#b: hymnoire

[noiranamnesis]

I’ve met you in another reality.

The city's restless buzzing was akin to silence, a void upon his senses as Rem's dark gaze observed an ever changing crowd. Individuals moved in a blur, each absorbed in the cadences of their own lives. While he stood at the entrance of a seldom used alley, the planes of his face partially illuminated by neon signs and passing headlights. individuals rushing about. One step into the flow and he would become one amongst hundreds- another obscure figure among the masses, but perhaps that was the draw- anonymity.

Memories of adolescence lingered on the fringes of his mind only to be disregarded in favor of an unlit cigarette. Calloused fingers struck a match, raising the flame until it caught. What remained of the wooden stick was promptly snuffed out by the heel of his boot, ground into nothing. I'm running low. A potential draw towards purchasing a lighter, yet the idea withered in an instant, buried beneath an unwillingness to waver in his aversions. An inhale filled his lungs, lingering smoke barely registering as he eased his weight against the wall, indifferent to the grime surely staining his jacket. It was a vice, after all, one he remained beholden to despite his sister's insistence.

With a roll of his shoulders his gaze met that of a passerby. A series of emotions flitted across their face: apprehension in realizing he was standing in an alley, discomfort in maintaining eye contact, dismissal as they went on their way...nothing unfamiliar. He exhaled slowly, weighing whether to light another cigarette or head to his usual haunt for dinner once he finished this one. A glance at his watch decided for him: Dinner.

Another drag. His attention shifted back to the crowd, expecting more of the same. Until he caught a familiar face.

A beat of hesitation. Creases formed around his eyes as he took a step into the fray. Strangers pushed past, but he paid them no mind, solely focused on the other until he was standing right next to them. There was no doubt, from the soft curve of her features to her penetrating eyes- it was here.

"Gaya." His voice was dry, her name a statement- not a question. A reunion which might have brought someone to tears save for one problem.

Gaya was dead.

[noiranamnesis]

The steady rhythm of his footsteps reverberates beneath him, distinct from the constant hum of equipment- a sound he's learned to tune out, to categorize as white noise. Twenty six weeks. Approximately one hundred and eighty-two days spent within a series of sterile enclosures. Some white. Most grey. In the beginning, there had been many like him- each displaying different reactions when the alterations where complete. Some failed to adapt, their minds fragmented under the weight. Others were rejected, their bodies succumbing to the strain. Over time, numbers dwindled, and interactions became restricted to training sessions: marksmanship, hand-to-hand combat, tactical problem solving. Everything measured. Every action compared.

In these sessions, Rem noted the personalities around him- some aggressive, some hesitant, some eager. They sought connection, validation, or competition. Rem did not. While others exhibited emotional responses, Rem remained distant, quiet- irritated, at most. His former life resurfaced only in moments of solitude, but even then, he remained conscious of the surveillance. Cameras. One-way glass. Direct observation. An omnipresent system that held no interest for him to dismantle- only to test. He calculated the angles of cameras, adjusted his behavior when facing glass, and waited for any deviation in Doctor Brown's responses.

You can stop running.

He shifts his weight to the edge of the machine, stepping off without pause. His back straightens, eyes flicking to her hand, noting where she points. He takes the seat without a word, his expression unchanged as she sits across from him. This woman is new- not a stranger to this environment, but not his handler. Agent 7. The designation settles. A marker of his position. Longer than his given name. Kaeleena Lockwood. Her name is committed to memory. He observes her hand, the way her fingers thrum against the desk. Anxiety? No. Her posture dismisses it. Boredom? Unlikely. Restlessness? Perhaps. When she mentions Clementia, he responds with a brief nod- an acknowledgement of something she already knows. The question is redundant.

Her amusement, however, is not. He catalogs the sound, each subsequent phrase categorized, some deemed more relevant than others. Her initial interest mirrors others'- superficial, professional, ego driven. But there is something in her gaze, something predatory. Reminiscent of sparring partners- those who seek dominance, to assert themselves at any cost.

When she suggests sharing feelings, Rem's gaze shifts- from her to the wall behind. He finds these psychological tests grating, but recognizes the pattern. History has shown that engaging would lessen the hassle. So he meets her gaze again.

"I'm indifferent." He states, his voice level. "I agreed to be part of an experiment. The physical toll was excruciating. I recovered, then entered training. Training was rigorous- but now routine. There's mild camaraderie among agents. I engage when necessary."

