#adrien header

[sbrinapacks]

HII could i pls get sabrina x marinette from miraculous ladybug 🩷🩷

[soloveely]

cat noir (miraculous) x ariana grande headers

like or reblog if u use/save. you can use this pictures to add filter/psd, but if u post, please tag me or use soloveelystuff. (:

the last one is really bad, sorry!! 😭

[melaecrit]

[kagamic0re]

𝅄᠂ ⭒ ֢ ꜥ MIRACULOUS BIOS ★

𓏲 𝐋𝐮𝐤𝐚 𓍯 🎸 ⿻ 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞

🦊ㅤAlya ›ㅤ⬪ㅤFOXY girl! ♡ㅤ

★ . . this users loves flowers, picnic and Marinette

𖥻🎐 Adrien Agreste 𝗶𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝘁 ♥︎ !

like or reblog if you save/use! 🌷🐲

[spacedoutcowgirl]

MLB 🐞🐈‍⬛ ONLINE 💻 — THE CAST!

(2/??)

the (villainous) adults ☕️👔🦋🦚

the other halves 🗡️🎸

< accounts 1

accounts 3 >

editor’s note: it would b real cute if everyone noticed that gabriel, adrien & nathalie all have matching headers :) + kagami’s header ;)))

[thimbleb3rries]

I love your header!! Your art is so cute 💖 Adrien and Felix are my favourites (also I see you like Monster High too 👀)

Thank you so so so very much!!!!! That genuinely means everything waaaaah!!!

I'm so glad you like the header! I drew it as an inside joke between my sister and I, and liked how it turned out as well :D

I ADORE THESE SILLY BOYS WITH EVERYTHING I'VE GOT 🩷🩷🩷‼️‼️

Look at em! absolutely goofy 🫶

And yes! I LOVE Monster High!!! I grew up watching the 3D animated movies, some of my fondest memories are from those ghouls!

Toralei was one of my favorites!

[bringmefoxgloves]

i want to get more into saw/saw blogs b4 X comes out - what r some of ur fave saw blogs

Hi! You caught me at a good time (one where I have energy) so let's see if I can pump this out. I am in no way an authority on the entire Saw fandom so I will only be talking about my little corner of the internet. Please forgive me, my beloved followers, mutuals, and other owners of posts I have loved in this very small fandom-because I may forget some of you. The brain fog sometimes gets the best of me and if I did a full complete list, it would be.... It would be so long. This is in no way in order of best or worst, and sometimes I just have no words for why I love a person's blog.

@turnipoddity - Oh, what an artist! Every single post I see, love it. So excited to see an artist acquiring the Saw brainrot.

@bloodcoveredgf - Luna! Also just all around funny & good posts in addition to the Saw insanities.

@dracofelin - Jay has such good writing, and will make you love the ship of Mark Hoffman/Peter Strahm (coffinshipping).

@thefoulbeast - Simply put, Will's art makes me want to bite my own arm off. If you're interested in the video game Pathologic, his blog is worth a follow for that too.

@bathroomtrapped - I sometimes get the honor of previewing Larry's art mid-construction (because with all those colors and layers, it looks like building a house) and even half finished, it blows my socks off <3

@sawtrapz - Kaz, oh Kaz (!!!), Kaz gets my brain clicking about some of the rarepairs of this fandom and I will always spin your boygirl Adam in my head.

@cl0wnb0yyy - Will is just a great person in the fandom, also if you like Midnight Mass or NBC's Hannibal.

@ispyspookymansion - Kora looms large in the Saw fandom in my mind so it would be impossible to assemble this list without him.

@3razyswfangirl / @kiramillet - Kira's pixel art is amazing!!! Bunny <3

@tibby - Take a look through Tibby's saw meta. You won't be disappointed.

@allegedly-writer - Contrary to Jack's url, Jack can sure damn write! He just posted a fic and guess who it's for <3

@hansy-pansy-art - OUGH another amazing amazing artist. Also currently in a Red Dead Redemption moment, which I love.

@piddgeon - Speaking of RDR.... Mercury! Ah, just. (Chef's kiss) of a human being.

@samwis - Jami, who hears all my most insane horny thoughts who is such a mainstay in my corner of Saw fandom.

@romanromulus - Adam writes fics that will make you scream and cry into your pillow at midnight.

@tapeworrmart - Just. Ough. Art that I dream of one day hanging on my wall.

