair that fell in tresses. But the most startling thing about her was her eyes. They were dark pools of night, and they reeled him in like a fish on a line. 

"I will be True Neutral, as I always am," Angel said, sweeping to her end of the sofa. She set her bowl down and plucked the sage up. "Now, let us begin." With a sweep, she discarded the unchosen figures.

"Place your avatars on the starting line," Angel commanded. "Rin, throw the dice."

Rinather wanted to protest against being called Rin, but subsided under the force of Angel’s stare. He picked up the die and threw it. It rolled a 7. "How? There's only six sides to this thing," he said, confused.

"It's magic, silly," Rhonda said, laughing. "Seven represents suffering and loss. It's _her_ number." She made a face and moved the warrior seven steps. It sat on an empty square. 

"My turn!" Daphne reached out and snatched the die from Rhonda's fingers. She threw it. "π? Seriously? Ugh, that sucks," she said, glaring at the unassuming cube.

"How do you move pi steps? That makes no sense," Rinather whined. "If this is a joke, it's getting a bit old."

The Oracles glared at him again, and this time, he glared back. Daphne shifted her ranger to sit between two squares. Wordlessly, Liam took his turn. He sighed when it showed a sigil, full of curves and geometric shapes.

  "Σ̶̯͍̣̟͇̣͕͉͕̪̪̣͇̃̌̈́̀̌̂̈́̅̑̕͝ο̴̝̤̜̫̲͎̞̻̣̯̳͉͎̣̻͙̺̑̔̑̿͒̂̉͗̀̆́̀̐̀͘͜͝͝β̸̡̛̣̈́͂̂͊̀̀̈́̈́͗̄̔̕̚̚͝͝͠͝ἀ̷̨̍̽͌̃̔̈̊̕ρ̷̙̣̮̟̫̰̅͒̏͂ά̸̨̬͖͓̖̯̮͚̩̰́̃̊͝?̸̬̼̲̋̓̄͛̊͆̎̆͋͋̀̚͜͠͝ ̸̡̜̻̪̩̞͉͕̞̆͑͌̊͆̈́́̊̐̌̔̍̈͂̎̒̾͊͌͝Ό̵̡̡̲̫͚͈͚̯̖̫̥̂̊̒͐̓́́̂͜ͅχ̴͓̞̲̹̬͖̺̜͕̰̱̜̳̉͗̅̾͛̀̋̅͐̇̃̈́͝͝ι̵̨̧̜̞͔̤͇͈͇͉̼͐̀̇͂̓͗̽̽̾͆̈̀́̾͘͘͠͝ ̸̢̳̤̦͖͙̉̈̋͂̂̿̎ᾀ̴̘̘̫̪̗̯̰̱̲̱͙͇̫̍̅͘ͅῡ̴̧̢͇̣̞̪̟͈̥͈͎͇̬̣̈́τ̸͖̮͉̞͓̲̳͉̖̥̊̈́̃͂̈́̍ό̵̢͎̝̘̞͕̯̗͙̤̗̰̰̠͕̱͕̋͛̈́́̏͛̏̚ͅͅͅ ̵̡̼̝͛̍́̆̃͘π̵̡̡̡̟͓̦̲̬̥͓̝̺̙͉̘̥̦̊͊̓̇ͅͅά̵̙͓̰͔̟͉̝̄͠λ̴̧̢̤̠̘̯͕̝̟̤͚̞̞̼̘̣̪��͒̾̓̉̏̾̾̉ι̷̢̰̜̞̠̮̼͖̩͐̒͌̃̊̎͐́̉̊͋̄̎̉͌̕ ̵̛̛͇͚̩͉̄̎̃͗̀̈́̇̃͆̊͝ͅ ̶̧̨̥̼̠͇̗̈̀̅͘ ," Liam said irritatedly.

Remington stared at him, horrified. "What did you just say?"

"Are you deaf? I said, Σ̶̯͍̣̟͇̣͕͉͕̪̪̣͇̃̌̈́̀̌̂̈́̅̑̕͝ο̴̝̤̜̫̲͎̞̻̣̯̳͉͎̣̻͙̺̑̔̑̿͒̂̉͗̀̆́̀̐̀͘͜͝͝β̸̡̛̣̈́͂̂͊̀̀̈́̈́͗̄̔̕̚̚͝͝͠͝ἀ̷̨̍̽͌̃̔̈̊̕ρ̷̙̣̮̟̫̰̅͒̏͂ά̸̨̬͖͓̖̯̮͚̩̰́̃̊͝?̸̬̼̲̋̓̄͛̊͆̎̆͋͋̀̚͜͠͝ ̸̡̜̻̪̩̞͉͕̞̆͑͌̊͆̈́́̊̐̌̔̍̈͂̎̒̾͊͌͝Ό̵̡̡̲̫͚͈͚̯̖̫̥̂̊̒͐̓́́̂͜ͅχ̴͓̞̲̹̬͖̺̜͕̰̱̜̳̉͗̅̾͛̀̋̅͐̇̃̈́͝͝ι̵̨̧̜̞͔̤͇͈͇͉̼͐̀̇͂̓͗̽̽̾͆̈̀́̾͘͘͠͝ ̸̢̳̤̦͖͙̉̈̋͂̂̿̎ᾀ̴̘̘̫̪̗̯̰̱̲̱͙͇̫̍̅͘ͅῡ̴̧̢͇̣̞̪̟͈̥͈͎͇̬̣̈́τ̸͖̮͉̞͓̲̳͉̖̥̊̈́̃͂̈́̍ό̵̢͎̝̘̞͕̯̗͙̤̗̰̰̠͕̱͕̋͛̈́́̏͛̏̚ͅͅͅ ̵̡̼̝͛̍́̆̃͘π̵̡̡̡̟͓̦̲̬̥͓̝̺̙͉̘̥̦̊͊̓̇ͅͅά̵̙͓̰͔̟͉̝̄͠λ̴̧̢̤̠̘̯͕̝̟̤͚̞̞̼̘̣̪̆͒̾̓̉̏̾̾̉ι̷̢̰̜̞̠̮̼͖̩͐̒͌̃̊̎͐́̉̊͋̄̎̉͌̕ ̵̛̛͇͚̩͉̄̎̃͗̀̈́̇̃͆̊͝ͅ ̶̧̨̥̼̠͇̗̈̀̅͘ . How hard is that to understand?"

"I- You know what? Nevermind. I give up," Remington said. Liam scoffed and put his figurine on its head, before passing the die to Gloria.

She did not throw the die so much as drop it on the table with an exaggerated disinterest. “2," she announced, and moved her rogue accordingly.

"Finally, something normal," Remington murmured under his breath. 

"I need to draw a card," Gloria said, looking at the tile beneath her rogue. Angel pulled a card out of her sleeve and gave it over. "That's nice. The next person's turn is skipped. Sucks to be you, Olive." Olive glared at her, and she gave a small grin in return.

"Right, then," Rhonda said, already throwing the die. "Oh, it's a 7. How unfortunat-"

"I need to draw a card," Gloria said, looking at the tile beneath her rogue. Angel pulled a card out of her sleeve and gave it over. "That's nice. The next person's turn is skipped. Sucks to be you, Olive." Olive glared at her, and she gave a small grin in return.

"Right, then," Rhonda said, already throwing the die. "Oh, it's a 7. How unfortunat-"

"I need to draw a card," Gloria said, looking at the tile beneath her rogue. Angel pulled a card out of her sleeve and gave it over. "That's nice. The next person's turn is skipped. Sucks to be you, Olive." Olive glared at her, and she gave a small grin in return.

"Right, then," Rhonda said, already throwing the die. "Oh, it's a 6. How lucky for me!" She beamed at a very confused Remington.

"Quit it, Rhonda," Olive snapped. "That is cheating and you know it."

Rhonda gave a theatrical sigh. "Come on, Ollie girl," she mimicked Olive's accent, "It's called making the most of your assets."

"This is why you always play last," Olive countered. "Your 'ass-sets' are a pain in the ass."

Despite herself, Rhonda let out a chuckle. "That was terrible," she said, grinning. "But I promise not to do it again. At least not for the duration of this game." Turning to Remington, she offered up the die. "Your turn again, honey."

"What about Angel? She hasn't moved yet," Remington protested, not quite understanding what was going on. "And what happened just now?"

"Hmm? Angel's not playing, silly," Rhonda said. "Don't be ridiculous. She's the Watcher. Come on, roll!" She did not offer an explanation for the earlier… weirdness. Neither did anyone else. It made Remington's head hurt.

He threw the die again, not quite understanding. "-2? Do I shift my character back two paces?"

"Yeah," Liam said. "Seems like you're learning. That's good. Want some popcorn?" He offered up the bowl. For some reason, his smile didn't reach his eyes.

Wise to their tricks, Remington licked a piece of popcorn sceptically. It tasted like popcorn, it looked like popcorn, and it smelled like popcorn. Knowing he was likely making a mistake, he put it in his mouth.

It was, in fact, popcorn, of the generic buttered variety. “It’s… Normal,” he said, shocked.

“Yeah, not everything's weird, darlin',” Rhonda told him with a wink. “Now roll, Daph, before we all die of old age.”

So the game went, rolling dice and pulling cards until, at long last, they neared the finishing line. Remington was closest, a mere two places away, and Olive was the furthest.

Liam palmed his dice. “You need to roll a seven to win,” Remington supplied helpfully.

“Win? You think you're winning by reaching the end? All that's gonna happen is-”

Next to him, Rhonda clapped her hand over his mouth. “Hush, dear. No spoilers,” she said. “Roll.”

Liam tossed the dice irritably. “6,” he announced, and moved his figure. “Could've been worse, I suppose.”

Gloria snatched the dice up. She needed four, Remington noted. “Here goes nothing,” she said.

The dice toppled on the table, spinning about on its edge, before collapsing to reveal a four.

Remington heaved a sigh of relief at that. Finally, the accursed game was over and he could leave the psychotic Oracles to their fun. “It's not over,” Liam whispered beside him, as though he'd overheard his thoughts. “The watcher will now deliver her judgement.”

Angel rolled her shoulders and cracked her neck. “Gloria Tan, Chaotic Neutral Rogue, Archivist of the Oracles. Your time has come.” Those deep pools of darkness glittered. “I have seen your fate, your life and death. In health and in sorrow, in prosperity and poverty, in love and in loss. The stars have sung to me of your life.”

She shook her head. “I judge you unworthy of our gift, but worthy of living. You are excused from the table.” 

Around him, the Oracles heaved sighs of relief. Gloria gave Angel a shaky smile. “Thanks,” she said. “Guess I get to see another sunrise.” She stood up and strolled out into the kitchen. Remington glanced back and forth, not daring to break whatever was going on.

“Right, then,” Olive said, significantly more subdued. She threw the dice. “1. Looks like I need a card.”

Angel handed her a card. “Well,” Olive said, shaking her head with a rueful grin. “Liam, guess who just finished his round?”

Liam gave her a disgusted look. “You've got to be kidding me. Don't you dare-”

“I'm hereby donating my roll to Liam Jacett of the False Oracles,” she announced with a grin. “Enjoy!”

He rested his face in his hands and let out a histrionic sigh. “Thank you,” he said, sarcasm dripping like honey from his voice. “Thank you so very much, Olive.”

She snickered as Angel refocused her gaze on Liam. “Liam Jacett, Lawful Evil Paladin, Soldier of the False Oracles. Your time has come.” This time, she seemed… Sad? Tired? “I have seen your fate, your life and death. In health and in sorrow, in prosperity and poverty, in love and in loss. The stars have sung to me of your life.”

She closed her eyes. “I judge you. Nothing more, nothing less. You will be the one to accompany the protagonist on his journey, the anti-hero foil to his bravery.” 

He rolled his eyes, once again infuriated by life. “Right. Of course it's me. Dump all the worst chores on little old Liam, eh?” He stood up, brushed off the nonexistent dust on his pants and grabbed Remington, who stumbled to his feet.

Liam's grip was bruising, harsh. “Hey- Let go,” Remington hissed, trying to extract himself. “Look, if you don't want to help, then don't! I just need to find the-” He finally worked out what was wrong. “The-”

What was he here for?

“I- I need to save my- my-” Remington clutched Liam's arm, brain racing.

“Shut up,” Liam whispered. “I'll be back, ladies. And don't you take my fucking seat.” At the Oracles' laughter, he marched out of the apartment, Remington forcibly dragged along. 

“Liam, what's going on? My head hurts. I don't understand,” Remington (though he grew increasingly sure that was not his name) whined. Standing on the doorstep to the apartment, he clutched his head.

Liam sighed, and a look of sympathy came over him. “Stupid mortals,” he mumbled, just loud enough for Remington to hear. “Hold still. You got caught by a loose spell, methinks. Bloody Rhonda and her tricks. She just doesn't care about what affects others.”

He pressed a finger to Remington's forehead. “Hold still, Rin.”

“Wait, what? Why did you just call me Rin? My name's-”

Rinather yanked his hand out of Liam's grasp. “What the hell? Don't do that again,” he snapped, all his anxiety forgotten. “I'm not a godsdamn ragdoll, alright?”

Liam glared at him, then looked away with a sigh. “They do this every time, you know that? Rhonda and Angel and the others. Heartless bastards. Worse than a literal unfeeling robot.”

He shook his head. “They pick on me, you know? I'm the bloody comic relief. The straightman for their antics. But I'm sick of it.”

Rinather got the sense that the other man was having an epiphany. An epiphany of what, he didn't know. So he said, with forced cheer, “That's great. I'm so glad you realised that.”

Liam shook his head, completely ignoring him. “I've spent my whole life down at heel. Following the rules and being a good background character. Now I have to be the sidekick to some archetypal hero? To pick up the little shards of broken timelines they leave behind? No. I'm done. I'm breaking the fourth damn wall.”

He turned to face— Where was he facing? Rinather knew it wasn't in any direction he recognised, but- It hurt his eyes, so he looked away.

“You,” Liam said, looking in that not-direction, “I am so sick of your bullshit. I get that this is a story, and there's a plot, and someone has to lighten the damn story, but really? Why do you twist us like this, flatten and reshape us? Can't you let me be?”

He clenched his fists. “I know what happens to everyone in that room. I know Olive is broken, made into a monster. I know Rhonda dies at her father's hands. I know Gloria and Daphne both Fade, lose their powers and forget. And I know what happened to Angel. You monster.”

“Is a happy ending too much to ask for? Give Rinather his husband back. Give Hans his stupid spaceship. Give— Give me Miriam.” Rinather opened his mouth, then closed it again. He got the sense that it was no longer his place to say anything.

“Let Olive and Sybil live a happy life. Let Mara forget and forgive. Let me go home, away from this stupid urban fantasy.” Liam wiped a pair of tears, gritting his teeth. “I miss home.”

“I know you created me, created us all, even Kurall. I know you made us to entertain, to tell a tale. I know none of us are- None of us are real,” he said, his voice falling to a mere whisper. “I know you won't listen. I know you never have. But still, I must ask.”

“Release me from this eternal hell. Release us all. Release us, and end this story.”

Rinathee held his breath. The whole world did, waiting for the response to Liam's speech.

The end.

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[slowd1ving]

✦ VI. FOR NONE SHED TEARS FOR THE FORSAKEN, PART I

'Blurry reminiscence could never compete with the primal, instinctive deduction of muscle memory. Each curve, each plane—your hands went through the motions as if you had done them a thousand times.  And you had. Through paper, through clay, through the stone that faced the hesitant hammer and chisel.  Who am I to you?' • . * ok so we are finally at the end... ahahaah... I hope you guys enjoy fr... also unfortunately I had to split it in 2 parts due to the tumblr block limit... compiled a glossary as well btw cursed prince ratio + alchemist m reader rough design for minoan fashion ratio here warnings: video game violence, death? kind of? tyranny (are we surprised), male-coded reader (or at least the in-game avatar is) wc: 31.8k total part II here

LAMENT OF OUROBOROS MASTERLIST

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Eight words rang clear in an empty classroom. It wasn’t truly an empty room, but it wasn’t not empty either. Not in the sense that it hosted the absence of souls (for there were two), but rather a silent type of concentration that transcended the body and made Ratio feel like a boy again: watching the solemn melding of minds as they meticulously examined and dissected each detail of a conundrum. Amidst the dust motes lazily tracing the air, woven through the light taps of chalk against a blackboard, thus did the honourable Sophos Ratio think quietly to himself: 

For all knowledge one must pay equal price. 

What was done had been done. In a room similar to this one, steeped in the scent of old books and scrolls as if they were the richest of teas—of erudition, so boundless he became breathless—a boy’s fate was set into stone with just eight words. Nous had then simply walked away, teaching the youth an unforgettable lesson: the bitter price of empathy, and its ultimate futility. 

On this, him and the omniscient scholar would always fundamentally disagree. 

The clatter of chalk against the narrow collecting tray attached to the board pulled his eyes and attention back to the vast expanse at the front, where intricate diagrams had been constructed of an array of molecular structures, alongside waveforms he recognised as the erratic and shifting fronts of ‘magic’ as one knew it. Interspersed between them were notes written in a scribbled shorthand incomprehensible to all but the one writing it out, but he found that his gaze settled easily on your contemplative expression.

“Speak, Sophos.” You did not face him, electing to murmur quietly while you faced a myriad of steps in your plan to become accredited. There was a distracted lilt in your utterance, and your fingers traced each diagram with reverence. “No one will hear you.”

How cryptic, he thought with a wry sort of amusement. You were right—the room had been completely and utterly shut off from the outside world with a wave of your hand and what he assumed were complex magic circles drawn up in your mind—yet he could not help but feel paranoid.

“No one will see you either, but you insist on outwardly working on your paper,” he returned, though he carefully began tracing a map in the air from memory. It shone, a dull amber against the dusky rays of twilight that streamed in through the windows. To anyone looking in, this was an empty classroom. To those within who gazed out, the sky beyond was boundless with none of the buildings that normally occupied the skyline. It was an… exquisite subspace. 

“I can listen and plan,” you hummed, but you dragged your chair to sit opposite him. The lines he drew wavered minutely as your knee grazed against his, and he swallowed. It had been aeons since he last brushed against another person like this, unless he counted the gentle touch of his sculptor shaping his entire body (which he wouldn’t, since his body still trembled in this instance).

“There are few things that pose a greater threat to the liberation of Metis than those with power, that feel as though they have little to lose,” he began, and even he could hear the dulcet thrum of regret in his voice. “Hopkins has both power and holds the view that alchemy is far more a greater threat than it really is. It makes him erratic.  Hopeless and—”

“Easy to manipulate?” you interjected.

“—yes, quite so. That makes him desirable as a pawn. The real power is those who fundamentally don’t believe in what they’re promoting. They’re the ones who will profit out of the continued marginalisation of alchemists in a two-fold process. Diverted attention from their dealings, and access to incredibly valuable and prohibited information on alchemists.