“Brilliant." The word on Kaeleena’s lips carries weight. For her to deem something brilliant, it must be. She stands in the stark whiteness of the laboratory, her world of order and creation. Dressed in a pristine lab coat, her hair are so pale it verges on white, blending seamlessly into the immaculate sterility around her. This is her sanctuary. The birthplace of the future she has long fantasized about. Being an intern under the legendary Professor Harmsmith has been an honor, and Kaeleena ensured she was his best intern. No, the best. Later this year, she will hold her diploma as a neurosurgeon, and like all the other selected juniors, she has been assigned to monitor one of them. Him.

Project Titanomachy.

A venture set in motion years ago, a vision to sculpt men into weapons. Some interns received weak, forgettable subjects. Not Kaeleena. She had set her sights on the finest, the one who outperformed them all. The deadliest. The one with the highest kill count during practices. Another fooli had been in charge of him first, but Kaeleena always gets what she wants. She doesn’t even need to glance at the file labeled Agent 7 ( @noiranamnesis ) before closing it. She knows it by heart, she knows Him by heart. Her gaze follows him as he runs down the treadmill, the way his muscles move are… engineered. He is being monitored, soon to be evaluated, and yet she watches him like he was more than an experiment subject. Her deranged eyes never leave him, drinking in every flex, every breath. Rrrr, magnificent. Ah, and if only she could run her tongue along his chest down to his belt, but oh no, how inappropriate. How deeply unethical. How utterly delicious. Sadly, she is only here to evaluate him, to ensure the weapon remains in prime condition before his very first mission. "You can stop running." Her voice cuts through the sterile air, cool and steady. She tilts her head, extending her arm towards the desk : an invitation, a command. Join me. Only when he sits does she lower herself onto her leather chair, letting the silence stretch between them. “I have watched you, Agent 7. From every conceivable angle.” Her lips curl at the edges, her usual sinister smile. “I am Doctor Junior Kaeleena Lockwood. From this moment on, you are under my supervision.” Her fingers drum against the desk with a specific rhythm, slow, a melody she often sings. “You were first assigned to Clementia Brown, weren’t you?” A chuckle escapes her lips, low, velvety and wicked. As if she enjoys remembering what she did to that poor, naive Clementia to ensure Agent 7 will forever ber hers and hers only. “I do things differently.” Her fingers stop drumming. Her gaze sharpens. “My dear colleague failed to recognize how exquisite you are, how promising. But I see it. ” A pause. A shift in the air. “It has been six months since you acquired this… oh-so-beautiful new organism of yours, along with a mind rewired for excellence. ” She leans in slightly, eyes on him. Eyes a little mad, a little intense, as always. “How about we get to know each other by sharing how these last months have impacted us. You tell me how you feel. Then, I tell you how I feel."

[roscvcins]

"Every single day we chase our past to discover who we are." He has done so largely BY ACCIDENT - though he's sure had the forces at play not wiped his memory clean of everything to do with the welfare home, its uncannily dark corners, fanatical teachers and the interference of the evil god, he would've begun to look for the traces earlier. He was forced to leave someone IMPORTANT to him there that summer, at the bottom of the lake in the back of the chapel - someone who promised to find him again. Who he now has to find himself. But he supposes - it seems like at the very least a FAIR deal that he trades for his information and solves a FEW problems for the Dangerous Heretics Handling Bureau in exchange. The consultation fee, at least, is worth the while. A smile appears on his face - the gentle, harmless one that he tends to wear. "While our search for love is long and vast, a friend may not be far."

@hymnoire liked for a lyric starter !

[noiranamnesis]

The home is inherited- a brownstone passed from his grandparents to his mother, then to him. It has deep roots and old bones, yet it's well kept. Aged wooded floors are polished, high windows washed, hinges silent. Everything works. Everything is in its place. But it isn't entirely his. The walls are adorned in somber oil paintings. The furniture is heavy, antique, Dutch Colonial- beautiful, by selected by past hands. Shelves are lines with old books in several languages, most of which he's never read. The aesthetic is curated, but not personal. Not to him. Heirloom trinkets- porcelain figurines, delicate lace, hand-carved keepsakes- have all been packed away. Labeled in boxes in the basement. Not discarded, just...removed. His own mark on the space in sparse, but intentional. A few modern touches: neutral tones, a scattering of houseplants, abstract artwork that avoids saying too much. Just enough to exist within, without disrupting former legacy.