@vanilladella - a.m.'s art is my discord header. Enough said.

@carouselcometh - Remy is hilarious and also you need to read his series on Ao3.

@onehandkilling / @fatmasc - Shlomo... What do I say? Just go. Follow. Also threw in their fat fashion blog because YES!!!

@angel-trapped - Téa, you absolute legend. Origin of angelshipping (to me) (aka Lindsey Perez/Allison Kerry)

@sawtrapx - Liv, such a fun human being!!!

@starlightsailfish - Star's Saw Warrior Cats makes me dance in excitement.

@iinsawdious - Adrien is the best champion of the Adam & David (Saw 0.5) & Specs (Character from the Insidious franchise, also played by Leigh Whannell) are family hc. I love his enthusiasm!!

@adrianicsea - Adrian! Just. AH!!! Adrian's Sleeping with Ghosts series was perhaps my first introduction (outside of Adam romanromulus) to the sheer brilliance of Saw fandom writers.

@dodddraws - Dodd's art is.... I'm just at a loss for words, scrolling back through his blog. So much nsfw goodness.

@sawvhs - Rar's art is so so so iconic.

Okay I have to cut this list off here, jfc. There's others I should probably put on here but I'm getting tired and sweaty and my hands are hurting. Follow these people, check who they're reblogging from or who is reblogging them, go forth, prosper anon. Welcome to the Saw brainrot.

[furymint]

Q. One missed call. Any mix of yours and my characters. go wild. (or just one! your choice. ^_^, and that includes the XVI boys)

wc: 488 | header | minific meme

Elliot’s name was not announced at the party. He knew it from the first: as he navigated the busy floor, dodging dresses and flapping fans, few people hailed him to share pleasantries. Even as he recognized baron, dame, and cardinal, and the music ebbed to open conversation among the guests, there seemed to be an unwarranted shortage of acknowledging glances and how-do-you-fare's.

Faces he knew closer than some scripture welcomed him. Their warmth reassured him, but he did not come for tranquility. When Lady Ottoline began stroking his hand and nattering about squirrels licking icicles, he balanced his champagne flute on a chair back and floated away.

Gustave le Berre. Lucien Tedalgrinche. Adrien Charroix. The names continued. Karoiseka O'dayla.

Almost every soul stiffened. People paused, their heads swiveled, eyes narrowed. Forks returned to plates and skirt bustles dropped from hands. Whether they looked to the grand doorway or not, every person knew the night would be irrevocably different from this moment. The savior of Eorzea--now savior of Ishgard, after a fact--had arrived, and now gossip must follow her.

She didn't look armed. She didn't look decent. But neither of those things were fully true.

In the frame of the archway, the Warrior of Light was small, intense, and beautiful. Even if her eyes could be described as tired, they were striking first, and the blue of them matched her hair in a way that seemed to prove that this was the woman chosen by Hydaelyn. Reports spoke of a crystal-lined bow with arrows that could pierce dragon scale. Still, few could doubt that if it came to magic, she would not be able to cast without a staff.

It was either bold or ridiculous that she wore no armor. A sleeveless gown was out of fashion whether her gloves bore jewelry or not; somehow the lace at her breast and the tall collar were enough to excuse it. The black skirt of her dress rippled without a petticoat or hoop, sliced on one side from the thigh to the floor, and teasing a sight at her leg as she drifted forward. Once again, the thing that mattered was smaller than the whole: her shoes were a flashing, bright silver, with a thin, curving heel and beaded ankle strap. Perhaps, in the same way, what mattered of her was herself and not her title.

A scary, dark, one-eyed rascal of man was beside her, and he did not look nice, so he did not matter. Relations were impossible to escape in all places but the ballroom, and so Elliot would forget--for the next three bells--that the man had whispered to her in a way that seemed to let him kiss her ear.

As the room tried to seesaw back into nonchalance, Elliot chose sensation.

Perhaps, in a different way, she was kind.

He was the first to speak to her, and the first to be seen doing so.