“Hopkins is an easily removable tail. He’s been vocal about condemning alchemists in the past, but the Court of Heliaia will rule that as being what everyone had to comply with. The only other evidence is his journal and office, but we weren’t supposed to be there in the first place—and these things can be falsified. If we do end up condemning him, the people backing him will crawl back into whatever hole they came out of.” 

There was a long, weary pause. Ratio pensively observed the map in front of him, and you observed him in turn.

“The only actual strategy we have is using Hopkins to track the main group, and using my authority to catch them breaking Metis law. Even if they’re not based in Metis, they’ve been interfering in the governance of the state and can be dealt with by us—in line with the 1400 codes set out by the Court of Ouroboros.”

“Or we can do it the shady way,” you leaned your chin on your elbow, and oh—at this proximity, he could see every miniscule shift of your expression as you spoke the words. Casually. With not a trace of contrition clouding those sharp pupils. 

“You want to play vigilante?” Each syllable contained a delicate flavour of amusement. “Grown tired of keeping your hands clean?”

“If I recall, the honourable Sophos Ratio was getting his hands absolutely filthy a few nights ago, and a month before that, and a year before that too,” you muttered, somewhat unimpressed. “Acting all proper now that somebody’s watching?”

“There was no choice, when I was dealing with a court that pandered to a corrupt government,” he retorted. Tension was beginning to strain the clean scent of summer rain and tepid breeze. “These were public figures with space behind them for me to manoeuvre around. Bringing them down in one fell swoop after gathering their weaknesses was easy—a certain predictability lies in each movement of theirs, after all. We don’t have the same luxury with an unknown organisation of unknown size with unknown members.”

He gestured to the map showing Metis, and the greater lands beyond that. Dozens of pinpricks were lit up, like miniscule stars dotted by a careless painter. “There are too many possible variables for two to take them down efficiently. Unlike politicians, these members will not be in stasis.”

“A fledgling court, a fledgling government…” A prodding, sardonic finger broke past the mirage of the map and the stars rippled. You could not help but feel this was rather apt. “...dealing with an organisation, possibly several, that have existed… for how long? Decades? Centuries? Surely someone benefited from this from the very beginning, and it can’t have been just this flimsy government.”

He exhaled. Once, twice, while you thought with glazed eyes to the brittle construction of this world. “Just yesterday, you were vehemently protesting any other involvement. A complex political web, far too easy to upset, I believe you said.”

His face, so delicately wrought beneath that mask he typically favoured, twisted—for a fleeting moment you thought back to the sculpture. Though, as quickly as it came, the thought dissipated and you rebuked yourself for the very notion. 

“I will admit, the early stages must be done so discreetly that there is not a breath of it elsewhere save this room. There will be no room for error there,” he murmured. “The  evidence found will unleash the hounds of the Court of Ouroboros, which will be far more scrupulous than the… fledgling… Heliaia that you so mistrust. It will be a careful balance of treading the line of the law, but once the criminal case is underway, they’ll scatter.”

“And who will round them up?” Carefully, a chalk blur was traced against the richly stained wood of your chair. “Us? You, who suddenly has a degree in international criminal law? The ‘hounds’? Sophos—all due respect—why are you pursuing this in the first place?”

Why are you pursuing this in the first place?

A thousand years. A millennium, for attempting to set free the binds his progenitor had enforced onto the people. That was the price he had paid, yet he achieved nothing. Dozens of lifetimes, gone; and here he was, parsing through every material possible to finish his work. There was no mockery in your tone, but still, he felt his mouth set into a grim line. 

Why are you pursuing this in the first place?

Centuries of loneliness. With the absence of everything, anything—death, life. Each fickle sense, transfigured into cold, unyielding stone. His mind—subjected to the droning blather of a false dream.

Why are you pursuing this in the first place? 

A frigid smile painted his features. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, coolly. “On that item, neither should you concern yourself with my motivations. Do pardon the mistrust.” We didn’t meet under the best circumstances. He didn’t say that. Rather, his finger trailed across the enlarged city where the stars formed dense galaxies and constellations, past the streets he trod in his youth, and settled on where the points converged into a singularity. An amorphous, wriggling mass of taverns and smoke-houses stared right back at him. 

(The symposium of a young master. A youth weaves amidst the crowd, draped in intricate garb yet just a touch out of place. It’s not noticeable, not unless one has a rather distinguishing eye. Though the scholars sat around the table frequent lectures diurnally—and are considered some of the sharpest minds— when the suns dip beneath the gentle curve of the sea, the curtain falls over their eyes too. 

The seventh prince sits, unnoticed. 

There’s a peculiar scent on the air—of meat, wine, and the sinister odour of conspiracy and deceit. It cloys. Sticks to the skin so carefully perfumed with incense and oil. Honeyed wine does wonders for loosening lips, and the youth watches, entranced, as secrets flow freely.)

Your hard stare shattered the remnants of the memory, and his eyes refocused on where the ornate building used to be on the map. 

“Fine.” Your fingers drummed on the backrest of the chair. “Belated apologies for touching a nerve. You won’t involve a third party yet, and neither will I. Matter resolved.” 

His eyes narrowed, and you mentally sent a quick apology to Kakavasha. “What third party would you be involving?”

The drumming ceased, for the time it took a bowstring to be drawn, or a sharp inhale to occur. “My assistant,” you said, smoothly. “A disciple—apprentice, if you will—who has a keen grasp on information.” It was not a lie. Still, you’d rather he rest in the city, and you’d take care of the work of finding your statue and writing your paper, and this. 

Ratio mulled the words over, and his red-stained lips formed a pensive line for a brief few seconds. “No third parties. Yet.”

A wry smile stretched your face as you exhaled. “Cool. Do you trust me?”

“No,” he uttered at once, with a smile of his own.

“Great—me neither,” you returned. Your arm plunged into the empty space beside you, and from it you drew a string that seemed incandescently golden. It flowed for a few seconds in the wind, and then he truly focused on it. It was… alive. Shimmering metallic and aureate, sure, but with the vigour of a sentient automaton—gnawing on itself then on your wrist, then snapping at the empty air that separated you and him. The wryness in your expression turned sardonic. 

His smile froze. A binding vow. 

“Ha,” he laughed, once. Incredulously. The sound echoed in the subspace, devoid of mirth, and the snake within your grasp fixed its attention on him. The sacred serpent he’d encountered only a smattering of times in his years of study: bound to ink and vellum, etchings on ceramics, and the gaudy tales that painfully romanticised the act that made fatal any misstep. Its beady eyes stared back into his, but only once did he see them for himself.  

When he was a boy, he came across a snake like this one, while his sandalled feet found purchase in the narrow stairs of the temple. It had been from a dangerously unbarricaded ledge that he observed a solemn pact be made between the withered, wizened chief priest of the Elation and his successor; one where a tangible wisp of alchemy had materialised from one archon basileus he knew as his progenitor. 

A serpent, just like this one, born from a woven rope: bold and bright and beautiful, marked with exquisite scales that glinted fire-bright by the sconces. Over the hands of the two in ceremony, it had glided its long body across and bound the two in the chain known as promise (or rather than chain, perhaps it was more like a noose). 

He watched, entranced, as the scales sunk into the flesh of the two: disappearing like magic, for in those days Aha was a creature he could not comprehend, a parent who contained all the secrets of the planet. 

“Gift life to the inanimate,” you recited, calmly, and he recognised the verse from an epic written a millennium prior to his birth—Golden Chronology—one of the only surviving tales of a journey to immortality. It, too, featured the serpent as its main motif—wherein a man made a pact with himself to resurrect his beloved, and spent an eternity in limbo for his failure. 

A piece of string, given life. 

“A most sublime of miracles,” he answered, and his tongue was dry and leaden where it rested in his mouth. 

“Oh?” Your mouth curled up, but it lacked the sardonic tang it contained just moments ago. You seemed genuinely delighted that he knew the classical poem—but how could he not? “I won’t explain this then.”

Do explain, he wanted to scream. Explain exactly where you got this, if you made it yourself, how you know about it. The serpent writhed in your grasp, and slipped past the amber hues of his illusory map. He swallowed. 

Despite himself, he held his hand out—waiting. 

“What will you vow?” he murmured quietly. 

There was contemplation in your face as you tilted the snake this way and that; it reeked of the equivocation you were so fond of. Unfortunately, prevarication like this was fundamental to the oath—bound by the serpent to tell no lies, with each word being a gilded cage. Deliberation rested heavy on your furrowed brows as your teeth worried into your lips. 

Warmth radiated from your palm as you slid it across his forearm. His throat could not help but bob with each callus that rasped across his skin—a sickening sort of heat, too, enveloped his own palm when he clasped your arm in return. It’s not him, he reminded himself. 

He could feel the heavy beat of your pulse drumming against his own. Out of sync, though it had not been so long since he regained a heart. This was as good as it would get. 

“I seek not to harm the general Metisian populace.” Thump. It was a steady thrum. “I will aid the man before me, whichever name he may go by, until our joint mission is complete through the gathering of intelligence and whatever other help that is necessary and reasonable.” A frigid slithering glided against his arm, and with a jolt he realised the serpent had already begun its weaving of the promise. “Should he pose a danger to the general population, I will use my discretion to deal with him. I will not actively involve third parties in the plans until the preliminary steps are complete and the case becomes public.”

A careful promise—one filled with subjectivity and cautious loopholes. His mouth stretched into a dry smile: what machinations. 

It was masterfully done. He could admit that. 

“I seek not to harm the general Metisian populace,” he repeated, regretting mirroring your promise as it left his lips. There was an unfortunate quirk tugging the corners of your lips with each sentence structure he borrowed mindlessly. “I am atoning for the sins of those I knew. I will… aid the man before me in his research so long as he aids me in our joint mission. I will not involve third parties in the plans until we complete intelligence-gathering.” 

A silence stretched out, and he began to suspect you were a quack. 

“Hey—” he began, but then the scales on the body dug into his flesh as it twisted—constricted. His wrist was pressed into yours—so heavily it was becoming painful—and he hissed in surprise. 

Was it meant to hurt?

In his memories, the priests entwined in vow kept a placid expression. Of course, the young prince didn’t stick around to watch the whole ceremony: scampering back down the hidden stairs and out of the temple, all to escape what felt like Aha’s eyes that finally noticed him. 

His vision blurred, and he saw the map he’d painstakingly drawn dissipate into the tepid breeze. A frown marred your own lucid eyes as you beheld him in your stare; he fought every urge to wince. In his centuries of being stone, had he become unaccustomed to pain?  Still, the faint grimace that began easing onto your face tethered him: this was not just a moment of madness. 

Abruptly, the agonising ebb and flow faded for good, and his weary eyes were drawn down to where the two hands were connected. Each sharp medley blunted into a dull thrum, expelled from his lips as an ancient—rather crude—form of a rebuke. 

But amidst the ugly, snarled words, the gently engraved coils of gold that eased past his dermis caused his breath to catch in his throat—for the syllables to stay stuck on his tongue. Like wrought jewellery, each scale was finely detailed where it passed over his skin, before it faded from view with a sickening thump of his heart. 

A heavy awareness of his promise invaded and conquered the organ. 

I am atoning for the sins of those I knew.

When his vision finally refocused on you, he could not help but seek out the aching contortions of your own expression; you, in the throes of your own struggle, had been studying his face with quiet intensity—as if it, too, could distract you from the tumultuous fate you had dealt yourself. 

“Your eyes…” you muttered, with a hesitant lucidity one would typically associate with the sick. He felt himself tense as you didn’t pull back, but rather examined each fleck of carmine pupil that hid within honey-gold irises. 

Ratio had forgone the mask today. The smooth, alabaster-casted face could have disguised the bewildered astonishment he felt—there was nothing quite like real, human interaction that had not been simulated by a mind withered to a most basic algorithm—but you had already seen the murky impression of his likeness through his veil. 

Not quite like this, though, where the light of two summer suns illuminated each plane of  his face and set alight his irises. Though he registered each intrigued shift in your inquisitive expression, he failed to comprehend the dissonance your tendered brain was receiving: as you focused and refocused on the jade-hewn lines of his visage, the pressed set of his lips, and how his eyes had almost experienced their very own redshift in the dilation caused by the clouds momentarily blocking the suns out. 

He could not have possibly noticed that, considering his particular neutrality towards the lenses (that had long been stunted by their disuse). 

“What about them? Did you become half-crazed from your own creation?” he returned brusquely. He donned an exasperated look instantly, which morphed quickly into an irritated one. “Or were you already crazed from the start? Where could you have possibly found this serpent? Why did you think it was a good idea?”

His grip on your forearm tightened unconsciously in his stewing, fuming state—his very voice had spiralled into agitation, though he knew it was pointless. Despite his prevarication now, he did hold his hand out. Perhaps he was equally to blame for the predicament, but could he really be blamed?

You blinked, with the words—your eyes are cool—dying in your throat. “Woah, there. I’m not the nefarious schemer you think I am.”

He glared. Hard. “You were toying with ancient ceremonial magic, for what purpose, exactly? There are no studies into the side-effects anywhere, and plenty of stories alluding to the unfortunate ends of those who make vows based on these snakes.”

“And you put your hand in mine and repeated so sweetly after me,” you sighed, and the words caused his hand to jolt back as though it were stung. “If you want to fight, we can fight.”

“We could have pointlessly lost our lives with the vows alone had they been lies,” he hissed, rubbing the contusions that marred his skin. “And we still, easily, can.”

“We’re risking that anyway,” you retorted. “No point sowing distrust in the meantime. I came across the process in an old alchemy text from within Thoth several leagues away from where the old capital city ruins were—and it’s been put to use with an operation as delicate as this. I can at least trust you aren’t out to harm the citizens.”

I still don’t trust you. Ratio bit his tongue. He had never met someone so stubborn—so argumentative—and he had met a lot of insufferable scholars when he was still a hot-headed youth. It was almost sacrilege, you sharing so many visible similarities with the first person he had seen after a millennium. His face twisted in disgust. 

“You are a fool,” he muttered instead. “But I am the bigger one for listening to you.”

. 　⁺ ✦

A certain haze lingered in the restaurant, one so far removed from the clean breeze of the subspace that Ratio couldn’t help but compare the two in his mind. Golden suns—that had pierced so numbingly into his soul—replaced by flickering sconces that seemed to reflect the disingenuity of this place; the clean scent of wood from the benches, replaced by the smoky aroma of meats and aged wine; and the empty classroom, now a space teeming with souls and the cesspit of vices. All these things he noticed, for they represented an ode to his naive youth—and now, a tentative partnership. 

“That’s him?” Between each bite of tender meat, there seemed to be a disturbing, feigned intimacy rolled within each syllable: a hushed quality that seemed perfectly appropriate considering the setting. Still, he could not help but eye you cautiously—there was no telling what went on in your mind. The man in question was a sallow being—with cutlery being gripped with tremulous fingers, while his eyes stared beadily into his companion’s (who was conveniently situated where shadows lingered).

“Yes,” he murmured, bowing his head in discretion. “Do make sure to wave a flag with his face on it the next time you ask, why don’t you?”

You scowled. “Behave yourself, Ratio, before I take your suggestion to heart.”

The scholar—spy, vigilante—before you scoffed with a faint smirk plastered on his face, before it was hidden by the napkin he dabbed over his mouth: purposefully, with a methodic slowness that belied the sign you were searching for. They’re down, he might as well have mouthed, and you understood. The fluctuations of non-eavesdropping security enchantments had just briefly opened up. 

Deliberately, you set your palm down on the table, allowing now-familiar words to wash over your mind. Tendrils of knowing swept up your palms, and you vaguely remembered the geodesic equation warping around the space to create a one-way wormhole of sound, of sorts. 

[Enjoy the Silence—skill. Creates a subspace of the caster’s desire, featuring sound blocking qualities and visual manipulation. Can be adjusted should the caster know the parameters behind it. Non-stackable. ∎∎∎∎∎∎∎ alchemist in question cannot cast a domain within a domain.]

A momentary exhale of surprise escaped you as the long-lost holograph popped up, and Ratio frowned at your lapse in concentration.

“…the estimated loss for this quarter will have staggering effects. I don’t know why the big Boss keeps postponing better measures against the drop in prices, but I might as well quit while I’m here and see if I can join a company here…”

“Focus,” he muttered, and a faint snarl stretched your mouth as you guided your fingers along the pristine tablecloth. Like you were adjusting a dial, your hand cautiously tuned the invisible wormhole to warp towards the table to the far right rather than the pair behind you. 

It was… difficult, to say the least. An equation meant for a theoretical cosmic event had been minimised to a couple of metres or so, while the fine tuning to the skill was working another part of your brain. Add in an inconspicuous glamour you’d painstakingly maintained from the last time Aventurine applied it, and your mind was slowly melting into three distinct puddles of exhaustion. It was a laborious division you hadn’t quite experienced since you fought the giant basilisk at the river. 

“I am.”  Your teeth worried at your lips, and the familiar copper taste of blood filled your mouth as you painstakingly guided the wormhole to point right at the duo you were meant to be monitoring. 

“Oh?” The pressure building behind your eyes stopped, yet there was a searing frigidness that wavered at your nose. 

“They’re going ahead with it. The upheaval in the government is likely irreversible, but if we’re careful, the Adviser shouldn’t pay too much attention to the University.” Hopkins’ voice was wheedling. It was not a very pleasant intonation—far too nasally, really—with the crookedness of an old man who only ever used his vocal cords to complain. 

Ratio’s eyes met yours, then widened—startled—as you finally felt boreal liquid brush past your lips.  

“Approving all those research programmes and admissions at once,” he jeered derisively. “There’s a reason they were banned. Alchemy is a great sin for the very reason that it removes souls from their balance and sacrifices them in the name of immortality.”

It was Ratio’s turn to scoff, but he kept his eyes locked on you as he meticulously folded a napkin with his fingers and motioned for you to tilt your head down. With the dim lighting, it didn’t look out of place for him to be touching your face—a place as intimate as this certainly knew its clientele—but the extra precaution of the deceptive glamour added a further layer to this silent, almost invisible farce. Except it wasn’t. A farce, that was. 

The stranger sitting opposite him still didn’t speak, or perhaps they already had. Perhaps you’d missed it.

He was cradling your chin with a frigid, almost stone-like palm as he gently pinched your nose through the napkin to quell the blood flow. The conversation drifted in and out of your ears like meandering waves ebbing and flowing in a lazy river. Even your vision, as acute as it was in discerning pieces of art and the faintest of colour changes within indicators, was beginning to blur, but it was fine. 

“I’ll listen for you,” he said lowly, and you thought the rise and fall of his chest had become more pronounced. Inhale. Exhale. Through the steady guide, you maintained the careful three-way equation with closed eyes, gleaning the conversation regardless of his words. 

“...working on compiling… students and faculty…. perhaps those who joined both recently and….”

“It’s alright,” you replied thickly, for on your tongue lingered the sickening taste of iron. 