The brownstone is too large for one man, and it knows it. Its halls echoes with quiet expectation, asking for life to return. Laughter. Family. Children's footsteps. Rem feels it. But he cannot provide it. He isn't built for that kind of living. He knows this. Knows his limitations: reserved, analytical, a man who observes more than speaks. Connection- real connection- has always remained elusive. Easier to avoid than to risk. And while he feels it, he cannot provide. He isn't built for that kind of living. He knows this. Knows his limitations: reserved, analytical, a man who observes more than he speaks. Connection- real connection- has always been elusive, and easier to avoid than pursue.

Which makes it strange that she's here.

Gaya.

He had invited her in. This much is true. Even though the Gaya he remembers- or rather, the Gaya he knew- had never set foot inside this place. She moves through his home like she's appraising it. Measuring it against something unseen.

Rem watches her quietly from the window. One hand crocks it open. The other pulls a cigarette from his jacket. The motion is automatic, an end-of-day ritual. Already completed once tonight, but instinct tells him the day is far from over. A match flares. He's always preferred it lighters. He inhales. Then exhales. The smoke curls into stillness, a gesture meant to calm, though tonight it does nothing.

Because then she started talking.

It comes in fragments- fractured phrases strung together with a shaky sort of urgency. A secret operation. Time travel. A mission gone wrong. Her voice rises, frustrations building- at him, at the world, at something larger- he's unsure. Her pacing turns erratic. Her thoughts unravel.

He says nothing. He watches. Listens. Tries to piece her meaning together.

She speaks with conviction. Like she’s lived it. Like the impossible is fact. And woven through her words are versions of him- of them- that he doesn’t recognize. As if they were something. As if he had once belonged to her in a vague way. She describes a man that doesn’t exist. Or if it does, it exists somewhere else- somewhere far removed from this quiet, methodical man leaning against a window. She told stories he wasn’t part of. Spoke of affection, partnership, disappearance.

He remains still. The cigarette burns low between his fingers. He tracks her as she paces, her movements sharp, disjointed- akin to something from the horror movies he watched as a child. Unsettling. Almost unreal. And yet, he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t interrupt. He waits.

Then she shows him the photo.

And he hesitates.

It’s him. There’s no denying it- the hair, the shape of his mouth, the expression that isn’t quite a smile but something warmer. Something private. Something he only ever showed his sisters. In the photo, he’s looking at her like he knows her. Like he belongs there. The idea lands heavily in his chest. A reality that doesn't belong to him.

Her insistence closes in. Her belief. Her grief. Her desperation. But to him, it’s not relevant. He takes a final drag of the cigarette. Stubs it out cleanly. “Okay,” he says at last. Because even if it’s true- even if everything she said happened- it doesn’t change what is. He doesn’t know her. And she doesn’t know him. "You've been to your grave then?"

How does it feel, not to exist? Gaya doesn't know anymore where it all started, when the ache slowly turned into numbness, when the silence around her became so loud it scraped against her bones and sanity. She is tired in ways that sleep can’t touch. In her own world, she was erased. Sacrificed for a mission that has only failed. In this one, she was never born. She is a phantom suspended between the memory of a future and the absence of a past. Maybe that’s always been the point, not to survive. Just to linger. To haunt. The tragic fate of Gayane Elyssa: the black swan, the soldier, and then, the forgotten. She has fought so many times to claw her way out of graves that weren’t hers yet. Maybe she was always meant to be buried. Do you recognize me? she had asked. And he’d said yes. But not in the way she hoped. He does not recognize the Gaya who bled beside him, who watched the world unravel through the scope of a rifle, who sat beside him in silence after every mission because words were too loud after they lost everything and everyone they cared about. He recognizes her : but it’s the version of her that existed here. The dead one. The girl who never became what she did. The girl who had a tranquil life. Almost the kind of life she dreamed of on the verge of death. When he asks where she’s staying, she doesn’t answer, an old habit of thinking revealing her hotel room will lead to the place being bugged and mercenaries to come and get her but, well, here, she is a nobody. A hotel, then another one, and another one. She is always nowhere and everywhere. She is a visitor in the life she should have lived. A prisoner in time.