[msweebyness]

Weeby’s Random Thoughts #11

New AU idea from your friendly neighborhood Weeby! @artzychic27 @imsparky2002

This is based on an idea me and Sparky tossed around a while back. The basic premise is that it’s a shadow version of Paris where everyone is their akuma selves. (To clear up confusion, Sabrina would be Vanisher, Luka is Silencer, Kagami is Riposte, basically just their first akuma if they have multiple, expect Chloe, who would be Queen Wasp.) They’d terrorize the ‘light’ side of Paris, which would be protected by a rogue group of heroes led by the people who are antagonists in canon, such as Lila, Gabriel, Felix, etc. Also, Adrien and Marinette would be Chat Blanc and Miss Fortune respectively. The akumas basically rule the city, with Nadja (Prime Queen) and Alya (Lady WiFi) controlling the media. (They also wouldn’t be their ugly canon akuma outfits, I prefer the redesigns done by Zoe-Oneesama for the Scarlet Lady headers.) All my normal ships would apply, and group dates consist of going out and causing mayhem. What do you guys think?

Leave your thoughts in the comments and reblogs!

[daily-polyshow]

your header is so cute!! whats it from?

if you’re asking what illustration it is, its official art for pjsk half anniversary, its on the pjsk wiki!! and if you’re asking who made the header, its from my beloved amazing wonderful awesome friend adrien from their edit blog @utaicon you should all go follow them immediately bc he is so awesome and cool and talented and he made my very adorable polyshow headers and i am forever indebted to him

[bleumyth]

⠀𖥻 ADRIEN fr. MIRACULOUS

⠀⠀TWITTER LAYOUT ꈍᴗꈍ

⠀

𔘓 requested .ᐟ

٬٬ 1 icon + 1 header.

٬٬ like ﹠ reblog if you save or use.

٬٬ please don't claim it as yours.

٬٬ credits to @kaiahadxs on twitter.

[decaffeinatedrevenger]

So, you love Adrien/Luca, you have S.O.A.D lyrics as your blog header (I LOVE them, my most seen live band at three times) and you partake of the rabid fangirling, too?

Hello, we are engaged now.

Haha! :D

Omg I’m so honored 💖

The Luca/Adrien brainrot has been so strong lately and thankfully you’ve been blessing us with your fics 🥹

Also fellow soad fan!!! I’m so jealous that you got to see them three times

[melaecrit]

© editing by me.

[aidanchaser]

Sometimes I think I write fic just to make cute headers.

Anyway, I also wrote chapter 3 today. Can you tell I'm avoiding grading?

Song fic based around The Butterfly Effect by FJØRA

Read chapters 1-3 on Ao3 here. Read Chapter One: Verse One on tumblr here. Read Chapter Two: Chorus on tumblr here

Read chapter three on tumblr below:

the butterfly effect when you open up your soul “Yes, Alya, I’m awake, I swear,” Marinette says into her phone as she tumbles out of bed. “I’ll be right downstairs.”

It isn’t Marinette’s fault that Vision Violette akumatized Alya’s sisters last night and a short babysitting sleepover turned into another all-night battle on the streets of Paris. She doesn’t know how Alya has the energy to be on time, but maybe Alya is still riding the high of being a hero for the first time. She certainly seemed to enjoy herself as Rena Rouge.

“You can’t tell her,” Tikki says, as if she is reading Marinette’s mind.

Marinette mumbles an agreement around her toothbrush. She can’t tell Alya that she is Ladybug, as much as she might want to. Alya is her best friend, after surviving a few misunderstandings, and they can share their superheroics, but they just can’t tell each other that they share their superheroics.

Marinette spits her toothpaste into her sink. “But once we defeat Vision, I can tell her.”

Everything will be easier then. Whenever that day comes. Marinette can tell Alya that she’s been Ladybug the entire time. She and Chaton Chique can share their identities with each other and the three of them can be the best of friends.

And maybe, if Marinette is strong enough and brave enough to take down Vision Violette, she’ll be strong enough and brave enough to confess her love to Adrien Agreste.

She swipes the wrapped gift from her desk as she hurries downstairs.

Alya is waiting in the bakery’s cafe with a raised eyebrow. “Hair?” she says.

Marinette drops her bag and Adrien’s gift and dashes back upstairs to comb her hair. She is about to tie it back into two pigtails, but the elastic goes flying out of her hand and behind her bed. She digs through her desk drawer for another.

“Marinette, you’re going to be late!” Tikki sings.

Hastily, Marinette takes her one remaining elastic and pulls her hair up into a bun, but that’s worse. That’s the old Marinette. With a pained groan, she loops the elastic around her wrist and rushes back downstairs. At least her hair is neat. She’ll bum an extra hair tie off of Alya or Mylène.