“...still those who want the return of the alchemists…”

“Only fools overestimate their limits.” Each syllable was sharp, much like the impression of his fingers digging into your skin. And much like the two of you to the others surrounding you, your goodwill towards him vanished likewise, and you could saliently feel the rough surge of irritation rise in your gut. 

“...all those fanciful legends have filled their minds with romantic imaginings…”

“Don’t be a prick, Ratio,” you sneered, forcing your head back upwards to meet his gaze. In the dim lights, the red of his pupils had only grown more prominent—fixated on you with a singular disgust one held towards aggravatingly long-winded proofs, while the set of his mouth grew into an exasperated line. “It’s not cute.”

“Neither is being overconfident,” he scowled, and between his fingers the tissue melted into scraps, and then nothingness at all. Only his cold fingers remained pressed against your chin, before they, too, melted from it like fleeting snow. Spite gnawed at you, and though it was with great effort, you realised that the three equations had stabilised—emulsified by the poignant enervation pounding within your head. 

“That’s just the thing—they have forgotten our values and what it means to be a learner in Metis. We mustn't succumb to the evil that taints other nations…” Hopkins’ words, though coherent to your recovered brain, had become slurred through no part of yours. “The temple isn’t as strong as it used to be, either, what with the degradation of the city and the overthrow of the government…”

The circular nature of each anecdote and argument began to peter out, and with a frown, you realised that a buffer was slowly taking over the wormhole. With a tremulous hand, you took a casual swig of the honey wine to your left while you eased the wormhole back to complete the practical vacuum of your subspace once more. 

“What are you doing?” Ratio murmured, watching you over the rim of his own glass while he stained his mouth with the alcohol, too. It was a perfect moment—a divinely convincing performance, halted only by the malfunction of the stage created. “The restaurant barrier is still down.” 

“Something else, Ratio,” you traced the edge of the crystal with a contemplative look, licking the last remains of blood from your lips—if you spotted the momentary scowl on his face, you sure didn’t show it. There was no one listening—you were certain of it. Despite your misgivings, you at least trusted in the game’s mechanics to do as they described. 

There was interference, you observed pensively, but the only unusual figure you could spot in your periphery was still the person sitting opposite Hopkins, still shrouded in shadow, and still utterly, completely silent. 

. 　⁺ ✦

The space somebody tied themselves to could be used to ascertain particular things about them. Much like the tidy existence of your subspace, you almost considered it a macrocosm of the soul. How somebody arranged their carefully (or haphazardly) purchased artwork, what book had been tossed onto the soft armchair that faced the hearth so warmly, and the surface upon which they left their steaming mug; all were invaluable indicators of the "routine" one afforded to themselves. You traced a finger on the mahogany shelf, interestedly peering at the fine craftsmanship, before you gazed at the tiny sculptures that were dotted along the slab. Amidst the studies of the human body you shaped, the fragments of fauna really hadn't sold as well in the markets: yet here they almost overpopulated the humans.

"A fan of the niche," you commented mildly. You remembered that bird from the last time you sat in this room: remembered how it felt as clay, the delicate endeavour of capturing its fluttering wings without crushing the poor image, and the painstaking efforts to capture the variation within its hued feathers. "Is that an extension of your superiority complex, or do you use these to map out your assassinations?" 

“Please stop psychoanalysing me.” 

Trailing your fingers to the shelf adjacent to that one, you swept your gaze across each book carefully. A copy of  Civilisation: Modeling Metis as a Continuation of a Failed Empire rested at the forefront, strewn with notes upon notes within. Behind it the Glorious Revolution: A Scholar’s March sat—a testament to the most discussed and poignant piece of Metisian history, but all these were empty platitudes towards a government that had not fundamentally changed. 

Al-Ghazali’s Fall of Empire. 

Miros’ introspection of human corruption in Death to Us All. 

Inana’s Rotten Seeds of Metis: Witnesses to the Fall. 

You whistled, lowly. “You didn’t pursue a politics degree on top of all your others because…?”

"You emit useless noise," he replied—ignoring you—and as punctuation, he thumbed through the book on his desk with crisp slicing sounds. He was sitting in the large chair with his elbow lodged firmly on the plush arm support, while his eyes remained engrossed in the text. He barely wavered as he spoke—rather, he neither slowed in his reading or his pronunciation. 

“Do you treat everyone else like this, most esteemed Advisor Ratio?”

His brows furrowed, though you were too busy skimming through his vast collection of tomes to see it. Don’t… his mouth shaped the word, yet his larynx constricted. He cleared his throat. 

“Or do you simply not speak to the Council, Sophos Ratio?” A book was replaced, and in its lieu another was carefully opened. “Assassin Ratio. Scholar Ratio. Grand ole’ leader Ratio. Any more cards up your sleeve?”

His face contorted. “I see you’re feeling better,” he snipped, though the movement of his hands remained measured. 

“Of course, iatros Ratio,” you grimaced. Green, herby residue lingered in your mouth—a bitter ode to the wonders of medicine. In a warm, sunlit kitchen, he’d concocted the tincture with deft hands and a curt, almost disappointed look. 

No, not disappointed. It was as though he hadn’t expected much of you in the first place. 

He levelled you with a stare, finally deigning to acknowledge you fully—as you stood over the desk where he sat, as you grazed your index finger across the book he was planning on reading next. You flipped it open to where the pages warped ever so slightly, and a thin sheaf of paper was discovered as a culprit. 

Once more, you whistled. “Impressive, Ratio of Espionage.” They were imprinted with miniscule dots, much like Braille, though they appeared far more scattered. Interspersed between them were mixtures of alphabets, forming long strings of words (though not any you could pinpoint). 

You heard him exhale—something between a sigh and a measured, tightly restrained breath meant to ease one out of anger. 

Turning your attention back to the code, there were certain things you could glean from the paper. Not useful things, but rather the writer’s body surface temperature, the pressure exerted on the page with each stroke, and perhaps even the time in contact with the page. 

Cold, so cold. The writer was freezing, all over. Literally. There was not a hint of body warmth you felt—a cold existence, even within their very organs. Pressure. Much like their temperature, the steady constant of their writing and etching indicated almost mechanical uniformity. 

“Does this violate our vow, or not?” you thumbed the very edge of the card, taking care to not smooth out the bumps from the middle of it. You didn’t mention the information you learned. 

He studied your face for a while. “Not particularly.” 

“Is the information related to the case?”

“Vaguely,” he replied. “Everything to an extent will be involved with it—politics of other nations, economics, social factors—as all affect our case in practically tertiary ways. Any reports too, have always been the same level of involvement, which will continue to be passively received.”

How sneaky, you wanted to retort, though before you could open your mouth he beat you to it. 

“But it doesn’t matter in this case. These were written well before our agreement, and the associate is none other than a machine—an extension of myself, perhaps, as my tool. Wouldn’t you agree?” There was a terrible smile on his face—one that almost seemed self-deprecating, self-loathing. You frowned, but it did appear to match the scope of detail gathered. “The information is nothing other than some educated predictions.”

Algorithmic entity, his mind scoffed. Reducing your Simulated Universe to a mere machine? What blather. It was preposterous. He felt disgusted with himself. 

Silently, you stared at his face, though it was not a hard thing to do when he was gazing so emptily back up at you. No, not emptily. He had a wry, tired look that hazed his eyes, one you think you might have worn in the moment of your death—one that listened for what the other would say, for it was impossible to speak yourself. 

The associate sounded similar to the system, which had been conveniently silent since you stopped struggling to the adjustment of this world. Or perhaps, whatever implicit mission it had set you had finally been completed. 

“I didn’t mean to pry,” you said finally, though there was no sickening sympathy that cloyed the syllables. “Apologies.”

There was a lull in conversation, though it wasn’t necessarily awkward. You took the time to read a thin volume of Metisian poetry, though it oft focused on writing for the sake of poetry rather than expression. 

“Who are you reading?” His pen scratched against the page as he made brief comments on his notes for the future. Some were correct, while some unfortunately lacked in accuracy. 

“Cadmus,” you yawned, feeling the weight of the evening crash down on you. “Odyssey of—”

“—Love and War? How pretentious,” he sniped. You set the book down on your chest, feeling the soft couch envelope you with its warmth. 

“I agree,” you commented. “He is far too obnoxious. But it really does beg the question: why is this in your library?”

“It’s comedic,” he returned, and with it came an exhale that sounded faintly like a derisive scoff. 

“Maybe you should also add ‘critic’ to your ever growing list of professions, o multifaceted Ratio,” you declared, though you closed your eyes when he didn’t respond to your taunt.

It was only when a shadow fell across the boundless red light through the filter of your blood vessels that your lids finally fluttered open.  

He stood above you, looking momentarily bewildered as he took in your state. Book on chest, tranquil breathing, a hand just barely scraping the floor. It was a scene he’d replayed countless times in his troubled mind, but you were not the person he had been looking for. He almost sneered at himself. 

“Did you need something?” you murmured, and the spell was broken. 

“There is a reason that I choose to only use my last name in my research papers and as ‘Arkho-Sophos’,” he said abruptly. You watched as he plucked the book off your chest gently and glanced at the page number as if to memorise it, before it closed with a crisp thump. “That is simply because it gives me more agency, like you so adequately deduced.”

He set the book down on the low table. “However,” he continued. “It also means people know me by that name, especially those who have come across my papers.” I dislike my last name, chosen by my progenitor. His first name had been decided by the temple, as per tradition for the royal family,  and had been disused for a millennium since. 

“The name Veritas is known by very few,” he said quietly. Or by none. 

“Truth,” you translated, noting the startling resemblance to Latin. 

“The tongue of prayer,” he affirmed, and you fought the urge for your brows to raise. Instead, you pulled yourself to your feet, slowly gathering your notebook and the various miscellany you’d left on the table. “Were you seeking to join the priesthood, or did that fail too?”

“Very funny,” you scowled. “What unparalleled humour you have.”

“I do get told that quite often.” His teeth gleamed in the soft light when he smiled, though it was only for the duration of his comment. 

“Goodbye,” you called out from the ornate doorway, not looking back. 

“Tomorrow morning,” he continued, as though you hadn’t spoken. A hot flash of irritation surged in your gut. “Don’t be late.”

“Goodbye, Veritas,” you gritted out, but the aggravated tone fell on deaf ears (punctuated by the heavy sound of the slamming door). Rather, the man in question was left staring behind you with quite the look on his face. 

It had been a millennium since he was last called that, even if it was by a particularly irate alchemist. 

“Goodbye,” he murmured. No one would hear him, but that was alright. Silently, he picked up the discarded Cadmus lying on the coffee table, flipping back to the pages you were last on—a rather short ditty titled Language My Lady-Love. 

Based on land, our fearful forms do melt;

In face of tongues, of talk, of language;

A fine connexion between humanity;

Truly, an art to us all. 

He scoffed, though had he not held onto conversation with fervour? Had he not been driven to madness by being alone? It seemed the ostentatious poet had a few decent lines, after all. With very mild interest, he continued reading. 

Speak, my dear lady, for your tongue is most valued; 

Perhaps, that is why, when all is said and done; 

Kisses are the sublime form of communication. 

Abruptly, the book was snapped shut, and once again the late Cadmus was cursed at. 

. 　⁺ ✦

“You’re leaving. Again,” Aventurine scoffed, with a blank sort of derision. Days, weeks, almost a month had passed since you took on the joint task of juggling researching waveforms and the unknown crime syndicate. Or potentially plural.  

There was a dangerous look on his face. A smile that was perfectly empty and marionette-like, as his head tilted and his hands neatly opened themselves outwards in a gesture of question. He had busied himself, no longer on the trail of the wild goose chase you sent him on, but something that had filled him with a quiet sort of determination. He himself came back each night with a slip of scrawled honey-tongue written in some cipher or other, and you wondered silently if he was doing something similar to what you’d undertaken.

“Yes,” you elected to reply, swilling down the rest of some tepid broth you threw together that afternoon. With wearied hands, you busied yourself with carefully draping a dark, high-collared robe on yourself—it would be a long night, after all. 

It was brusque. You couldn’t deny that, nor could you deny the pang of guilt that flashed as your teeth worried your lip. It was brusque, it was cold, it was callous—yet in the end, it wouldn’t change the heavy vow that tethered your heart to another.

“I can’t tell you, not yet,” you preemptively said to the tall mirror that hung in the foyer. It was enough. It was not enough. 

“Okay,” he said, quietly, but you couldn’t see his eyes nor the resigned expression he made. You could only infer, from the lack of air that came with the word—so deflated it was. 

Okay.

. 　⁺ ✦

“Have you ever seen fools like this?” The maiden’s tone sounded genuinely interested as SHE picked at the yarn SHE had just spun. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such idiocy since the Golden Epoche.”

“They were not supposed to meet again, Clotho,” the matron spat, with perhaps the most poignant form of exasperation—disgust. “And now they’ve gone and bound themselves to each other. Again. Have you perhaps lost your mind?”

“You know exactly what a discrepancy in the threads suggests,” SHE argued back. “Don’t repeat the same mistake.”

“The girl’s right,” the hag croaked. “Help the youth, and we can finally step back from these two.”

“Atropos,” the mother called with despair. “You too?”

“Hush, girl.” The wizened woman’s mouth had contorted into the very beginnings of a snarl. “Their paths will only become more tangential the longer their contract takes to fulfill.”

“Don’t raise your voice at me, you hag. Don’t forget who it was that left that storybook in Thoth for the boy to find,” SHE glared, and HER measuring rod hit HER palm with the defiant sound of thunder. The maiden stayed silent, though when the silence grew unbearable SHE deigned to speak. There was a strange, almost elated look on HER face, though neither elder noticed. 

“The snake of Ouroboros hurried things along, did it not?”

The matron stared. “The [End] does not care for the balance we strive to keep. Our actions have already drawn THEIR attention—and this- this stupid hastening only even more so.”

“You forget, Lachesis,” the youth smiled. “The [End] only cares about an entertaining story.”

For the first time, the woman’s face showed a trace of discomfort, and the maiden took the silence as an opportunity to pull up a familiar system screen. 

“Where were we?”

. 　⁺ ✦

What the fuck? 

Your chest rose and fell with a puzzled—perturbed, even—sort of dilemma. Conundrum. Disturbance. A situation so bizarre you couldn’t help but feel hysterical. Even your very exhales, consequently, came out with the strangled quality of somebody desperately trying not to heave yet failing to do so. But it wasn’t your fault! It really wasn’t, and the worst part of it was… neither was it Ratio’s. You couldn’t even blame the man whose chest rose and fell with yours in tandem—so close each breath fanned your skin and burned the dermis right off. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” he hissed, and your hand clamped over his mouth as you shook your head frantically. 

A theatre had risen up, in all its false majesty. In a brief, encoded text intercepted from the journal of a certain Sophos, the location had been mentioned in passing—a meeting, disguised as a jaunt. The date had been cleverly hidden within the decorated border of the journal; the numericals, too, were so ancient as to be indecipherable, yet Ratio had spotted them with ease. 

If it had been only you here… if it had been only Ratio… could this mess have been prevented? Under two false names, two tickets to shows you couldn’t remember were purchased with traceless coins.

“Welcome to the Theatre of the Masked Fools.” 

The only thing you could remember from that exchange was your strangely sweaty palms, the words the attendant had said, and the widely smiling mask covering their face. 

“We leave half an hour in,” he mouthed behind a pamphlet containing the programmes. That’s ten minutes before time. You furrowed your brows. 

“Will there be security at the doors?” you murmured back, casually plucking the slip of paper from him. He shot you a nonplussed look, then scrawled ‘te…le… port’ on your palm that he’d grabbed. You frowned, and an incredulous laugh escaped your lips. 

“Great that you told me now,” you seethed, but already your eyes were scanning the hallway to find an anchorage point. “One moment.” 

He wordlessly nodded, and peered around between glances at the ticket as though finding the theatre room. Upstairs, he motioned. Both. There wasn’t much time. Fifteen minutes remained until the play started, and you still hadn’t made preparations for the calculations you would have to make on the fly. 

Throngs of people crowded the shabby place. By the stairwell, around the darkened theatre your slot was booked for, and in the hallway—it was perhaps one of the biggest blessings that neither of you forgot to apply the inconspicuous enchantments that slightly altered one’s focal length when observing the two of you—so much that only the peripheral impression of the figures remained. 

“It’s more popular than I expected,” you muttered as you slipped past the corner to a quieter section of the theatre. A cold hand grazed your shoulder, and you whipped round to see Ratio’s head tilted towards a room a few paces away. 

“Meeting,” he breathed, and you understood. In less than an hour, your mark would make contact with people potentially even further up in the organisation. You had possibly less than five minutes to create an anchor point that could allow you to both eavesdrop and remain unnoticed. 

No magic, he scrawled briefly on your palm. No people. Thus, you nudged the door open into what appeared to be a disused costume room—with a table directly placed under some flickering lights. Pinching your nose bridge with tense fingers, you made your way past the pile of props and into a small room off to the side that appeared to be extra storage space: filled with crowded shelves, and boxes upon boxes of extra scenery and stacks of masks. Quickly, you left a miniscule sigil in the very corner of the space, electing to leave as soon as possible. 

“Done,” you murmured, glancing behind one last time at the door that had returned to its ajar state. 

“We won’t be caught?” 

“Not if we’re quiet,” you retorted.

That was approximately forty minutes before disaster. 

Two minutes were spent fumbling with your ticket and then your seat at the very back, and two more were spent catching up on your sleep. Or perhaps five. Ten of those seconds were monopolised by the act of elbowing you awake. 

“That’s unrealistic.”

He seemed mildly engrossed in the captivating, utterly entrancing tragedy onstage. You zoned out in the comforting darkness, before the click of his tongue brought you back round like the farcical snap of a hypnotist’s fingers. “Ludicrous. Who wrote this?”

You found yourself staring, increasingly annoyed. Insufferable. Had this been a proper movie theatre, you were sure someone would have flung popcorn at him at least once. Alas, you had to endure his sharp commentary until the time came to leave. 

“Foolish—” 

He flinched as your hand grazed his arm. With only the beams focused at the actors as your source of light, his sclera were barely visible, though you could tell his eyes had widened. 

“Veritas,” you murmured, and his next words fizzled out of his mouth as though he had no air for them. The same hand outstretched—palm up, in a seemingly reconciliatory gesture. He glanced at it, then you, then back again; gingerly, his fingers slid against yours when you made no move to move. “I don’t bite.” 

“You may want to prepare yourself,” you added, and that was the beginning of the minute before the disaster. 

A familiar, jolting sensation began germinating within your stomach with each word in the tongue of thought that stormed through your mind. 

…for here is there, and there is here… interspersed the fine-tuned equations that bound your body to the anchor several rooms away. There was no other way. Before he could respond, and a perilous moment before the adjustments had completed, you pulled him inwards as the gut wrenching motions began. 

“What do you think you’re doing?”

It was far too cramped. That was the first thing you noticed, apart from the hissed words that left his mouth, muffled by your fingers pressed against his lips. 

You shook your head frantically, though he quickly understood why you’d held him so tight when the lurching symptoms of the warp began. His face, normally so composed, became ashen and clammy beneath your hand, and he swayed within your grasp as the full effects of the travel hit. 

“Don’t throw up, please,” you mouthed, and in the very dim light of the storeroom, you faintly saw him swallow. 

“I won’t,” he muttered against your fingers. 

“...quite the predicament. There are a few amongst the faculty who can help with your plans these coming few weeks, though none are as capable as I can be…”

You strained to listen through the layers of shelves and the closed door. It was only when Ratio shifted wearily that you finally understood the series of poor choices that you had made. 

First was the choice of play. It had been tasteless and even harder to sit through with scathing commentary. 

Second, the location. It was utterly, completely uncomfortable to say the very least. 

Finally, bringing the unfortunate Sophos along. 

It appeared you had severely misjudged the capaciousness of the storeroom. In the corner you had selected for the sigil (the only free corner, that was perfectly hidden from view and conveniently outside the bounds of the silencing circle boundary traced on the floor), there appeared to be a certain lack of space for two grown men to be loitering. 

Ratio’s heavy breath fanned your neck. “Move.”

“I can’t,” you winced, attempting to move your arms from behind his back—yet the rack behind you was squeaking most ominously with the most miniscule of movements, digging into your spine and forcing you into total stillness. His side, too, was facing a similar predicament—subjugated by a towering and unsteady structure of boxes. You couldn’t fathom how you’d squirreled your way into this small space (you were not the size of two of yourself).

It was a precarious position. He was pressed into the cold stone wall behind him, and the only warmth outside of it were your forearms that braced themselves taut against his own flesh. You, in turn, were pinned between a frigid clothes rail and an equally cold body. 

“Fool,” he hissed, and when you glanced at him, his face had flushed an angry red. “You chose this anchor.”

“Prick. You try calculate precise coordinates while figuring out a good hiding spot in five minutes,” you whispered back, irritated. It wasn’t enough that you could barely hear, but now you were trapped with an aggravating man—with whom you rarely agreed with half the time—for the foreseeable future. 

“Don’t you think you’re overestimating yourself, dear Sophos?”  A rich voice had responded to Hopkins, and your ears perked up. While the syllables had rolled off his tongue, there was a very distinct mockery that dirtied each word. “You have twice failed to bring us anything useful about the author of the wavelength papers as you promised, and completely and utterly failed to bring us information about the Arkho-Sophos. What makes you think you deserve any more chances?”

“Mr Kryá Pódia, sir, I beg of you—”

“Cold Feet,” Ratio breathed, and the translation of the old tongue washed over your neck hotly. You flinched. 

“—the scholar will be receiving a lab room for research soon, and after my promotion, I will be able to access it myself. There will also be more opportunity to gain proximity to the Arkho-Sophos when I gain a seat on the University Board. Please—”

“Traitor,” Ratio seethed. Each exhale he emitted, each word spoken—you were acutely aware of all of them, acutely aware of how his chest rose and fell against your own, how his hands had settled loosely on your hips for there was no space anywhere else. 

“Do you swear it? By your piddly, meagre life, by the lives of your accomplices?” The man interrupted. 

“Veritas,” you whispered. His eyes darted to yours, and he wetted his lips with the countenance of a pensive man. “My left pocket. Get the crystal.”

By the two Suns, you could feel his cold hand trace a path from the hipbone to where your pocket was located, and you swallowed. Agonisingly—torturously—he drew it back out alongside the mineral, and you practically deflated with relief at the distraction. 

“Hold it up,” you instructed, and he aimed it at the slats of light that barely brushed past you from the slightly dilapidated door. 

It had been painstakingly forged into a lens through the efforts of both you and Aventurine; when imbued correctly, it could act like a telescope of sorts. 

Two figures swam into view, then a third. The first was Hopkins—easily recognisable, no problems there. The issues arose with the two masked, heavily swaddled figures who sat in the shadows of the flickering light once again. One faintly gestured whenever the mocking voice spoke, but the other sat eerily still. 

“Yes, yes!” Hopkins cried desperately, and you could feel your face curdle into an expression of disgust. 

A laugh jostled the other man: sharp, cruel, arrogant. “You would trade life as a collateral! Sophos, the man that you are—don’t back out now, dearest customer!”

A hand emerged from the robe, and he tossed a small device to the sweaty, nervous Hopkins without so much as a glance. As he did so, the jeering mask he wore slipped ever-so-slightly, and the glimpse of his cheek was enough for the Absentee System to begin its Periodic Appearance. 

[The Masked Fools. An disorganised crime syndicate operating as a theatre franchise, for the objectives of their clients. As of now, the Metisian organisation ∎∎∎∎∎∎ is currently working with various agents of the Fools in their goal of capturing supposed alchemists, though it seems to be a temporary partnership as ∎∎∎∎∎∎ has been deteriorating since its public agents have been neutralised.]

That wasn’t all. Beside the trove of information you just spotted, there was an additional screen that had drawn up the profiles of the two robed figures—just as they had when you first appeared in this pixelated world. 

[Sampo Koski. Mr Kryá Pódia, Mr Cold Feet. An agent assigned to play the role of willing conspirator in Metis; beneath his enthusiastic facade, there seems to be a rather pointed sadism directed to those within ∎∎∎∎∎∎. Rank within the Fools is unclear, but he is not to be taken lightly.]

Jackpot. That wasn’t all, though. Beneath the wall of text was a small screen that appeared to contain an image of his face: downturned, sardonic eyes; Prussian blue hair with dipped-white tips; and a smile that seemed to be as mocking as his words. 

Sampo Koski, you memorised. 

It was then that you turned to the other figure.

[Miss Spar∎l∎. ∎∎∎∎∎∎∎   ∎∎   ∎∎∎∎∎∎∎    ∎∎∎∎∎∎∎∎ ∎∎∎∎   ∎∎∎∎∎∎∎∎ ∎∎∎∎∎∎∎  ∎∎∎ ∎∎∎∎∎∎∎∎… That’s clue enough for ya, dear alchemist!]

Beneath the corrupted description, an image had formed of a jubilant young woman, with deep chestnut hair and distinctly raspberry tinted eyes. 

Koski’s eyes had been looking at you within the hologram of an image, but they weren’t truly focused on you. It was, in essence, a proverbial mugshot designed to pass on a snippet of information. 

Her image was directly staring at you. Not through you, but fixed on your own eyes with minute shifts that broke a cold sweat out on your face. The grin on her face seemed to say caught you! 

With a start, you realised it had been her presence that hindered you at the restaurant all those weeks ago. 

Who are you? 

W∎∎∎∎ are ∎∎∎∎∎∎∎?

A sharp pain spread across your head. Through the lens, the robed figure remained as motionless as ever; in the image, her fingers had lifted in what appeared to be a cheery wave. Go… for… now… she mouthed, and you froze. 

“What’s going on?” Ratio murmured in response to your breathing that was rapidly becoming laboured. Blearily, you shook your head. 

“Need to… leave,” you slurred, gathering up all the adrenaline you had for one final jump. 

A final glance back. The system had winked out in the dark space, as though it had never existed in the first place. 

. 　⁺ ✦ 

You didn’t remember how you managed to teleport back to the anchor at the hotel room. You did remember the heavy crash against the smooth tiles, with hands scrambling for purchase and a cold body pressed against yours from above. You did remember the irritated flush on his shoulders as he stared at you with a half-incredulous expression, half-furious one. 

“Suns above,” he seethed, blood trickling from a thin cut on his forehead. You flinched as the warm sanguine dripped onto your cheek, as his thumb wiped it off your face—as he cradled your nape to prop you up against the cabinet, as his hands carefully pressed a tissue to your bleeding nose, as he applied an bitter-smelling unguent to each wound cautiously. 

You’d taken the brunt of the fall, with bruises dotting the expanse of your back. 

“I’m fine,” you sighed as your head throbbed. Hauling yourself up, you noticed the small note on the low table in the lounge—

Won’t be coming home tonight. I made curried meat with flatbreads—they’re in the icebox. Don’t forget to eat. —A

—and left bloody thumbprints on the corners as you pocketed it. Or at least, as you fumbled to pocket it in your state of partial undress; your robe had been unceremoniously folded down to your waist by Ratio when he was assessing the damage, and the excess material covered your pants like some makeshift medieval mantua. 

“Get back here,” he hissed, emerging out behind you from the bathroom. “You’re injured, you imbecilic ignoramus.”

You sank onto a stool and ignored him, plunging your arm into the subspace summoned through the jade bead. From it emerged a thick, blank sketchbook and some charcoal sticks, as well as some cloth. “You can treat me after I’m done. Better yet, I’ll treat myself.”

“Don’t be so stupid,” he said through a clenched jaw, grabbing gauze, bandages and more of that ointment from the bathroom. “Whatever you need to do can wait. Addressing your wounds takes priority.”

“That ointment smells evil,” you grimaced, turning back the cogs of your memory to the system window. Urgently, you wrote down the information gleaned on one page—ripped it out—then began carefully recalling details from the faces of the two agents. 

“Yeah? You know what will smell even more foul? Infection,” he went on, voice pitched, raised, and so utterly removed from his usual composure. “Pus, leaking from a wound that has slowly been macerated by your everyday life, redness spreading from an injury that is beginning to grow septic, discharge dripping and creating an even more fetid reek—”

“Fine! Fine,” you gritted out, straightening your spine that was slouched over the table. He merely scoffed, and his cold hands grazed your dermis once more—but you barely felt it, barely felt the frigid touch through the feverish burn of your own body. You shook, with adrenaline and something else: gripping the edge of the table with each new wound that was discovered, each drop of ointment that he spread across your skin. “You really have a way of persuading someone, Veritas—”

You hissed as his hand paused its ministrations, right in the middle of a pulsating, aching bruise that had already formed beneath the skin. 

“What was that for, man?”

“What’s the likelihood of your assistant returning?” 

He ignored your question, continuing the methodical application of the medicine. 

“None,” you griped, wincing. “He’s busy with his own stuff.”

He exhaled in response: a succinct, pleased sort of sound that you attributed to the vow remaining intact. “Good.”

“Prick,” you returned. Your shoulders were beginning to rise and fall at a more rapid pace, while the ointment gave the muscle a particular sheen—especially with the intimate, dim lighting from the amber lamps that washed the room in their warm luminosity. This scene was practically Cadmus’ wet dream. 

He swallowed. 

“Boorish lout,” he muttered under his breath, lingering against the warmth of your body. 

“Shut up, you melt,” you replied, equally under your breath—yet, you lifted your arms when he tapped them and said up, you remained still while he wound the bandages around your chest and shoulders, and you swallowed the painkillers obediently when he passed them to you.

“What about you?”

“What about me?” he asked, carefully and methodically washing his hands. 

With some difficulty, you pointed to the cut on his forehead as he exited. Feeling around with a hand, he rummaged for the congealant within the first-aid kit—slathering it on with none of the medical care he showed earlier. “Done.”

You deadpanned. 

“Don’t come by for at least three days,” he added, returning the jar back to the bag. “Patients need to rest.”

Wearily, you glanced at the blank sheets in front of you, then back at him. “I’m afraid I’ll be alright tomorrow.”

He levelled you with a glare. “You’ve bruised up your entire back, coupled with shallow lacerations and deficient energy. You are a patient. Ergo: we meet in three days, at least.”

It can’t wait. The arguments died in your throat as you took in his expression, though you still needed some time to come up with suitable sketches of the two Fools from earlier. Reluctantly, you nodded—yet, you didn’t consider it a promise, which made the farce all the more easier. 

“We don’t talk about what happened in the theatre, got it?” 

The words were uttered in a moment of brief lull, while he gathered his bloodied overcoat in his arms. You stared at him: half-disturbed, half in awe of his timing. 

“Don’t we have—” to? 

Briefly, you retraced the events of the night. Gleaning something odd about the theatre—

(Ratio, by your side throughout the play as he offered stupid commentary.)

—learning the near-future plans of Hopkins and the Fools—

(Ratio’s heavy breathing, brushing past the sensitive skin on your neck and grazing your ear.)

—seeing the face of the two Fools in Metis, learning the organisation behind the alchemist persecution was no longer as solid as expected—

(His body, pressed right against yours—his labouring chest, each nervous bob of his throat, the faint soap scent that lingered on the dermis.)

—and it pieced together.

“I see your point,” you said, seriously. “What were we talking about, again?”

“Why, nothing at all,” he smiled. “Good night.”

“Good…”

The door clicked shut: a perfect curtain close to a disaster.

“...night.” 

. 　⁺ ✦ 

“What did I tell you?”

You averted your gaze. Here you were, in the office of arguably the most powerful man in Metis, and the only emotion that stirred within you was the faint dread of being called to the principal’s office. 

“What did I tell you?” he repeated, and this time, his voice had lowered approximately an octave. 

“To… rest for three days?” you suggested brightly, rubbing the back of your neck sheepishly. 

“What day is this?” Each syllable was dangerously calm now—a perfect question, taut with anger that you couldn’t even detect. You swallowed. 

“The first,” you nodded, and he regarded you as if you’d lost your mind. “However, Veritas—”

“Don’t Veritas me,” he snapped. Your mouth closed, then opened again. 

“—your suggestion—” here, the man in question barked a laugh. “—was based on the premise that I was a patient.”

“Pray tell—how have you managed to cleverly circumvent my suggestion?” He tilted his head back until it collided with the material of his chair, staring at you with such a dispassionate gaze that it was hard to believe he’d so carefully treated each wound last night. 

“Well, I’m a patient no longer.” You swept your arms wide in a gesture of triumph. “I’m impatient, you might even say.”

“That was terrible,” he replied, stone-faced. “Is Cadmus accepting comedy disciples now?”

“Bastard. I’m fine,” you leaned on his desk with the edge biting into your upside-down palms. “More importantly—”

“By what miracle? Your delusions?” he interrupted, gazing back at the stack of documents in front of him. Though in actuality, he seemed to be a governmental figurehead only, the endless papers you saw addressed to the Adviser made you think otherwise. It was almost enough for you to pity him. 

“No—” deftly, you began unbuttoning the shirt beneath your outer robe (electing to shuck the latter across the couch nearby). “—see? I’m alright.”

“There’s—” 

His words died on his tongue when he glanced up, and he hurriedly cleared his throat. Before him, the expanse of skin that had been littered with cuts and the slightly darker hues of bruises had mostly cleared up. Cuts became scabs, and bruises faded away. What he saw across each muscle was healing that must’ve taken several days, at least. Pulling off a glove, he traced the old scabs to find no traces of risky healing-acceleration magic that he half-expected. 

“No need to feel me up, iatros. I’m an honest man,” you ran a tongue across your teeth, feeling his touch stutter, then pull back as though burnt. You were an honest man—these healed wounds weren’t the result of a glamour, but rather the constant teleportation to your hotel bathroom that had caused it to partially regress to its original state, just like it had when molten metal dripped onto your shoulder. 

“No need to strip in my office either.” His tone was curt, punctuated by the drag of his glove against his hand as he pulled it back on. “I did not hire a brothel.”

“Aischrourgòs,” he added, and refused to provide any translation. “Why did you plague me on this peaceful morning?”

You turned—shirt now haphazardly buttoned half-way—yet he’d already returned to his papers, circling clauses and stacking them in two piles. One signed, one to be sent back for further review. 

“Question, Veritas,” you murmured, leaning flat on your hand against his desk. With the other, you fiddled with the jade bead that now hung from your belt. “What did you glean from yesterday’s excursion?” …in the theatre. 

He eyed you, as though aware of exactly what had been omitted. “Hopkins’ supposed promotion. Potential wiretapping of your future laboratory, and perhaps my office within the University. His future attempt to get close to me. He is a mere pawn in their game, and the theatre has a high likelihood of involvement as well. The concealed figures seemed to be far higher upon the chain of command, perhaps within the organisation itself, or within the theatre should it be an organisation of its own. The relationship between them didn’t seem like a subordinate–commander relationship, but more of an unequal partnership…”

He trailed off, grinding the butt of his pen into a document contemplatively. “...that’s about it.”

“Did you see their faces?” A spare pen twirled between your thumb and index finger languidly. He’s good. His movements halted. 

“No,” he said, slowly—cautiously. “They were wearing masks and robes, were they not?”

“They were,” you acknowledged. 

“So…” he probed. 

“I think I gleaned slightly more than you did, Veritas,” you murmured, sliding a sheaf of thick parchment across the desk. Written across the first few pages, verbatim, was the information received from the system about the Masked Fools, as well as some additional hearsay about the Theatre that you’d frequented some seedy taverns for—before teleporting back to the hotel to make use of the slight healing effect. You hadn’t, however, included the corrupted part, nor the agent’s weird sentience within the system.

“Where did you learn this?” he frowned, but you more heard rather than saw the expression—electing to lie on the sofa once more. 

“A similar mechanism to your own tool, iatros,” you replied, closing your eyes and stifling a yawn. “It’s trustworthy.”

There was some more rustling as he flipped through the sheaf. Then, silence. All movement ceased for a brief moment, and you cracked an eye open to see a stricken expression on his face���before he shook his head. 

“Did you draw these?” he asked, quietly. Oh, the drawings of the agents, you realised, then closed your eyes again. 

“Yeah,” you said, with no particular inflection. “Pretty good, right?”

He thumbed the corners of the pages.The sketches were pretty good—each line clear and vivacious, each form distinctly full of character (even if he was staring at two criminals). In fact, they were sublime. That was the problem. They clearly weren’t by an amateur—containing a standard portraiture style that demonstrated a mastery of shape and light—but it was the familiarity he hated.

Impossible. That’s right. It was an impossible pattern, not merely improbable.

“They’re alright,” he replied, barely a whisper. He held it up to the light, inspecting the likenesses closely. A mocking, grinning man stared at him, while the young lady opposite him sported a cruel smile. “You mentioned it’s not a united movement?”

“That’s right,” you responded from the couch, counting the panels that made up the ceiling. “It’s already been destabilised significantly, thanks to you. Even the outside help working with them is reluctant to further continue this pointless case.”

He laughed, but it was a quiet, humourless one. “Pointless case… you’re right.”

“Pardon?” Your head poked up from where it lay on a particularly comfortable pillow. 

He hummed noncommittally. “I’ll be doing some verification of these. Thanks.”

There were no more words exchanged. You spirited yourself away, just as quietly as his responses, and he was left tapping his pen urgently—right next to the drawn faces of the two. 

The coincidences were beginning to pile up, yet the pattern was so improbable as to be impossible. 

. 　⁺ ✦ 

The dull scratch of chalk resonated within the laboratory, made all the more melancholy by the heavy blue fog outside the window. For once, the sun-soaked capital had fallen prey to the gloom of the heavens: the capricious whims of celestial phenomena. 