She hurries back downstairs and grabs her bag off the floor as she hurtles towards the door.

“Forgetting something?” Alya asks.

Marinette panics and runs her head to toe check—hair, face, teeth, shirt, pants, shoes, bag, phone—then she turns and sees the gift in Alya’s hands. She let’s out a startled scream and takes it back before running out the door.

She won’t be late today. She can’t be late today.

Today, she has to be brave.

the butterfly effect so long gone from the world “Adrien, this isn’t what our powers were made for,” Nooroo whines.

But Adrien ignores him. He fumbles through the drawer of his bedside table for a clean shirt. He’s moved his daily essentials as close to his bed as possible. Steps are a limited resource, and he has less and less by the day.

“Don’t go to school today,” Nooroo begs. “Stay home and rest. If you stop, maybe there’s a chance to recover.”

Adrien is foolish for getting himself into this, but he isn’t stupid enough to believe Nooroo. His mother used the peacock once and it still killed her. It may have taken fourteen years, and Adrien thinks he’ll be lucky to get fourteen weeks at the rate he is going, but he doesn’t care.

“I just have to get the miraculous from Ladybug and Chaton Chique,” he says, and pins the butterfly brooch and the peacock brooch inside his shirt. The gems disguise themselves into solid silver crests. “Once I do that, none of this will matter.”

“It does matter,” Nooroo insists. “You can recreate the world a dozen times, but the fingerprints of the old world will linger.”

Adrien’s phone rings before Nooroo’s words can settle into his ears.

“Yeah, Chlo, I’m ready,” he says as he picks up the phone. “Be right there.”

It hurts to stand, but he does it anyway. Mentally, he counts out his route: seven steps to his bedroom door, fifteen down to the foyer, eight to the front door and five to the door of Chloé’s car. Then time to sit, rest, recover, before he has to walk into school.

“I believe in you,” Duusu says in a voice that splits the difference between unreasonably naive and downright patronizing, before disappearing into his pocket.

Adrien takes a deep breath and begins the trek downstairs.

Chloé kisses him on each cheek and helps him into the car without question. If she’s noticed his slow movements or his hesitation between standing and sitting, she hasn’t said anything. He finds it a bit odd. Polite is not a word he usually associates with Chloé, but he wonders if Vision’s tendency to target people who have been hurt by Chloé’s selfishness has given her cause for self-reflection. It would be nice to know that Vision has done some good for others, even if he hasn’t managed to do any good for Adrien.

“Adrien,” she gushes, as she falls against him in the back seat of the car, “you will not believe how exhausted I am—utterly exhausted.”

“Oh?” he says, knowing it can’t compare to his exhaustion. Not only is he worn down from the fractured peacock miraculous, he’d been out late last night trying one more time to get the ladybug and cat miraculous. He’d thought a multiplication power would be the thing to finally overwhelm Ladybug; he’d been proven wrong.

“Just look at these bags under my eyes!”

“I don’t see anything there.”

“Well, obviously you don’t see anything. Do you think I would dare leave the house without concealer?”

Adrien can certainly relate, but he isn’t as eager to lament about his exhaustion as Chloé is. “Did you stay up late finishing Ms. Mendeleiev’s physics assignment?”

“What? God, no. Sabrina’s doing that for me.”

“Chloé, you can’t keep asking Sabrina to do your homework for you.”

“I have way more important things to do than homework,” she says with a roll of her eyes.

“Organizing your shoe collection is not important.”

“Not like that! Like—” Chloé hesitates, then leans against the car door. “Like, you know, important stuff,” she mumbles.

Adrien fidgets with the pair of rings around his finger. He doesn’t press. He’s got enough of his own secrets that he can allow Chloé to keep a few, too.

let the light wash over Marinette keeps her eyes on her shoes as they climb the steps of the school’s entrance. Her hair is a curtain, shielding her from the world around her. Her initial determination has condensed into a writhing mess of anxiety in the pit of her stomach.

Like butterflies.

Alya nudges her with an elbow. “I think that’s him.”

Marinette glances at the car pulling up. It’s Chloé’s car; she’s had the plates memorized for years. But sometimes he comes to school with Chloé, something she finds horribly unfair.

Though even Marinette has to admit, Chloé has been better since Adrien started going to school with them. Or maybe it’s only that Chloé has someone else to entertain her, someone who isn’t Marinette.