“...yes, you’d expect it to behave like an electromagnetic wave, but it doesn’t,” you murmured, peering at the monitor through which you observed the diffraction patterns of light shot through a transmuted crystal. “The photons that collide with matter before and after reaching the crystals at each end have those compounds uniquely coded in a long string that can be interpreted almost instantly.”

A pause. The chalk wrote another observation, before being set down in the tray. “You… had to test it out on yourself?”

“And, the concentration of these compounds is also detected, looking at all the repeating units present,” you muttered, subconsciously flexing the tight band that was wound around your bicep. “By adjusting the band size, and transmuting the property of elasticity within the crystals, these could potentially be wrapped around the entire body… efficiency would increase by around… a few thousand percent…”

With your other hand, you scribbled down some rough parameters to test out in your next alchemy manufacture. “This should be easier than I thought it would be. Further enhancements could be made using that lens from earlier… imaging function…”

Ratio’s eye twitched.Yes, this would significantly make detecting abnormalities within the human body far more comprehensive—but there were procedures behind these trials, and strapping yourself down with the first prototype was not one of them. 

“Relax,” you interrupted the steady grind of his teeth. “I’m probably the person you least need to worry about.”

The calm within your words did nothing to quell the irritation surging in him. 

“Actually,” he replied icily. “Most of the time I see you, you’re sporting some form of injury. You, perhaps, are the least suitable for these trials.”

“I’m touched, iatros, truly, at your concern,” you acknowledged, though it was barely an acknowledgement at all. Within his clenched fist, half-moons formed on the palm. “But the quicker I’m done with the research, the quicker I’ll be out of your hair on the academic side.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Yes, that’s right, he might’ve said—yet the words didn’t come, strangled as his throat felt. That’s strange. He was supposed to feel happy, wasn’t he?

“Besides, who else would be my lab rat, if not me?” you asked, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

The man standing several paces away felt the urge to rip his hair out. 

“Are you… not an alchemist?” he queried, carefully, like he was gently herding a student towards a conclusion they should have reached yesterday. 

“Yeah, why?” You ran your tongue across your teeth; the action made it seem as though you were saying duh instead. 

Duh.

Duh. 

Duh. 

He took a deep breath. 

“Then…” he paused, mulling over how now your attention was piqued—now you stopped playing with your scandalously loosened robe.

“Spit it out,” you groused impatiently, leaning back on an elbow: conveniently attached to the very arm you were testing. 

“Make a homunculus,” he smiled—with closed eyes, he might add—in the most obviously patient tone he could muster. “A non-sentient tissue that could serve as your so-called ‘lab rat’.”

You blinked. Once, twice, before your eyes lit up with some semblance of intelligence. “I’ve never made one,” you brightened right up, and he didn’t know whether he should feel relieved or not. “Always a first time for everything, right?”

He watched you cut out a paper doll using the blade of your bone-sword: watched you trace a chalk circle as a medium he knew you didn’t need, watched you tap a foot pensively—still with that damned band wrapped around your bicep—watched you prod the small, not-yet-lifeform with a curious finger. 

And you. For the first time in a month, you remembered your original objective in coming here. The statue. Built just like this piddly, little thing—carved painstakingly by your own hands, just like you cut into parchment. The thought began to consume you. 

This creature. Your hands twitched as you began the long incantation in the tongue of thought—no equations, just mindless rambling. Anything. A binding of blood, a murmuring of flesh—sing, life-giver, tell us of the secrets of the universe—yet all that lingered in your mind was the statue. 

What if it was never stolen?

What if—

“Stop.” A hand grabbed your wrist, and you looked down with a gasp to see a faint, wriggling mass that was vaguely person-shaped. “It’s not sentient yet, and it will remain that way.”

“Right,” you replied, awkwardly, and the thrum of your invisible tattoos ebbed away. Right. Now was not the time for conjecture unrelated to both your tasks. “This is… a homunculus, then?”

It lived. Artificially created flesh and tissue, yet neither alive, nor sentient. “Is this… ethical?” 

“It’s an organ,” he replied, poking the soft belly of the paper doll. “So, yes.”

Silently, you slid the crystal-embedded band from your arm. “And… if it was sentient? If you hadn’t stopped me?”

Your voice was quiet—hollowed out—and he noticed. Of course he did. You looked at him, noticing once more that his eyes were flecked with red—not merely the amber that you saw initially. 

Wasn’t it painfully ironic?

“Then, you would have made a human,” he responded, just as quietly. It seemed to be a question—a blaring, blatantly red one—yet you couldn’t fathom what the question was. 

The man who resembled the one in your dreams, the one whom you drew endlessly, who was carved painstakingly into stone—who now gripped your wrist with his intense gaze as he asked you to create something living once more. 

You swallowed—the establishment of such impossibility had been constructed a long time ago. You pulled your arm out of his grip and picked up your notebook once more. “I see.” 

Futile thoughts.

The words that left your mouth were far more distant.  

“...commencing, test one—function of the waveform detector device…”

. 　⁺ ✦ 

Ever so gradually, the ties binding you to Metis were weakening. 

Time went on, wearing away at your obligations. Preliminary research on the medical applications of crystallography had been suspiciously successful—a serendipity that was far removed from the trial-and-errors of Earthen degree rigour. It was… peaceful, if peace meant tireless nights spent recording and logging every minute observation of your non-sentient homunculus, if peace meant perfecting things you couldn’t have dreamed of with traditional human limitations. 

Less than half a year had passed since you undertook the joint task of espionage and scholarship—since the notion of your creation faded into the backdrop of your mind. And oh—how it faded, consumed by the rising tide of papers and lectures and thick textbooks and journals, until you saw the edge of the shore once more, and forgot how to walk on the path of your own whims. 

“I’ll be done here soon,” you told Aventurine one rare evening—where the two of you sat around the hotel table, each holding onto a warm mug filled with steaming tea. You were being honest; the investigation had yielded tangible cracks into the backers of Hopkins, while notable medical organisations began showing interest in your fruitful research. 

“And then?” he held your gaze, but there seemed to be something else on the tip of his tongue. An admission, perhaps, to where he slipped away to each night—but no, your assumption dissipated like smoke. “We’ll go back to the Borderlands?”

“Yeah,” you replied, honestly—tiredly. There was a reason you chose the remote locations of the Borderlands to base yourself. Perhaps it was far past time to return, to wait until the now-silent statue flashed on your radar once more. “The teleportation prototypes I’ve been working on would make it far easier to remain there.”

“I see.” He closed his eyes and smiled, though his tone was perfectly neutral, neither contrite nor joyful. It lended a certain, wry quality to the two words. “Alright.”

It was a conversation. Nominally. 

Existing between the two of you was a wall of secrets from this relationship’s very inception—one that had very slim chances of being breached. Both of you had wrapped yourself in non-communication, for it was comfortable: as humans were inclined to do. 

You took a sip of the tea, and it burned and it was bitter. 

“Alright.” 

Your disciple. Your apprentice. The man who sought after something you could not provide—and who, for you, served as a placeholder for normalcy you would never regain. 

The two of you were silent with your secrets, but that was just the way things were.

. 　⁺ ✦ 

“She’s a party crasher. Great.” Your brows raised in mock surprise, but the words came out muffled due to the pins you were holding in your mouth. The menial work of carefully tacking your diagrams up on one wall of the lecture hall paused—half-forgotten—as the information on the unknown agent unravelled itself like a decryption. Or at least, partially. 

[Miss Sparkle. She’ll show up where she hasn’t been invited, a∎∎   ∎∎∎∎∎∎∎    ∎∎∎∎∎∎∎∎ ∎∎∎∎   ∎∎∎∎∎∎∎∎ ∎∎∎∎∎∎∎  ∎∎∎ ∎∎∎∎∎∎∎∎… That’s clue enough for ya, dear alchemist!]

“What?” He sat nearby on a plush chair, intently gazing at each line of the rolling script to proofread it. A pen twirled in his grip, while spectacles rested carefully on his nose. 

“Sparkle. The mystery agent,” you continued in a low voice, pinning the final image up. “I have a feeling she’ll show up to the year-end symposium for the scholar awards.”

In fact, it was only recently you had heard of it yourself: through a flyer advertising arguably one of the most important secular events in the city of learning. A banquet, followed by a conference—in which the year’s most pivotal ideas and figures and scholars took centre stage to reflect the vast and dazzling arrays of knowledge acquired. The bright font had somehow managed to trigger the system into revealing more information about the Fool as though it were a sleeper agent. 

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he reminded you, still absorbed in what you assumed was the methodology of your report. “The key pieces of evidence have been submitted, but the courts haven’t officially opened the case.”

“I won’t,” you scoffed. “I said I had a feeling, not that I was a prophet.”

“Alright,” he replied, stressing the second syllable as though he didn’t believe you. “Also, Sparkle? Since when do we know the name of the second?”

“Since yesterday.” Up close, his lashes fanned over his eyes. You watched, entranced, as they fluttered upon his glancing at you—and you swear there was a prickle of heat that pierced the back of your neck. “I’ll send the relevant details later.”

“Did you need something?” You hadn’t even realised you’d walked up to him. 

“I’m done with my side,” you ignored his pointed question, leaning your elbows on the dark wooden table in front of him instead. “My cynical friend, how far along are you with yours?”

He clicked his tongue: an irritated habit of his you’d noticed—

Far too many things about him came into your notice. 

—and flipped to the next page of your work. 

“It will be forwarded to the panel in time for the invitations to come out,” he sighed, massaging his temple. “If you quit pestering me, it would have been done earlier—”

“Oh, you won’t have to worry about that,” you interrupted, halting the tremulous, circular motions of his hand. The frown that had been present on his face deepened. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I’ll be back home for a few days to sort some things out,” you answered cheerfully, snapping the folder with spare diagrams shut as you slowly packed up to leave. 

“Home?” he echoed, and it was then you realised what you said. Home, as though you finally considered the remote, hostile Borderlands such. Home, as though you’d gotten accustomed to the quiet nature of your days: the steaming mugs that accompanied your studies, the light filtering in from the two suns that hung against the celestial backdrop, and the quaint companionship that was stumbled upon within this strange world. 

“I’m based in the Borderlands, remember?” you prompted, and his eyes gazed away from yours in contemplation, before his lips pressed together dourly. 

“I recall,” he murmured, practically mouthing the words as though he was having some particularly unpleasant realisations. “You wouldn’t happen to…”

“What?” You glanced back from the door—with fingers already curled around the handle—yet his lips had pressed shut again, and he shook his head dismissively. 

“Nothing,” he replied: his mind still in the throes of denial. There was no helping the dissonance, not unless he ignored the peculiar feeling in his gut completely. 

You didn’t know that. You couldn’t possibly know that—not with the way you shrugged and left, ever so carefree even as his pen creaked within his grip. 

Nothing, indeed. 

. 　⁺ ✦ 

You lied. There was only one thing you had to sort out in the Borderlands, which really wasn’t a thing at all, but more of paltry matter. In fact, it only took a mere minute to set up—a teleportation sigil, nothing unusual—with the rest of your time mapped out for something far more important.

Relaxation.

Sleepless nights had merged into a long, wearisome day—filled with legal jargon you barely conceptualised, and scientific terminology you understood intimately. The point was, your body was filled with a particular lethargy that ran bone-deep: one that could only be absolved by perhaps a ten-hour soak coupled with a few days of sleep. 

“Look at all this backlog,” Aventurine whistled, heaving in the last box of books you’d ordered over the past few weeks you had been away for. It hadn’t felt like much when you’d wandered antique bookstores and quaint pawnshops, but clearly all those purchases had added up. “You’ve been busy.” 

It was an extraordinarily normal conversation, though both of you could sense the unanswered questions that lurked beneath the surface. 

You drowned them away in an array of bubbles and fragranced oils. Once more, you elected to ignore the tension threatening to break the surface—instead choosing to select a worn tome to read while you soaked the past weeks of toil and sweat away. 

The Comprehensive Guide to the Metisiane Familie Moste Royale. The book happened to be sequestered away in a forgotten corner of perhaps the oldest bookstore within the scholar city; so mired with cobwebs it was that your curiosity couldn’t help but pique at what seemed to be an intentionally forgotten text. Though, it wasn’t the only reason you selected it. The books you read on the sofa in Ratio’s office all explored the actions of the Elation lineage, rather than the personnage—this so-called compendium written in an archaic hand was sure to provide you with more information. Or so you hoped. 

A quick protection charm later, and you sunk into the lavender-scented foam with the leather-bound pages. It started with treachery—like most families did, you noted amusedly. The first progenitor was heralded as a god-king—the venerable Aha—with the first child in each generation being named after the almost-mythical entity. 

Aha the Mad. The third ruler of Metis, dating back several millennia. You skimmed past tales of battles of yore, becoming mildly engrossed in what appeared to be a contemporary of the Scholar’s March reconstructing the systemic undoings of a royal family steeped in treachery and betrayal. 

Aha the Studious. The twentieth ruler of Metis—who expanded the University of old into the far more formidable powerhouse it was reputed as now. You sank deeper into both the water and the tale woven, observing THEIR children fight amongst themselves: duking it out as siblings did, as per usual. 

It was Aha the Timid who had been persuaded to restrict the movement of alchemists by THEIR ministers. You observed THEIR descent into the characteristic, maddening elation of THEIR namesake—how THEIR thoughts were slowly poisoned by the archontes who governed alongside them, how the laws within Metis were beginning to change for the worst. It was sickening. You couldn’t help but continue, reading along with the morbid fascination of watching a violent, bloody train wreck. 

Aha the Embittered. Aha the Fickle. Aha the Strong. You read through the histories of the fortieth, seventy-eight, hundred-and-sixteenth archontes. One by one, the candles you had lit were beginning to waver against the endless pitch of night, but still you continued to read about the dynasty with a particular, gnawing apprehension. 

Some manifestations of the Elation were mere footnotes. Some died young, leaving the next sibling to take on the mantle of being Aha. Aha the Inquisitive. Aha the Pointless. They merged into one, amorphous entity with many faces, but a singular name. 

Aha the Fool. 

The very last scion. One final chapter, in a tome far too long for reading in the bathtub. Your fingers had pruned several times over, yet still you read on determinedly. 

‘This exracte is dedicated to the Kinge moste blasphemous.’ A ruler who was simultaneously the most exalted—the most powerful—yet the most despised. You read, enraptured, as the tale unfolded. An entire page had been dedicated to the anomaly within this generation. 

Unfettered by the last remnants of morality his ancestors possessed (debatable), he named none of his offspring Aha—for he believed it would be far more of a glorious tribute to the Elation if it were a game of sorts. There were seven children in total. The fifth and sixth died young, though the information was penned with a sceptical hand. ‘Aristophanes and Menander, they were hastily named, and just as hastily discarded by life itselfe.’

Of the five remaining children, there was a page dedicated to each. The boastful, arrogant Alazon—born first, yet with none of the qualities that typically demarcated the next Aha. The only daughter, Praxagora—an intelligent, cold girl with the wits to claw her way up to one of the most likely candidates for the mantle. The foolish Bomolochus. The shrewd Eiron. 

All four had small miniatures next to their biographies, and all four were fated to die during their imprisonment—whether to ailments or human hands, the tome didn’t specify. 

Engrossed, you turned one of the final pages, only to freeze. Your eye was first drawn to the startling lack of text on the page: a paltry few lines. Seventh prince, self-isolated within a tower. Unlike the rest, the author’s commentary was surprisingly neutral; an epithet not commonly associated with the vitriol spewed throughout. Likely because there were mere crumbs there. An academic. Contributed to pivotal medical research as a youth. Disappeared a few years before the Scholar’s March, without a funeral and without any search parties. You furrowed your brows. ‘Suspected treacherie against his progenitor. There is speculatione that Aha, blind with rage and madness, turned him into a rumoured statue, or exiled him far beyonde the borders of Metis.’

“Turned into a statue?” you muttered in disbelief. 

You scanned the space left of the text, yet there was no image like there was for the others—a space gouged out with a yellowed backdrop as though his existence itself was anomalous. 

It just so happened that the names were woven into the border in a looping, old Metisian style of script—meaning you generally deciphered who exactly it was once you were done reading the page. 

“Veritas…” you traced the old script with a finger, pausing for a brief moment. Even in your respite, he haunted you, you thought wryly—but the faint amusement you felt quickly turned to a disturbing silence. You were completely still; even your pupils didn’t dare waver as you checked, double-checked, and triple-checked the name that burned your retinas. 

“...Ratio, of the Elation.”  The water sloshed as you sat up hurriedly, unconcerned with the liquid that spilled out past the sides. What a coincidence. You might have treated it as such, but something about the various shades of purple hair on the previous pages nudged the name into unpleasant territory—curiosity. Something about the half-crowns of leaves that wove between their locks felt familiar. 

Contrary to the relaxing atmosphere, the message you scrawled hastily on telegram paper filled your room with a sense of urgency. 

Need books on the last Aha and THEIR progeny. The message flared into blue flames before disappearing—sent to all the bookshops you frequented, including the small, almost-dilapidated library that had mouldering texts not found anywhere else. 

It might’ve been a coincidence they shared the same name. The Ratio you knew may have been named after him, or perhaps they were somehow related through the vast window of a thousand years. Perhaps his efforts now were some sort of misguided continuation of the mentioned ‘treacherie’ that had described him, but you wouldn’t know. 

The next day, you teleported to the hotel bathroom—still unvacated, still usable—and surreptitiously collected the texts from each store. Then, you teleported back—ignoring the blood beginning to drip from your nose—and began searching for the name.

Nothing. 

There were books dedicated to Praxagora and the simultaneously progressive and regressive policies she advocated for. There were short novellas, dedicated to the pompous Alazon and the foolish Bomolochus. There were collated rumours of the exploits of Eiron. Mentions of Aristophanes and Menander were far more scarce, with them typically being referred to as the dead princes collectively.

For the seventh prince, it seemed he had been forgotten entirely. Indeed, the only mention of him came as the ‘seventh prince’ or in later contemporary works, the fifth. Even then, he was a mere sentence in some, a paltry footnote in other works. 

There was nothing. You sighed, and discarded the matter entirely. Whatever you were imagining was just a product of sleepless nights and bone-deep exhaustion. There were plenty of people with the same names. The conclusions you drew were absurd and made no sense. 

How pointless. 

. 　⁺ ✦ 

[review-anon]

//Alright time to talk about Project Eden's Garden Chapter 1 Class Trial. Spoilers as always are under the cut.

//I really hope flamethrower isn't the new poison in this game.

//Anyway so mystery wise I say this chapter was quite well done, since while I was able to figure out a lot of what happened, the whole pully system that was used with the car battery and extension cord completely took me off guard. And yeah Lithium is no joke, it causes massive explosions when mixed with water I've seen videos on Youtube the explosions get quite intense.

//Grace is totally like Miu in which while she doesn't say much and its often wrong, she is often on the money who the culprit is. Of course her reasons for suspecting Damon and Eva was because she didn't like them, to the point you cannot do her FTEs but maybe she will soften up by Chapter 2? Who knows.

//Everyone also contributes quite a bit to the Class Trial, as even Cassidy who I argue is one of the more stupider character, can have some insight due to hosting the Not-Melee Tournament and having good enough memory to recall past conversations.

//When it comes to Pathos statements I got worried I wouldn't know when to use them but the game makes it quite clear when you need to use either logic or emotions as you only need to use empathy bullets once and its very obvious when that happens.

//As for the new minigames, as I predicted we have 2 new minigames and they are oldies. The first is rebuttal showdown which is as typical as they come. And since Weoena was the first to object that means she is the Chapter 2 Victim/j

//Ulysee's Rebuttal quote cracks me up because when he butts in he says "Um AcTuAlLy" like he's in some internet argument or something. Then again seeing how he requoted the repeating history quote to be that if you don't repeat history, you look stupid online, means while Ulysee loves his books and all, he seems to be engaging in quite a few online discourse debates.

//And then there is this game's version of Argument Altercation which...yeah...we will get to that later.

//Of course now we get into the meat of the trial and let's go with the first shocking twist; the fact Diana was there when Wolfgang died and he attacked her. And that pretty much everything I theorised was right there.

//My man over here acting like he inhaled a bunch of Void Juice.

//So as a bit of context; Diana was given a letter to what she thought was from Wolfgang but in reality was by the culprit and came down to the Boiler Room since she thought Wolfgang had her blackmail, as he did a David and requested everyone to talk with the people they have the blackmail on. But when she saw Wolfgang he was behaving..odd...and eventually pulled out a knife to attack her, and was completely oblivious to what Diana was saying.

//It's later revealed that Wolfgang was injected with a hallogenic and he attacked Diana because he didn't actually see her but rather someone or something else that causes such a reaction. So who was it that Wolfgang saw instead of Diana? My best bet is that Wolfgang was seeing his father.

//Damon got Wolfgang's blackmail which at first seemed like he was married but aside from the different eye colour the date was in 2001, which while we don't know what year Project's Eden Garden is set in, appernetely 2001 was before Wolfgang was even born, so this must be a picture of his parents getting married. We also get a cryptic hint saying "Like Father, Like Son. Behind a Sheepish body lurks a Wolfish Mind." Which translated means that Wolfgang takes a lot after his dad, where he might appear kind and gentle on the surface but in reality he's much more brutish and aggressive. A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing if you will.

//But what Wolfgang was muttering, makes me reconsider that. As the fact he seems want to kill his "father" means that Wolfgang must have a terrible realtionship with him, and resent him for something. We also know he's a bit of a momma's boy and there he's his attiude towards women. Wolfgang always tried to act like a gentlemen to the ladies in the Killing Game, encoruging Eloise to come out of her shell, being supportive of both Grace and Diana, and appernetely Grace enjoyed his company so much that when the bunk buddy system was suggested, it was Wolfgang and Ulysee who switched their parnters with Weonoa and Grace.

//Its obvious why Weonoa and Grace wanted to swap roommates as both of them cannot stand each other and it was like a house on fire with them, but Wolfgang and Ulysee's reasons are unknown, as the latter refuses to elaborate. Maybe Wolfgang isn't very friendly with men, and Ulysee had to witness that and wanted out. Its not Yuri levels of hate as Wolfgang can be civilised around other men, but I do believe he is biased towards women. The only woman he doesn't like is Eva and that's because she spoke out against him by saying he's too naive.

//During the Prologue Class Trial Wolfgang got very heated during it and claimed that the worst thing a man can do is murder a woman, and he says this with a huge degree of intensity. So Wolfie has a gender bias, not the first for this franchise, but then what does he mean by the fact he could never be like his father?

//Its here that I decide to pull out a Review Anon classic dark theory and claim that Wolfgang's father murdered his mother and Wolfgang saw this happen.

//Yeah that's a bit of a yikes but there is quite a bit of evidence backing this up. It would explain why Wolfgang became so focused on law, because he wanted his father to pay. Maybe Wolfgang's dad was also a ace attorney, and thought Wolfgang was following in his footsteps. But while Wolfgang's father was a terrible person who was probably very abusive to women, Wolfgang by contrast probably tried to act like a shitty person around him, but in reality he didn't have the heart to do it.

//But then there's the fact Wolfgang is considered to have a Wolfish mind. This means you isolate and dominate over others to remain on top. We see traces of this with how Wolfgang treated Damon and Eva when they opposed him. Not only did he not like the way they spoke to him, but he encouraged the others not assiocate with them, this had various degrees but I don't think Wolfgang possessed actual malice towards Damon and Eva, he was more annoyed by them opposing his viewpoints.

//We also know Wolfgang took a knife to the meeting because while he's an optimist he's also not a moron and knows meeting someone in the boiler room sounds like a good way to kill someone. He'll give someone the benefit of the doubt, but it pays to be prepared.

//I do wonder what would have happened if Wolfgang and Damon did meet up due to Damon having Wolfgang's blackmail. Given how horrid his family situation seems to be, I imagine Wolfgang wouldn't react well to it, ESPECIALLY in front of someone he flat-out doesn't like.

//Overall, I do think Wolfgang isn't as sainty as he likes to paint himself as, but he's also not as bad as the likes of Tsurugi, Nikei, David and Ryohei have swooped. If anything, Wolfgang is more morally grey, which makes him more human. And let's face if his assault on Diana didn't result in him dying via Gender Balancing electrocition, and he regained his senses, he would be deeply horrified and apologetic to Diana for how he treated her.

//Speaking of Diana man do I feel bad for this poor girl. I always liked Diana as she's such a sunshine of optismism, which is why I REALLY hope she's not secretly the Mastermind, and while everyone and their mother didn't want to assiocate with Damon and Eva, she tried to reach out to them, as while Wolfgang might not like it, she believes everyone deserves a second chance. She acted nice to Damon and said she be a shoulder for him to cry on, and even offered to be Eva's roommate because she felt she needed a friend and was so lonely. Unfortunately for Diana, she was a farmer and both Damon and Eva were snakes as Eva used her for her murder scheme to be the first fall person and when after the Class Trial Diana vows she will take up the mantle Wolfgang left behind and try to help everyone, not only did her rousing speech fall on deaf ears as everyone was too apathetic to hear her...but Damon just got pissed off hearing her.

//No sugercoating it, Diana is gonna be the rival character in this game but for a different reason as our protagonist is a very cynical character whilst Diana is a very optismitic person. I would be very interested how Bubbles reacts to this since this is like Teruko's and Eden's dynamic but on a much more hostile setting. Plus she has a reptile motif like Damon as she's a chameleon while he's a snake. We don't get many female rival characters, if any so this is a very refreshing change of pace as if Damon is gonna be a Villian Protagonist, then Diana is the Hero Antagonist. At least this means she'll live until Chapter 5.

//Now time to talk about the culprit of this case, Eva Tsunaka. And remember how I said she was gonna do shit in this chapter since I never in a million years trust characters you first meet and befriend? Well Eva was vindication on the absolute extreme as not only was she the culprit of this case but while this isn't the first time our first "friend" turned out to kill someone, Eva is a FARCRY from Kaede who killed for sympthatic reasons and was doing the Class Trial to try and expose the Mastermind. Meanwhile Eva is actually a very selfish person who only cared about herself and has a very low opinion on the others.

//She also self-sabotaged her own group standing as its one thing to lie about your talent if its a dangerous one but Mathetic is a very harmless talent so claiming she's the Ultimate Liar just made her look worse. Yes some people mocked her talent, but they are the jerks. A lot of Eva's woes in the Killing Game was self-inflicted and she has only herself to blame for it. Its also something I noticed but Eva sounds a lot like Eve who is the first woman to commit sin, so there is a biblical reference to her being the first culprit. And man when Eva starts breaking down she gets UGLY.

//She throws Damon under the bus, which while I was expecting her to do that, its still brutal the way she does it, but fortunately nobody is buying it since Eva's relations are down the toilet. And this breakdown of hers as she's unravelled as the culprit is brutal as like most Chapter 1 culprits, Eva doesn't back down easily, and this leads to *sigh* the one minigame I was dreading to talk about. Argument Altercation.

//Its tradition for this minigame to be a thing when breaking the culprits down and normally its a rhythm heaven type game where you have to time your hits as you break down the culprit's healh before telling them why they are wrong. Super Danganronpa Another 2 also does this though my computer decided to act up, but Project Eden's Garden...goes a completely different direction and I will say this;

//I

//FUCKING

//HATE

//THIS

//MINIGAME

//This is the single WORST minigame within any of the Danganronpa titles I ever had the misfortune of playing. This makes Goodbye Despair's Improved Hangman's Gambit look like Scrum Debate by comparison.

//So what is so bad about this minigame? Well for starters its a Bullet Hell where you not only have to dodge Eva's attacks but also shoot her. Sounds simple right? Well unforunately, Eva seems to be a avid Touhou player since she BEHAVES like a Touhou boss, with swarms of bullets that guarantee that if you AREN'T a bullet hell expert you will die a lot, and you have SO few oppertunties to attack.

//The screen flips during the second phase and while it doesn't last long, its enough to get you hit a bunch and its also when Eva pulls out her Touhou style attacks where swarms of bullets fire your way.

//But if you thought things couldn't get worse...oh boy there's the third phase which doesn't always happen but if you get THIS screen.

//Then you are FUCKED as Eva will send crow shaped homing attacks at you which are borderline IMPOSSIBLE to dodge and if you haven't got a lot of health left you WILL die, even WITH the slowdown speed.

//And when you get to the finishing blow, there's barely any time to do the word sorting which gets you back to the final phase where you will 100% die and go back to the beginning.

//This no joke took me TWO FUCKING HOURS to do, now granted some of it was the fact I couldn't use the slowdown speed. But what worries me is that this is CHAPTER 1.

//The other culprits are gonna be like this and they are gonna be even harder so what is Chapte 5's culprit gonna be like this?

//But once I'm done I was so emotionally bent that I wanted Eva to die slowly and painfully. I don't know how much people hate this game and if its hated enough the difficulty might get toned down as a result.

//When Eva explained why she was the way she was...one on hand its the same old "Ultimate system sucks arse" we all heard but at the same time, people like Diana and Damon DID try to reach out to her and her lying about her talent was a self-inflicted wounded, so while sympthatic in the end most of what Eva did was things she brought upon herself.

//And then comes the execution and as per Danganronpa fashion its a brutal one which makes Eva really suffer for what she's been through before she literally burns in hell. I mean given how biblical this game is, I wouldn't be surprised by that.

//So my overall veridict is Project Eden's Garden is a good game which is worth checking out but I do NOT like Argument Alteraction.

//Now comes the golden question. Since I played Chapter 1, and sprites for Project Eden's Garden characters are available, plus Creeper was able to use Eloise in Survivor, will Project Eden's Garden Characters be on the Voidship?

//Well with Chapter 1 sprites not available yet, I want to wait until they are. But when they do become available I won't add the characters straight away, I did so for Despair Time once Timeline Anon gave me the greenlight since it was a option I was considering.

//But I feel Project Eden's Garden characters would not only clog up the Christmas Arc a bit, but also since I know certain people haven't played the game yet, I don't want to go into spoilers. For example Wolfgang and Diana would react quite badly to the news of Void Juice given their past experiences with drugs that cause you to face inner demons.

//However I'm not ruling them out since I have plans, you just need to wait.

//And that's all, don't know when Chapter 2 will come out but probably talk about it next when Bubbles and TA stream it.

[2003daredevil]

Right so like basically, Farouk uses two faces to manipulate David. Always a carrot and a stick. When David was younger, he took the form of a dog as the friendly face and the angriest boy from the book as the scary one. I think they really did read him the book as a child and it scared him and Farouk uses that form expressly for that reason and the dog he couldve gotten from anywhere.

Cut to adult David. Now Farouk oscillates between using Lenny as the friendly face, which works inspite of David knowing that the real Lenny is dead. We don't know how many of the five to six years (six fucking years) David was at Clockworks Lenny was friends with him for but Farouk also altered David's memories to include her in place of Benny just to make that connection more strong. Conversely the stick option is The Devil with Yellow Eyes. My theory is that the real Devil came from David's hallucinations organically and, as this was now the thing that most frightened him, Farouk starts using this instead.

Second thing I'm noticing this rewatch is that when posessed by the Shadow King the characters do not behave like eachother or like the Farouk we see later. I've seen a lot of people confused by this but I think the point is that all of them, Shadow!Lenny, Shadow!Olliver, Shadow!David etc. , all are somewhat there when being used by him and how he acts as them is a function of the original person's personality if their worst traits were amplified. That is Lenny as the Shadow King. Thus why even while trying to seduce David into villainy she still tells him "I don't swing that way." in refrence to her, even now, still being a lesbian. Shadow! Olliver is just as cryptic and sophistocated as Olliver normally is. And it also is why Farouk via Melanie insists to Syd that Shadow!David is his true face. He insists that while he can make someone do something, he can't make them enjoy it, which I don't believe, but in this case David does enjoy the power of hurting people, just people he believes deserves it. So like he really isn't just Farouk unless he's in his own form, other times hes both himself and his host.

[smileymoth]

I have no idea what marble hornets is but the stuff your sharing looks super interesting and makes me wanna get into it. What is it exactly?

i'm letting @theslyvoid9 answer this because he's the reason i watched it and he's literally right next to me rn. so um. listen to him. he's a connoisseur and has been hounding me about this for months <3 . take it away boy

okay hiiii sly here! so um anyway sdkhufsk gonna keep this kinda spoiler free but in short Marble hornets is a 15 year old youtube horror series and one of the first video projects to use the slendermans character for a more detailed story. The full series ran for around 5 years and lasts roughly around 8-9 hours. The story was kinda hosted on two separate youtube channels, with the main marble hornets youtube channel posting the main entries and a side channel that posts more cryptic videos inbetween the actual entries for lore^tm reason. To watch both of the channels videos in order i suggest this playlist as a easy starting point! Link Storywise. it starts off with our main character Jay getting the tapes for an old project from a friend and looking through them a few years later and noticing stuff.....very wrong in some of the tapes and deciding he needs to investigate further and that leads him down a...rather not good path and drags several characters back into the trenches with him in the process. Overall the editing and sound design is the main scare factor in this series with jumpscares being kinda minimal. So if you like horror with a more building and suspenseful atmosphere then this is a must watch! The characters are lovely, the story is really interesting and the mystery in it is really cool to see unfold. Fair warning tho that the editing does involve a lot of glitching aka flashing at points and the story starts of a bit slow but it picks up in a very natural way! ANYWAY yeah....in short its a youtube horror series about slenderman and glitching videos and mental illness :D I personally really recommend it and if you have more questions idk hit me up on my blog! Anyway back to danny o/

YEAH I AGREE W HIM !!!!!!!! very good summary :thumbsup: (he's not holding a gun to my head to say this) i found the story very captivating, the characters are definitely unique in personality and i was just staring at their face shapes all the time....... it hurts you a lot btw the story i mean it hurts SOOO much . watch it. NJEOW if you like angst and pain and interesting video editing and convincing acting

[camouflagedlove]

You mentioned wanting to maybe write some blurbs! For Stranger Things, I've seen a lot of fics of Will talking to Steve or Eddie about being gay or different. Do you think that conversation could ever end up happening with Robin?

thanks for this!! I've been wanting to write but have had creative block

here's a short thing of will bonding with Robin over being gay

Will was smart. He was a listener, and an observer and he saw a lot about the people around him.

In campaigns he'd observe Eddie's motions, some of them a dead giveaway that he had a surprise in store. He observed Nancy withdrawing from Jonathan but most of all, lately he'd observed something about Robin Buckley that was distinctly familiar.

Robin was more of a friend of a friend at this point. They're not super close but they know of each other, they cross paths a lot and when they did cross paths something about her made Will wonder.

She felt like him. It was something he couldn't really explain. She always seemed a little unsure of herself, in her wording, in her everything. Just like Will was.

Robin had this air around her like she was hiding something, something she felt was a big part of her. The only time he felt the discomfort emanating from her the least was when she was with Steve. Like perhaps he knew something only a best friend would know.

Will watched her for a bit. Saw the habit she had for staring at girls, mostly Nancy or a girl with short ginger hair that Will didn't know. Everyone looked at girls but Will had a certain way of looking that he'd always felt was different. He saw the way his friends looked at girls; Lucas at Max, Mike at El. It was the same way Robin did.

Something in him suspected, knew that Robin was like him. Not the same as him, but similar in a way that they wore day to day and yet hid from everyone else.

Steve had been hosting a pool party, he invited all of the kids and the teens. It was fun.

Robin seemed...uncomfortable.

She didn't seem comfortable around Nancy in her swimsuit, her eyes staying glued to the girls face. Robin also seemed avoidant of the boys. She barely looked at them like she was afraid someone would misconstrue it. It's a feeling Will was familiar with.

Lately, if he was within 5 feet of a girl they didn't know people would push him, encourage him. Like that was something that really mattered now, like that was something they knew he wanted. But he didn't. At least not with any girls.

"Robin," Will said, getting the girl's attention at the pool's edge.

She looked shocked but answered, "What's up, kid?"

"Could I talk to you?"

Robin shot Steve an anxious look before she ultimately nodded and stood to follow him. Will led them to the kitchen, away from everyone else.

"I don't know how to ask this..." Will started. He hadn't really planned this. Hadn't planned what he wanted to ask her. But he was sure she was like him. The excitement of maybe getting to know one more person stuck in this town pretending like him had made him forget to plan.

"Do you feel...different?" he settled on cryptically.

Robin shuffled uncomfortably. "Different how?"

"Like...like everyone expects you to want something that...you don't want? Like there's a version of you everyone created but it's not you but it's close to you so you don't want to disappoint them."

Tears were gathered at the bottoms of Robin's eyes, like she was holding them back.

"Like there's something inside of you, hiding, and you know it's there but you have to pretend it's not?" Robin asked.

Will nodded.

Tears fell from Robin's eyes and she threw her arms out. "Come here, I'm adopting you now."

Will laughed but went into the offered hug.

"I can be like your gay teacher, tell you all I know, which isn't a lot. Help you navigate, all of it."

"That'd be great!" Will said with a smile. "My brother knows but it's nice to be able to talk to someone who gets it on some level."

"Jonathan knows?" Robin asked, separating from the boy.

"Yeah, he's really supportive," Will said proudly.

"Good to know," she said with a smile.

"So what's the first lesson you want to know?" Robin asked rubbing her hands together conspirationally.

"How to get over your straight best friend," he answered

"God, couldn't have started easy," Robin asked with a laugh. "We'll work on that."

[geeknik]

31 Days of Halloween: Day 19, The Enigmatic Lemp Mansion of St. Louis

On the 19th day of our eerie expedition, we delve into the heart of St. Louis, Missouri, to uncover the mystifying tales enveloping the Lemp Mansion. This grandiose structure, once the epitome of wealth and success, now stands as a somber emblem of tragedy and the supernatural. As we journey through its haunted halls, we'll discover the entangled narrative of the Lemp family's fortune and downfall, intertwined with eerie apparitions and ghostly echoes from a bygone era.