Chloé exits the car first, and her heart pounds in anticipation. Then Chloé turns and Adrien steps out of the car. Marinette immediately notices the way Adrien takes Chloé’s hand. Her breath catches in her throat and she buries the gift behind her back.

Alya tries to shove her forward, but Marinette balks.

“He’s holding hands with Chloé—Chloé of all people,” she hisses.

But they aren’t holding hands. Once the start walking up the steps, Adrien’s hands are on the strap of his messenger bag and Chloé is waving to Sabrina.

“You finished that psychic assignment or whatever, right?” Chloé calls loudly, unconcerned that a teacher might hear that she is cheating on her work.

Sabrina, waiting dutifully at the bottom of the stairs, tilts her head in confusion. “Er—you mean physics?”

“Oh, whatever it is, you know what I mean,” Chloé snaps and holds her hand out for the paper.

Adrien smiles at Nino, casually knocks his fist against his friend’s, then looks up to where Marinette and Alya are standing.

Something in his smile shifts—warms—relaxes.

let the sun come closer There’s something different about Marinette today. It takes Adrien a moment to realize that her hair is down.

He likes it. He doesn’t love it—he loves when he can see all of her face—but he likes it. It’s different. It feels freer, more confident.

Marinette tucks one side behind her ear and his heart stutters in his chest.

Maybe he does love it.

He hardly notices the ache in his muscles as he climbs the steps to the school. Soon, he and Marinette are on equal footing.

She stammers something at him, but he doesn’t quite hear it. He’s too busy staring at the way her lips move, at the way her eyes light up when she talks, at the blush coloring her cheeks.

Then she presses something into his hands. The paper is soft and crinkles beneath his fingers. He peels back the wrapping to find a denim jacket, hand embroidered along the lapels with a jade and pink floral design, much like the lucky charm tucked away in his pocket.

Chloé appears at his elbow and her sneer cuts through the haze that had shrouded Marinette’s stammered words.

“Denim?” she laughs. “What year is it?”

“Chloé,” he says in a low but sharp voice, and she shuts her mouth, but her upper lip stays curled in disgust.

“It’s nice and thoughtful, or whatever, I guess,” she grunts, as if it pains her to be tiniest bit considerate. Still, she mutters just under her breath, “But it’s still from Dupain-Cheng.”

“Thank you,” Adrien says to Marinette, though he can’t think for the life of him what he’s done to deserve this gift.

She smiles and his knees go weak—though he thinks that has more to do with how long he’s been standing than it does with her smile.

Marinette catches him, and it’s like lightning in his veins. It hurts where her fingers press into his but his heart pounds with a renewed vigor he hasn’t felt in years.

“Are you alright?” she asks.

He manages a smile. “I’ve never been better.”

colors take their form

[maridotnet]

hi! blog header anon here, i got the terms blog header and blog title (i think thats what its called?? anyways, that text that youve got that says ''adrien agreste is ace'') mixed up lol ❤

AHA i gotchu yeah adrien is my beloved acespec blorbo <3333 you canNOT tell me that the way he understands and exhibits romantic attraction isn't suggestive of someone who's never been in love before or understood it in a non-theoretical way

(original ask)

[winterandwords]

📖 [short fiction] CODE

📝 notes

Audience age Adult

Genre Experimental/science fiction

Length 2094 words

An agent training to transport secrets in a hidden partition of their mind struggles to hold their life together when their mission tangles with memories of loss, blurring the line between reality and a surreal inner world.

☕ If you enjoy this story and would like to buy me a coffee, you can do that here

📸 Header images, edited and displayed under license, by Adrien Converse on Unsplash and Markus Spiske on Unsplash

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

PART ONE

Shelves stretch from floor to vaulted ceiling, far into the distance in every direction. At first, I thought they held books or narrow boxes, but it’s nothing so solid. Shafts of light, perhaps, or points of holographic convergence. There’s meant to be a system. I’m meant to recognise it.

I push the light switch and nothing changes. Off, on, off again, but the sourceless glow persists. That means something.

The screen is in my hand. I don’t remember picking it up and I don’t know where it came from. I type the numbers, but they aren’t numbers. It doesn’t work like that here.

Footsteps come from everywhere and nowhere and you.

You. “I can’t find what I’m looking for. Can you help me?”

“Yes.” The lie floats golden from my mouth and bursts above my head. “But you need to tell me what it is.”