Historical Background

The Lemp Mansion, situated in the Benton Park neighborhood of St. Louis, was once the residence of the affluent Lemp family, whose lineage traced back to Johann Adam Lemp, a German immigrant. The family's fortune burgeoned with the establishment of the Lemp Brewery, which introduced lager beer to St. Louis in the 1840s. Under the stewardship of William J. Lemp, the brewery flourished, and by the 1870s, the Lemp Brewery was a household name, synonymous with quality and tradition.

However, the prosperous epoch was ephemeral. The Lemp family faced an inexorable streak of calamities, beginning with Frederick Lemp's demise in 1901, followed by William J. Lemp's suicide in 1904. The advent of Prohibition in 1919 further plunged the family into despair, leading to the brewery's closure and a string of subsequent tragedies, including more suicides within the family.

Haunting Tales

The murky legacy of the Lemp Mansion is inexorably intertwined with the melancholic narrative of the Lemp family. The mansion is said to be rife with spectral activities, many of which are believed to be the unrestful spirits of the Lemp lineage. Among the most unsettling tales is that of the "Monkey Face Boy," an illegitimate child of William Lemp, who was allegedly concealed in the attic due to his Down Syndrome, and whose spirit is claimed to still lurk within the mansion's haunting halls.

Exploring the Lemp Mansion

For those with a penchant for the paranormal, the Lemp Mansion proffers an array of ghostly expeditions. The "Lemp Experience" is a notable event that allows intrepid souls to delve into the mansion's eerie enigma every other Thursday from December to August, with additional days in the fall months. Moreover, the Lemp Legacy Tour, dubbed "St. Louis’ Most Haunted Ghost Tour," guides guests through the mansion’s spectral spaces on Tuesday nights, revealing the cryptic chronicles encased within its walls.

Other chilling ventures include Halloween night ghost tours accompanied by Brick City Paranormal, offering a spooky exploration of the mansion's haunted halls while sipping on creepy cocktails. The mansion also hosts various paranormal investigations, séances, and ghost hunting equipment for those seeking a deeper encounter with the unknown.

Conclusion

As we conclude our 19th day of spooky sojourns, the Lemp Mansion stands as a poignant emblem of a family’s affluence turned affliction, veiled in an aura of mystery and ghostly whispers. The mansion invites the brave to traverse its haunted halls, to unveil the spectral narratives veiled within, and to experience firsthand the chilling tales that have rendered the Lemp Mansion a legendary haunted haven in St. Louis, MO.

[villainsandvictimsalliance]

(NO BETA) EXCERPT FROM MY SHIGADABI FANTASY AU, UP ON THE CLIFF:

“... Kurogiri told me earlier that you slept through most of the passage to the cliff. Should I trust you found it a peaceful ride?”

Still encased in nighttime dimness, Touya tried to decipher the tone floating down at him from the head of the table. He couldn't see its owner past the glow of the candles, the darkness that rained down on them from the vaults in the high ceiling. To compensate his lack of visual confirmation, he sketched the man there with his mind, faithful to the memory of how his host, the Count up on the cliff, had looked under the morning sunlight.

Touya remembered it all too well, how they had sat there distracted with their food or the noises of their companions. The Count's hair would flow down and sparkle against the raw terrain of his skin, making it all the more hard to not stare at his eyes of red turmoils and secrecy. The Count was fresh snow on an open wound and Touya thought the color was more common the closer he was to the passage, but not by much. On his journey to the valley, he had met barely a few of human refugees with a similar red in his eyes. Yet the Count's matched his cape and its collar, lined in white fur —it matched his hair.

That thought would've made him frown if spoken aloud. After all, he cared nothing if the Count had had the coat over his shoulders made to match him, if his scars made his all the more raw, if his was the name he hasn't known yet. Curious but trivial things did not matter and they shouldn't. Touya was only interested in the sensation of his mind already wandering, getting uncoordinated. It was the same case as before, when any thought of the Count would lead him into slippery slopes and Touya, or anyone else on that matter, would soonly forget why they were thinking about him at all.

“...”

Once more, Touya looked up to face the Count's silence, allowing the company to chitchat as they pleased. The times they talked were enough to be counted with the fingers of a single hand and, rare as they were, they would startle Touya, raising his attention of the ones sitting or resting beside him. The Count had the soft-spoken cadence of a man home taught by the best tutors money could buy, but his words lacked any politeness or fondness and instead came enveloped in direct orders or demands, cryptical than most, that the habitants of the castle would follow to the letter. Touya did call him a petulant child in the past, if he recall the accident shortly after his arrival. It had been easier back then, to insult him, to blame the anger and frustration he felt on the man that demanded his sacrifice. Touya hadn't known him yet and he did not know him still, which left him with the only other option available: to know himself better, his place in that monster town, his role in that castle. He could only decipher his own heart to set apart any alien feeling, any influence, any invasion.

As for now, it was as if they were not there. Touya had disappear alongside the Count to the world.

He risked a glace at Toga and the gecko boy, each by his left, but they were busy reacting to some kind of joke Jin was telling. Mr. Atsuhiro, by his right side, was not even looking at the table or his dessert, too busy gesturing at their butler as if explaining his excitement about what they had had for dinner that night. No one reacted to the conversation he was having with the Count. No one even looked his way o tried to pressure him to answer, not even the butler confirmed what the Count had said. Could it be...

Could it be that the Count was reading his mind?

Touya made to grab his glass, emptying his mind so violently he felt a snap in the back of his head. However, as soon as he extended his left hand the room started spinning, the smiles of the pictures framed by the walls getting more loopsided by the minute, the food balancing left and right over the tablecloth, a waltz of dresses and coats and hats and spiders—

“Calm down.”

Touya tried to blink it away. There was a solid grip on his chest, tugging to get the nod on his lungs undone. He allowed the unknown pulse to had him as he concentrated on keeping his face clean of panic; not thinking, not allowing anyone else to know how altered he wasat the moment. It took him a lifetime, the type that is condensated in a minute, before the room settled and he was able to hear.

“ —ust like that. Good,” Touya blinked again and again towards the direction of the voice, one, two seats past Mr. Atsuhiro, noticing what he thought was a faint smile hovering on the air and a pair of watchful red eyes on him.

Touya heard it again, this time realizing the Count was not moving his lips, not even vacillating on his strange and curious expression:

“Did I spook you, Dabi?” when he only narrowed his eyes in response, he was allowed to appreciate how the Count huffed with amusement, looking down at his plate, “A-ah. Don't be angry. It's not my intention to read your mind, nor am I doing it at the moment.”

Confusion accumulated on his brow, driving him closer to the table as if he could figure out what the Count was talking about by sheer proximity. He was not talking, was he? Touya could see how he lifted a cup to drink of the wine, responding to whatever Spinner had asked him a second ago.

“I am projecting the words to your mind, that is. I asure you it's a one-way road. Unless...”

For the first time since his arrival, Touya saw the mouth of the Count tilt at the corners with what could only be mischief. It was hard to admit, even harder to explain, what the motion did to him and how it activated his competitive instinct. From his time training with his dad, Touya could recognize a challenge with eyes close, hands bind, deaf to any sound. It was in the air, in the gentle swept of the candlelight, the smooth inclination of the host shoulders until his elbows were resting fully on the table, hands intertwined ao he could rest his chin.

He reminded himself of the original question, the one that started this whole conversation. He had slept, sure, but it jad been due the strange magic that had surrounded him that evening. Memories of his family had seized him as their car climbed downhill, images of his childhood on the Himura state, of Sekoto Peak, of his siblings and cousins running in the distance as he chased butterflies in the hidden fields past the family greenhouse. He doesn't know when he transitioned from merely reminiscing to fully dreaming. The distant howls woke him near the butler's tavern, some hours past midnight, maybe.

When Touya glanced at the Count, he was almost bored, playing with the rim of his cup while gecko boy showed him something on his hand. It could have been a spider, but Touya didn't care. He had an hypothesis to prove, a host to impress, a dare to win.

He pictured himself opening his mouth, forming the syllables with his lips, tasted the sounds of every vowel and sent them crashing to his host pretty ears.

Touya thought, “unless I talk back?” and stared satisfied at the Count as his eyes left the gecko's hands to look at him, red so bright he thought the world had caught fire. The Count waited, moving his fingers against his cheeks as if telling Touya that now he had his attention. “I slept on the ride here influenced by your butler's dark magic, but you knew that. You asked him to use his magic and put me to slumber. Your question, it was not politeness nor politics.”

The Count lifted his cup, drinking the last of his wine as Touya organized his thoughts.

“You wanted me to talk to you this way.”

It was the longest conversation he had had with the man since he arrived at that wasteland. The fact dented Touya's pride. That he had allowed the Count to treat him like a prisoner for so long, that he had allowed the Count to ignore him, his existence, if not for his presence every morning during breakfast and more recently on dinners, where he would not address him at all and leave as soon as the meal was over. He did not ached for his company or validation. He didn't want him to treat him like the rest, with similar silence that always ended on a well though inquiry, maybe a few words of encouragement, disguised by his position as the count so they wouldn't sound very vulnerable. The Count had talked to him before, but always through others, or just a phrase, just a nod. He had sent him a trained dog to guide him through the town, so he wouldn't get lost. He had offered to took him back to his village, ordering a car to wait for him every evening by the gates of the castle. He had gave him the key of his room, accepted him as Dabi and only referred to him as that, despite knowing the truth. Had had Dabi's meals made specially for him as to not upset his stomach, gave him a room specially acclimated to accommodate his wronging sickness.

Everything he knew about the Count, he knew it for his actions and never his words. And it had been enough for him for an entire month now. He had found it comfortable enough to walk and talk and act among them without much fuss. Touya only demanded answers or respect when it was either about his mission to unlock the mystery behind the demon sickness that afflicted him or when it was about his freedom to roam around doing whatever the fuck he wanted. He didn't care about the games the Count wanted to play with the rest of them.

He almost missed the moment the Count stood up, the legs of his chair scratching so subtly the wood of the floor. It was their signal. The meal was officially over.

He thanked the gecko boy —Iguchi— for showing him the cards of a new game he was crafting and nodded once, a gesture meant to acknowledge everyone in the room in a brief goodbye, before he walked out the room and left behind only the trail of his coat disappearing around the corner.

Touya followed the rest, his dessert intact on the plate as they took the dishes to the kitchen to be magically cleaned by the staff. Jin invited them to play cards, an offer he denied without explanation and that Iguchi and Toga immediately latched to. Mr. Atsuhiro had only crossed his arms and let out a single sigh, deciding he could play piano to make them company or supervise the progression of the game, in case it got... Complicated.

Dabi sent them to the game room with a shake of shoulders. They could do as they wanted too.

He didn't want to know.

On the hallway up to his room, he stopped along the way once, in front of the window walls. The moon had partially came out, clouds rolling low over the forest and mixing with the fog. The air was chilling, cold kisses on his bandaged wounds. He extended his pointer finger to touch a pale ray of moonlight, admiring the absence of heat and the silver stiches that differentiate it so much from its daylight equivalent. Beneath it, the edges of his burns became a deep purple, his skin taking and unnatural blue glow. Back at home, they had told him several times that his eyes would get the more scary at night, when they would shine even brighter than the moon or any fireplace made by human hands. He would laugh and smile, big, big enough to show all his teeth, and the kids would run and call for help and their mothers would call him a monster, a zombie, a walking grave.

Then came that sensation to his chest and Touya squished it, set it aflame, reduced it to ashes. He stepped back and turned around, not stopping until the door of his room was locked and his body was resting on his bed, curtains close, his clothes changed and wounds freshly bandaged.

He had felt red eyes on him. That sensation. The tug, the weight, his finger touching the glass of the window. Touya didn't want to know. He didn't want to know if what he had said was right or if it was wrong, if the Count left becuase he left or if he left because of him. He didn't want to know if the others were having fun, sitting on the carpet, fingers touching one another as they laid their cards down.

The night had inflicted irreparable damage on him. He shouldn't had allowed the Count to talk to him like that, through his thoughts, direcly to his mind. Touya shouldn't had fallen so easily for the Count's twisted games, craving the excitement of a new discovery, a challenger to beat, a rival to show off to. Something had been taken and given in return that night. The full moon was whispering of trades and Touya sat by the fireplace, burning piece of paper after piece of paper, until his rage had subdued.

« you want me to talk to you like this. »

Touya threw an entire book to the fire.

He didn't want to know.

[panie-wanie-dean-bean]

And ur both totally right my mistake, It is important to be respectful of ur boys' schedules when u wanna pamper them, so why not commission a dark cloak, a plague doctor mask, and put on ur finest gregorian cryptic chants on ur blutooth speaker to hand deliver a letter to ur goth boy. You could cryptically say "9 Days. Prepare Yourself." and drift away.

And in the letter it says 'Pamper day! I luv you :3c' in cutesy pink bubble lettering, bc plague doctor masks r gothic and dom right?? :3c he must think MC is so cool!

I wont say i want it to be canon, but the idea of Nick being adopted months if not years before the others and they each witness something like that and ask Barry whose been here longer than them what it was. Barry also gets his personalized pamper day letter delivery (his is sailor themed bc ducks) but ofc he's a fucker so he only briefly looks up from the newspaper he's reading to think about a lie before delivering it. "Hm once every blue moon Master chooses a hybrid at random as a host for a dark twisted ritual i think"

And the others just nurse a cigarette and a coffee for a week and a half, wondering wat the fuck they got themselves into and planning a prison break, before Nick just casually strolls down the stairs the day after, with brighter skin, shinier/fluffier hair and feathers, and clears the air.

The Hybrids figure out Barry is an asshole and Barry could care less bc he's MC's "special little guy 💕"

Everyone has their quirks and the hybrid bois can do no wrong in her eyes, not even Barry unfucking-fortunately

-🖤 anon

Ok, Nick is in fucking tears from how hard he's laughing after he reads the note. Like you might have to get him his inhaler

Also, Ian was adopted first so he's just all giggles when he sees you dressing up to deliver someone their first spa day note

And dressing up as a sailor for Berry's day? Oh my fucking god, I love your brain dude! Berry's just a silly little guy who can do no wrong

[theplateaus]

The Owners: Family Ted & The Italians

🕶️ THE OWNERS OF THE PLATEAUS

🧔 Family Ted

“Strategy is just grit in disguise.”

📸 Visual Profile:

Always wears aviators indoors, regardless of weather or lighting Smells permanently of pipe smoke and barbecue sauce Dresses like your favorite uncle if he was also running covert ops from a golf course Owns 49% of the Plateaus, but insists it’s “a clean 51” Hair slicked back, voice like gravel on velvet Sometimes wears a “World’s Okayest Executive” hoodie that no one remembers printing

🧥 Vibes & Behavior:

Mob consigliere energy + Sunday dad warmth + late-night conspiracy podcast host Believes the playbook should be carved into wood, not uploaded to “cloudspace” Has never once opened a spreadsheet Known to appear in the locker room post-win, lean against a doorway, and say: “That’s the kind of grit you can’t fake, boys.”

🗝️ Rumors & Legacy:

May have once taken a penalty kick with a glass of bourbon in his other hand Has never been photographed with his mouth fully open Claims the stadium is built on “good ley lines” When players ask for contract bonuses, he offers cryptic riddles and brisket

🍝 The Italians

Three men. Three tracksuits. One unknowable force.

📸 Visual Profile:

Always appear in a group of three Wear matching tracksuits in varying shades of navy blue, never labeled Never speak aloud—they just nod… and things happen One is always eating something: Olives, biscotti, prosciutto, or a peeled pear No one knows their names. No one knows where they’re from. They don’t know either.

🧥 Vibes & Behavior:

The quiet engine room of Plateaus operations Appear randomly at practice, games, locker room corners—always just watching Never interfere, but somehow every stadium upgrade, locker repair, or glove shipment? “Handled by the Italians.” Sit in the owner’s booth at Tremethor Stadium—glass so dark it looks like a void Players sometimes say they feel watched… but comforted, somehow

🕰️ Rumors & Lore:

One of them once adjusted a chinstrap, and the player never fumbled again Have been seen standing in the rain, unmoving, as if waiting for a storm to speak Jack’D has a photo of them in his equipment room, half-blurred like it glitched reality That photo is taped under the words: “Don’t ask.”

🔮 Collective Influence:

Family Ted brings the chaos and charm. The Italians bring the silence and certainty. Together, they own the Plateaus in spirit, deed… and probably ancient contract written in something that glows under moonlight.