“That’s the thing.” Your eyes shift green blue grey brown. “I don’t remember. I’m not sure I ever knew.”

“Is it the code?”

“What code?”

“I don’t know.” I hurl the screen at the shelves and it shatters in slow motion, crystalline dust caught in a sunbeam.

You trail your fingertips through the hovering shards. “But you’re supposed to know, aren’t you? You’re supposed to tell me.”

I take a step towards you and you take a step back, leaning into the shelves, an endless library of weightless truth. I whisper against your lips, “I don’t think I’m supposed to tell anyone,” and a dark, clawing loss twists through my ribs when I kiss you.

You pull away and reach out to touch my face, breath ragged, your thumb pressing into my lip. “Very good.”

I bow my head in the presence of praise. There’s a patch on the floor where the grid shows through. I cover it with my foot and you look the other way.

PART TWO

Sirens tumble through the streets six storeys below and I pour another shot of whiskey I promised you I wouldn’t drink. The streetlights don’t reach this high and the stars don’t sink this low. Silence burns my throat again like all my pointless words before and I would give what’s left of my pitiful soul for just one more minute with you.

Palms pushed against my eyes fire miniature explosions into a spectrum of galaxies. Regrets swell like dying stars, and I’m sorry. I didn’t know or I didn’t think or I forgot or I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to. And I will only ever drown in excuses and my own selfish mistakes.

They’ll come and get me for work tomorrow and I’ll clothe myself in a convincing impression of sobriety. They should test me. They used to, but they let it slide and no-one talks about it. They know I’d fail almost every time now and if they document that they can’t justify keeping me on, no matter how useful I am or how much money they’ve thrown at this already. So they keep it all quiet and nothing is wasted. Except me.

I swallow a handful of pills I promised you I’d quit taking and let the chemicals pull me into sleep, through the dark hollow at the back of my mind where other people’s secrets live. The window is open and lazy currents of air swell into curtains I don’t even bother to close anymore. One of my hands drops from the edge of the couch and I hear my knuckles hitting the wooden floor, but I don’t feel anything. I don’t feel anything.

PART THREE

The shelves roll out from the centre of my chest and my back arches in sympathy. I gasp for a breath I don’t need and shove the light switch away. The screen floats above my hand and I close my fingers around it, crushing it to nothing.

You appear in front of me. No footsteps this time. “I can’t find what I’m looking for. Can you help me?”

“You’re looking for the code.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. You’re looking for it and I have it, but I can’t tell you what it is. It’s locked away. I have to keep it safe.”

You fall back, arms folded across your chest, and float at an angle that defies gravity. “Maybe I can find it myself if you show me where to look.”

I kneel beside you and trace the curve of your spine with a shaking hand. “I can’t do that.”

You grip my collar and we drift and spin, a hazy vortex of stretching shadow. “You’re lying to me again.”

“I’m not. They made it so I can’t tell you.” A tear floats from my eye.

You catch it on your tongue like a snowflake. “But it’s in you. It’s in your head.”

“I know, but so much is in my head and I can’t see any of it. It’s what I signed up for.”

You undo two buttons on my shirt and slide one side off my shoulder. Your breath touches the scars there like ice and electricity. “Does that still feel good?”

I try to reply, but the words come out as numbers.

“Tell me,” you breathe against my history of torn flesh.

“No.” The shelves shudder and collapse and bury you. A distant electronic chirp measures my heartbeat and my fists clench by my sides. Bright light burns my eyes open.

“Very good,” says the person in the mask. It doesn’t feel the same as when you said it. “Your compartmentalisation is excellent. We still need to work on your control, but we’ve made a lot of progress.”

I blink heavily and try to speak, but my voice congeals into a lump I can’t swallow past.

The person in the mask helps me to sit up and hands me a paper cup filled with water. “Here, this will make your throat feel better. Small sips. And don’t try to talk yet. Give yourself time.”

PART FOUR

They’re keeping me here tonight. Officially, I’m staying voluntarily for the benefit of the assignment, but really, they’re keeping me here. They let me out for a smoke, though. They probably shouldn’t have, but they did. How much is my body even worth to them if they look away while I destroy it? Is there an equation for that? A point up to which they’ll accept my self-destructive compulsions, but if I go beyond it, they’ll take away my cigarettes and my drink and my medication to guarantee a certain level of return on investment?