[cleverhottubmiracle]

King Charles III gives Davido a shoutout, Drake teases “next chapter” that “may leave you feeling uneasy,” Manchester Utd plans to build “iconic” £2 billion 100,000-capacity stadium. Stay in the know with our Rave News Digest, which summarizes five of the hottest global news stories you need to catch up on, saving you time and energy. Consider it your daily news fix. 1. King Charles III gives Davido a shoutout Nigerian Afrobeats star Davido has received unexpected praise from King Charles III, who publicly expressed admiration for his music and its influence on his appreciation of Pidgin English. In a recently surfaced video, the British monarch spoke about the emotional power of music, highlighting its ability to evoke memories and connect people across cultures. While discussing his musical preferences, King Charles specifically mentioned Davido’s work, stating that the singer’s music played a role in sparking his interest in Nigerian Pidgin English. “Throughout my life, music has meant a great deal to me. It has that remarkable ability to bring happy memories, comfort us in times of sadness, and take us to distant places,” the King said. “Davido has made me like Pidgin English. I would like to speak it when next I visit Nigeria. Thanks to Afrobeats, it’s becoming more popular around the world.” Reacting to the royal recognition, Davido took to his Instagram story to share the clip, giving a shoutout to the British royal family with a heart emoji to show his gratitude. The acknowledgment from King Charles III adds to Davido’s growing global influence, reinforcing Afrobeats’ expanding reach and cultural impact. 2. Drake teases “next chapter” that “may leave you feeling uneasy” Drake is gearing up for a new phase in his career, but he’s warning fans that it might not be what they expect. In a cryptic Instagram post on Monday (March 10), the Canadian rapper shared a carousel of images, including a shot of nausea medication, an OVO Sound sweatshirt reading “Free the Man Dem,” and a still from the 2017 film Phantom Thread. Alongside the visuals, he reflected on his evolution in the music industry, acknowledging that his next steps could be unsettling for some. “I understand that this next chapter may leave you feeling uneasy,” he wrote, hinting at a potential shift in his artistic direction. The post comes just weeks after Drake’s latest collaborative project, “$ome $exy $ongs 4 U,” debuted at No. 1 on the Billboard 200. The Valentine’s Day release with PartyNextDoor marked his 14th chart-topping album, reinforcing his dominance in the industry. However, speculation is mounting that the rapper is preparing for a solo endeavor, as he previously teased new music. If his latest message is any indication, fans should brace for a bold and potentially divisive evolution in Drake’s sound and persona. 3. Rapper Maglera Doe Boy and MaXhosa Africa leave mark at Paris Fashion Week 2025 South African rapper and songwriter Maglera Doe Boy made waves at Paris Fashion Week 2025, performing and curating a playlist for the renowned luxury fashion brand MaXhosa Africa. The “Nja’ka” hitmaker took to social media to share his gratitude, thanking MaXhosa for the opportunity to showcase his music and set the sonic atmosphere for the entire show. Hosted by Hennessy South Africa, the event highlighted the seamless fusion of African music and fashion on a global stage. MaXhosa Africa, founded by Laduma Ngxokolo, presented its autumn/winter 2025 collection titled Umbulelo, further cementing its influence in the international fashion scene. The showcase attracted several South African stars, including Amapiano DJ and songwriter Kabza De Small and award-winning rapper and actress Boity Thulo. As MaXhosa continues to push creative boundaries and Maglera Doe Boy expands his global presence, the collaboration reflects the growing impact of African artistry on the world stage. 4. Doechii joins Ms. Lauryn Hill for “Doo Wop (That Thing)” duet Rising rap star Doechii reached a career milestone over the weekend when she joined the legendary Ms. Lauryn Hill onstage for a surprise duet of “Doo Wop (That Thing).” The unforgettable moment took place on March 8, during Hill’s headlining performance at the Jazz in the Gardens Festival in Miami. Hill introduced Doechii as her “sister” before launching into the 1998 classic, with the Tampa native matching the hip-hop icon’s energy and stage presence. The crowd erupted in cheers as Doechii delivered her verses with reverence, proving why she is one of the genre’s brightest stars. Following the performance, Doechii took to social media to express her gratitude, calling Hill her “hero” and describing the moment as “the greatest honor hip-hop could give me.” The duet marks another milestone in Doechii’s whirlwind year, as she recently became only the third woman to win the Grammy for Best Rap Album and was named Billboard’s 2025 Woman of the Year. With her latest track, “Anxiety,” officially dropping after viral TikTok success, Doechii continues to solidify her place in the industry—now with the ultimate co-sign from a hip-hop legend. 5. Manchester Utd plan to build “iconic” £2 billion 100,000-capacity stadium Manchester United have announced ambitious plans to build the largest football stadium in the UK, a state-of-the-art 100,000-seater venue near Old Trafford. The £2 billion project, described as “iconic” by co-owner Sir Jim Ratcliffe, aims to be “the world’s greatest football stadium” and is expected to be completed within five years. Designed by renowned architects Foster and Partners, the stadium will feature a striking umbrella structure, a vast public plaza twice the size of Trafalgar Square, and three towering masts—dubbed “the trident”—standing 200 meters high and visible from 25 miles away. Once the new stadium is ready, the historic Old Trafford, United’s home since 1910, is set to be demolished. The club, currently £1 billion in debt, has yet to confirm how the project will be financed, though chief executive Omar Berrada described it as “a very attractive investment opportunity.” Football finance expert Kieran Maguire believes the stadium’s potential as a multi-functional venue will generate enough revenue to offset costs. Meanwhile, United will continue playing at Old Trafford until construction is complete, ensuring minimal disruption for fans. Featured Image: @davido @theroyalfamily/Instagram Our Weekday News Digest summarizes five of the hottest news topics worldwide–including celebrity news from Hollywood to Nollywood, the latest trending global headlines from American reports to top African news today, and the best sports stories in 2025.For the latest in fashion, lifestyle, and culture, follow us on Instagram @StyleRave_— Read also Collins Badewa A fashion and pop culture writer who watches a lot of TV in his spare time. At Style Rave, we aim to inspire our readers by providing engaging content to not just entertain but to inform and empower you as you ASPIRE to become more stylish, live smarter and be healthier. Follow us on Instagram @StyleRave_ ♥ !function(f,b,e,v,n,t,s) if(f.fbq)return;n=f.fbq=function()n.callMethod? n.callMethod.apply(n,arguments):n.queue.push(arguments); if(!f._fbq)f._fbq=n;n.push=n;n.loaded=!0;n.version='2.0'; n.queue=[];t=b.createElement(e);t.async=!0; t.src=v;s=b.getElementsByTagName(e)[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(t,s)(window, document,'script', ' fbq('init', '496558104568102'); fbq('track', 'PageView'); !function(f,b,e,v,n,t,s)if(f.fbq)return;n=f.fbq=function()n.callMethod? n.callMethod.apply(n,arguments):n.queue.push(arguments);if(!f._fbq)f._fbq=n; n.push=n;n.loaded=!0;n.version='2.0';n.queue=[];t=b.createElement(e);t.async=!0; t.src=v;s=b.getElementsByTagName(e)[0];s.parentNode.insertBefore(t,s)(window, document,'script',' !function(f,b,e,v,n,t,s)if(f.fbq)return;n=f.fbq=function()n.callMethod? n.callMethod.apply(n,arguments):n.queue.push(arguments);if(!f._fbq)f._fbq=n; n.push=n;n.loaded=!0;n.version='2.0';n.queue=[];t=b.createElement(e);t.async=!0; t.src=v;s=b.getElementsByTagName(e)[0];s.parentNode.insertBefore(t,s)(window, document,'script',' fbq('init', '1453079628754066'); fbq('track', "PageView"); Source link

[norajworld]

King Charles III gives Davido a shoutout, Drake teases “next chapter” that “may leave you feeling uneasy,” Manchester Utd plans to build “iconic” £2 billion 100,000-capacity stadium. Stay in the know with our Rave News Digest, which summarizes five of the hottest global news stories you need to catch up on, saving you time and energy. Consider it your daily news fix. 1. King Charles III gives Davido a shoutout Nigerian Afrobeats star Davido has received unexpected praise from King Charles III, who publicly expressed admiration for his music and its influence on his appreciation of Pidgin English. In a recently surfaced video, the British monarch spoke about the emotional power of music, highlighting its ability to evoke memories and connect people across cultures. While discussing his musical preferences, King Charles specifically mentioned Davido’s work, stating that the singer’s music played a role in sparking his interest in Nigerian Pidgin English. “Throughout my life, music has meant a great deal to me. It has that remarkable ability to bring happy memories, comfort us in times of sadness, and take us to distant places,” the King said. “Davido has made me like Pidgin English. I would like to speak it when next I visit Nigeria. Thanks to Afrobeats, it’s becoming more popular around the world.” Reacting to the royal recognition, Davido took to his Instagram story to share the clip, giving a shoutout to the British royal family with a heart emoji to show his gratitude. The acknowledgment from King Charles III adds to Davido’s growing global influence, reinforcing Afrobeats’ expanding reach and cultural impact. 2. Drake teases “next chapter” that “may leave you feeling uneasy” Drake is gearing up for a new phase in his career, but he’s warning fans that it might not be what they expect. In a cryptic Instagram post on Monday (March 10), the Canadian rapper shared a carousel of images, including a shot of nausea medication, an OVO Sound sweatshirt reading “Free the Man Dem,” and a still from the 2017 film Phantom Thread. Alongside the visuals, he reflected on his evolution in the music industry, acknowledging that his next steps could be unsettling for some. “I understand that this next chapter may leave you feeling uneasy,” he wrote, hinting at a potential shift in his artistic direction. The post comes just weeks after Drake’s latest collaborative project, “$ome $exy $ongs 4 U,” debuted at No. 1 on the Billboard 200. The Valentine’s Day release with PartyNextDoor marked his 14th chart-topping album, reinforcing his dominance in the industry. However, speculation is mounting that the rapper is preparing for a solo endeavor, as he previously teased new music. If his latest message is any indication, fans should brace for a bold and potentially divisive evolution in Drake’s sound and persona. 3. Rapper Maglera Doe Boy and MaXhosa Africa leave mark at Paris Fashion Week 2025 South African rapper and songwriter Maglera Doe Boy made waves at Paris Fashion Week 2025, performing and curating a playlist for the renowned luxury fashion brand MaXhosa Africa. The “Nja’ka” hitmaker took to social media to share his gratitude, thanking MaXhosa for the opportunity to showcase his music and set the sonic atmosphere for the entire show. Hosted by Hennessy South Africa, the event highlighted the seamless fusion of African music and fashion on a global stage. MaXhosa Africa, founded by Laduma Ngxokolo, presented its autumn/winter 2025 collection titled Umbulelo, further cementing its influence in the international fashion scene. The showcase attracted several South African stars, including Amapiano DJ and songwriter Kabza De Small and award-winning rapper and actress Boity Thulo. As MaXhosa continues to push creative boundaries and Maglera Doe Boy expands his global presence, the collaboration reflects the growing impact of African artistry on the world stage. 4. Doechii joins Ms. Lauryn Hill for “Doo Wop (That Thing)” duet Rising rap star Doechii reached a career milestone over the weekend when she joined the legendary Ms. Lauryn Hill onstage for a surprise duet of “Doo Wop (That Thing).” The unforgettable moment took place on March 8, during Hill’s headlining performance at the Jazz in the Gardens Festival in Miami. Hill introduced Doechii as her “sister” before launching into the 1998 classic, with the Tampa native matching the hip-hop icon’s energy and stage presence. The crowd erupted in cheers as Doechii delivered her verses with reverence, proving why she is one of the genre’s brightest stars. Following the performance, Doechii took to social media to express her gratitude, calling Hill her “hero” and describing the moment as “the greatest honor hip-hop could give me.” The duet marks another milestone in Doechii’s whirlwind year, as she recently became only the third woman to win the Grammy for Best Rap Album and was named Billboard’s 2025 Woman of the Year. With her latest track, “Anxiety,” officially dropping after viral TikTok success, Doechii continues to solidify her place in the industry—now with the ultimate co-sign from a hip-hop legend. 5. Manchester Utd plan to build “iconic” £2 billion 100,000-capacity stadium Manchester United have announced ambitious plans to build the largest football stadium in the UK, a state-of-the-art 100,000-seater venue near Old Trafford. The £2 billion project, described as “iconic” by co-owner Sir Jim Ratcliffe, aims to be “the world’s greatest football stadium” and is expected to be completed within five years. Designed by renowned architects Foster and Partners, the stadium will feature a striking umbrella structure, a vast public plaza twice the size of Trafalgar Square, and three towering masts—dubbed “the trident”—standing 200 meters high and visible from 25 miles away. Once the new stadium is ready, the historic Old Trafford, United’s home since 1910, is set to be demolished. The club, currently £1 billion in debt, has yet to confirm how the project will be financed, though chief executive Omar Berrada described it as “a very attractive investment opportunity.” Football finance expert Kieran Maguire believes the stadium’s potential as a multi-functional venue will generate enough revenue to offset costs. Meanwhile, United will continue playing at Old Trafford until construction is complete, ensuring minimal disruption for fans. Featured Image: @davido @theroyalfamily/Instagram Our Weekday News Digest summarizes five of the hottest news topics worldwide–including celebrity news from Hollywood to Nollywood, the latest trending global headlines from American reports to top African news today, and the best sports stories in 2025.For the latest in fashion, lifestyle, and culture, follow us on Instagram @StyleRave_— Read also Collins Badewa A fashion and pop culture writer who watches a lot of TV in his spare time. At Style Rave, we aim to inspire our readers by providing engaging content to not just entertain but to inform and empower you as you ASPIRE to become more stylish, live smarter and be healthier. Follow us on Instagram @StyleRave_ ♥ !function(f,b,e,v,n,t,s) if(f.fbq)return;n=f.fbq=function()n.callMethod? n.callMethod.apply(n,arguments):n.queue.push(arguments); if(!f._fbq)f._fbq=n;n.push=n;n.loaded=!0;n.version='2.0'; n.queue=[];t=b.createElement(e);t.async=!0; t.src=v;s=b.getElementsByTagName(e)[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(t,s)(window, document,'script', ' fbq('init', '496558104568102'); fbq('track', 'PageView'); !function(f,b,e,v,n,t,s)if(f.fbq)return;n=f.fbq=function()n.callMethod? n.callMethod.apply(n,arguments):n.queue.push(arguments);if(!f._fbq)f._fbq=n; n.push=n;n.loaded=!0;n.version='2.0';n.queue=[];t=b.createElement(e);t.async=!0; t.src=v;s=b.getElementsByTagName(e)[0];s.parentNode.insertBefore(t,s)(window, document,'script',' !function(f,b,e,v,n,t,s)if(f.fbq)return;n=f.fbq=function()n.callMethod? n.callMethod.apply(n,arguments):n.queue.push(arguments);if(!f._fbq)f._fbq=n; n.push=n;n.loaded=!0;n.version='2.0';n.queue=[];t=b.createElement(e);t.async=!0; t.src=v;s=b.getElementsByTagName(e)[0];s.parentNode.insertBefore(t,s)(window, document,'script',' fbq('init', '1453079628754066'); fbq('track', "PageView"); Source link

[chilimili212]

King Charles III gives Davido a shoutout, Drake teases “next chapter” that “may leave you feeling uneasy,” Manchester Utd plans to build “iconic” £2 billion 100,000-capacity stadium. Stay in the know with our Rave News Digest, which summarizes five of the hottest global news stories you need to catch up on, saving you time and energy. Consider it your daily news fix. 1. King Charles III gives Davido a shoutout Nigerian Afrobeats star Davido has received unexpected praise from King Charles III, who publicly expressed admiration for his music and its influence on his appreciation of Pidgin English. In a recently surfaced video, the British monarch spoke about the emotional power of music, highlighting its ability to evoke memories and connect people across cultures. While discussing his musical preferences, King Charles specifically mentioned Davido’s work, stating that the singer’s music played a role in sparking his interest in Nigerian Pidgin English. “Throughout my life, music has meant a great deal to me. It has that remarkable ability to bring happy memories, comfort us in times of sadness, and take us to distant places,” the King said. “Davido has made me like Pidgin English. I would like to speak it when next I visit Nigeria. Thanks to Afrobeats, it’s becoming more popular around the world.” Reacting to the royal recognition, Davido took to his Instagram story to share the clip, giving a shoutout to the British royal family with a heart emoji to show his gratitude. The acknowledgment from King Charles III adds to Davido’s growing global influence, reinforcing Afrobeats’ expanding reach and cultural impact. 2. Drake teases “next chapter” that “may leave you feeling uneasy” Drake is gearing up for a new phase in his career, but he’s warning fans that it might not be what they expect. In a cryptic Instagram post on Monday (March 10), the Canadian rapper shared a carousel of images, including a shot of nausea medication, an OVO Sound sweatshirt reading “Free the Man Dem,” and a still from the 2017 film Phantom Thread. Alongside the visuals, he reflected on his evolution in the music industry, acknowledging that his next steps could be unsettling for some. “I understand that this next chapter may leave you feeling uneasy,” he wrote, hinting at a potential shift in his artistic direction. The post comes just weeks after Drake’s latest collaborative project, “$ome $exy $ongs 4 U,” debuted at No. 1 on the Billboard 200. The Valentine’s Day release with PartyNextDoor marked his 14th chart-topping album, reinforcing his dominance in the industry. However, speculation is mounting that the rapper is preparing for a solo endeavor, as he previously teased new music. If his latest message is any indication, fans should brace for a bold and potentially divisive evolution in Drake’s sound and persona. 3. Rapper Maglera Doe Boy and MaXhosa Africa leave mark at Paris Fashion Week 2025 South African rapper and songwriter Maglera Doe Boy made waves at Paris Fashion Week 2025, performing and curating a playlist for the renowned luxury fashion brand MaXhosa Africa. The “Nja’ka” hitmaker took to social media to share his gratitude, thanking MaXhosa for the opportunity to showcase his music and set the sonic atmosphere for the entire show. Hosted by Hennessy South Africa, the event highlighted the seamless fusion of African music and fashion on a global stage. MaXhosa Africa, founded by Laduma Ngxokolo, presented its autumn/winter 2025 collection titled Umbulelo, further cementing its influence in the international fashion scene. The showcase attracted several South African stars, including Amapiano DJ and songwriter Kabza De Small and award-winning rapper and actress Boity Thulo. As MaXhosa continues to push creative boundaries and Maglera Doe Boy expands his global presence, the collaboration reflects the growing impact of African artistry on the world stage. 4. Doechii joins Ms. Lauryn Hill for “Doo Wop (That Thing)” duet Rising rap star Doechii reached a career milestone over the weekend when she joined the legendary Ms. Lauryn Hill onstage for a surprise duet of “Doo Wop (That Thing).” The unforgettable moment took place on March 8, during Hill’s headlining performance at the Jazz in the Gardens Festival in Miami. Hill introduced Doechii as her “sister” before launching into the 1998 classic, with the Tampa native matching the hip-hop icon’s energy and stage presence. The crowd erupted in cheers as Doechii delivered her verses with reverence, proving why she is one of the genre’s brightest stars. Following the performance, Doechii took to social media to express her gratitude, calling Hill her “hero” and describing the moment as “the greatest honor hip-hop could give me.” The duet marks another milestone in Doechii’s whirlwind year, as she recently became only the third woman to win the Grammy for Best Rap Album and was named Billboard’s 2025 Woman of the Year. With her latest track, “Anxiety,” officially dropping after viral TikTok success, Doechii continues to solidify her place in the industry—now with the ultimate co-sign from a hip-hop legend. 5. Manchester Utd plan to build “iconic” £2 billion 100,000-capacity stadium Manchester United have announced ambitious plans to build the largest football stadium in the UK, a state-of-the-art 100,000-seater venue near Old Trafford. The £2 billion project, described as “iconic” by co-owner Sir Jim Ratcliffe, aims to be “the world’s greatest football stadium” and is expected to be completed within five years. Designed by renowned architects Foster and Partners, the stadium will feature a striking umbrella structure, a vast public plaza twice the size of Trafalgar Square, and three towering masts—dubbed “the trident”—standing 200 meters high and visible from 25 miles away. Once the new stadium is ready, the historic Old Trafford, United’s home since 1910, is set to be demolished. The club, currently £1 billion in debt, has yet to confirm how the project will be financed, though chief executive Omar Berrada described it as “a very attractive investment opportunity.” Football finance expert Kieran Maguire believes the stadium’s potential as a multi-functional venue will generate enough revenue to offset costs. Meanwhile, United will continue playing at Old Trafford until construction is complete, ensuring minimal disruption for fans. Featured Image: @davido @theroyalfamily/Instagram Our Weekday News Digest summarizes five of the hottest news topics worldwide–including celebrity news from Hollywood to Nollywood, the latest trending global headlines from American reports to top African news today, and the best sports stories in 2025.For the latest in fashion, lifestyle, and culture, follow us on Instagram @StyleRave_— Read also Collins Badewa A fashion and pop culture writer who watches a lot of TV in his spare time. At Style Rave, we aim to inspire our readers by providing engaging content to not just entertain but to inform and empower you as you ASPIRE to become more stylish, live smarter and be healthier. 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