There’s a gap in the towering concrete wall where an equally unscalable fence allows me to look at the sea, to hear the waves crashing, to breathe the salt air and let it fight the tar for space in my lungs. Today, everything is grey, distinct only by degrees of motion and texture. Perhaps it’s grey all the time. I don’t come out here very often. Maybe I used to. I’m not sure.

There’s a glitch, an overlay in the part of my brain that still belongs to me, a jittering flash of us on a beach. Not this beach. It might have been years ago, but I can’t tell how much time has passed since anything anymore. The water and sand flicker and fade. Our laughter echoes. The sun goes out. I stop breathing. A machine screams.

I wake to the smell of smouldering skin when my cigarette melts through my clothes. There’s no pain. There should be, but there isn’t. Dusk is gathering and someone is watching me from a window somewhere. I can’t see them, but I can feel them. Being observed has a very specific emotional resonance, and I’m learning to isolate it more effectively between the layers of everything else. Someone here told me it’s important that I know how to do that.

PART FIVE

I open my hands like a book, and the shelves spread in a concertina between my palms.

I blink, and the light switch vanishes into a point of darkness.

I shake my head, and the screen dissolves with a crackle and hiss in front of me.

I can’t see you or hear you, but I can feel you. Somewhere. Not physically, but. But.

I close my hands, and they swallow the shelves. This is an action I can choose now.

And you. You. Around me. Inside me.

I gather silence and will it towards you. A void. An answer aching with absence. Finally, I give you nothing. I have nothing to give.

A voice that isn’t yours asks, “What’s the code?”

My own words spiral like a thorned vine from my chest and my tongue bleeds a response. “There is no code.”

And the light in my eyes and my clenched fists and the green line of my heartbeat and the person in the mask and the paper cup and every secret swallowed and every meaning lost.

PART SIX

Dawn breaks and so do I. I don’t know if I slept or not. The last thing I remember was staring down an empty bottle like it was the barrel of a gun, which it may as well have been. My head hurts, but not enough. I’ve given up counting pills, but I haven’t given up taking them.

There’s a photograph of us lying next to me, fractured glass and our faces back when I remembered how to smile. I used to taunt you for printing them, framing them, putting them on display when this was still a home we shared. I told you we weren’t going to forget what we looked like and you told me that wasn’t the point. I get it now. I get it.

This is one of the pictures I gave them when they asked for material to construct my primary trigger stimulus. This picture and a hundred others, videos, stories. I gave them my memories of you, of us, and I wished, pleaded, for an exorcism. I knew the version they made of you wouldn’t be real, that I would eventually have to push it aside. That was the goal. Reject the stimulus.

But still, it would give me some time with something that looked like you, sounded like you, felt like you. Then I could learn to reduce you to nothing and leave you behind. This time it would be on my terms and, god help me, I thought it would heal me.

Now you’re no more than a digital construct, stored on a server deep underground, and there are only two moments left in my life that matter to anyone other than me.

PART SEVEN

The plane speeds down the runway, and it’s been three hours since (one) they looked inside my head to confirm the presence of secrets I can’t see. In nine hours, I will arrive at a destination defined only by coordinates. Some mirror-image version of them in a facility just like theirs will (two) open my mind and leave me empty.

The anticipation of freedom tastes hollow and anchorless in the moment the wheels lift off the ground. My breath is cradled in the hands of science and magic, and our last night together slips through my fingers again.

We fought, as we did more and more often, over everything and nothing. I drank too much, smoked too much, swallowed pills by the handful and swept barren platitudes towards you across the land mines and razor wire tangles of your completely justified resentment.

You grabbed my shoulders, pressing into the place where a bullet had missed its target a year before. It’s the last time I remember anything feeling as much as it should have. You begged me to turn down the assignment, and I promised it would be the last one. The thing is, I was telling the truth that time and now you’re never going to know.

When you slammed the door, a photograph fell from the wall and the glass in the frame cracked. Sleep found me watching it from deep within a sedative haze under the gathering weight of relentless humidity.

I awoke drenched in sour sweat and shame the next morning when the police arrived. The tide had gone out beyond the pier at sunrise and they’d found your car nestled in the silt with your body still at the wheel.

Now I stare out the window at the clouds below and see them as heaven and rolling water. The recycled air in the cabin tastes stale and the jet engines roar and I am a broken clock.