The subway rocks beneath her feet, the weight of everything unsaid thick between them... for now. She leans back against the door, arms folded, watching him. In her world, this moment existed too, and she remembers it as clearly as day. Same stance. Same silence. But there, it meant something. It meant safety when they were together. Here, it’s just space. A placeholder between two worlds. She wonders if they’re looking for her back home. If her Rem is looking for her... Sometimes she foolishly wishes he would have also jumped into the loops of time to come and find her, if the portals had remained opened for long enough. But it would have been suicide, he would have been lost in another dimension as well, they would have ended separated again. And what’s even left of that world, anyway? Maybe the evil they spent a lifetime resisting has won. Maybe all of them are dead. Maybe this is her new beginning... Ah. How sad. How ironic.

She steps into his apartment and her heart stops a bit. The door closes behind her. She stands still for a moment, coat still on. It is the same place, not in a different year, the one he used to have ten years ago in her own reality. Same layout. Same windows. Same shadow stretching across the floor at this hour of the night. He had to move then, for safety, they wouldn't keep the same places . There are differences still... not the same books. A plant. Paintings. Signs of a life lived quietly, unbloodied. It’s almost domestic. Almost peaceful. As if this version of him never walked in here covered in someone else’s blood, sitting down on a crappy couch while she dug bullets from his side with steady hands. This is a life, a real one. She peels off her coat slowly, folding it over one arm with muscle memory that doesn’t feel like hers anymore. Her eyes scan everything. Not just as Gaya the person, but as Gaya the operative. She’s building the profile in her head automatically. Who is he here? What does he love? What has he lost? Who was she to him? Finally, she turns to face him. Her fingers tighten on the fabric of her coat. Too much truth too fast could spiral out of control. "All I know is that I’m supposed to be dead. Therefore, you're not facing who you think I am and, I'm not facing who I think you are." She watches him carefully. Something is familiar in him, that self-control of his, the thing that made him a ghost on the field. Anybody else facing dead Gaya would have caused a scene or fainted or called the police. She cannot help but stare at him, studying the lines of his face like they’re coordinates on a broken map. "From where I come from, there was an operation I was part of. One of many. The type of unspoken things you’d never hear of. But I was supposed to travel to another time, and instead, I landed here." Her throat tightens. Her jaw clenches so hard it aches. She was supposed to go back in time to prevent the goddamn world from becoming what it became. That was the whole point. The sacrifice, the training, the isolation. And yet here they are. Here she is. "I don’t know how to explain it in ways that don’t sound like madness, the concept of time here hasn't been unfolded properly yet... " She sighs, throwing her head to the back in exaspration. "God, it feel slike such a waste of time explaining all this over and over again. "

She starts pacing, hands suddenly restless, fingers dragging through her hair like she might be trying to tear the thoughts out of her skull. "The few people I've spoken to in here think I’ve lost my mind. And maybe I have at this point. Maybe I snapped somewhere in the void between timelines. Maybe none of this is real and I’m strapped to a table back home, dreaming in a coma while the rest of the world burns." Now her words spill faster, sharper. Her eyes, once dulled from exhaustion, now spark with the edge of her legendary rage. That righteous, destructive impulse that saved lives and ended others. "I didn’t come here to disrupt anything, you know." Her voice rises slightly as she gestures to the room around her. "I’ve been careful. Careful like I’ve been taught not to cause any paradoxes but what's the point of being careful if I'll just ended up dying again in here?" She sighs. She walks back to him, this time, closer. "In my world, Rem, we were... something," she says, voice lower now. Her eyes bore into his as if she hoped he could see something in them. "We weren’t just partners. We weren’t just weapons. We were the ones they kept sending because we had already survived what killed everyone else. And we didn’t talk about it. Not in the ways emotionally well-wired people would. But we understood. You were the only thing that felt real when everything else collapsed, and everything was goddamn collapsing all the fucking time." Her voice stumbles on that last part, her anger pressing out through every syllable. "There was this op in Cyprus. You probably don’t remember it because it didn’t happen here for you, but there, our entire base got ended. We were so fucked up, my liver was practically in your hands." She laughs, short, nostalgic. "Yeah, that’s the kind of thing I’d say to you, you know. 'Hey, remember when you held my liver? That was crazy.'" Her eyes drift to the side. "I told you that if we made it out, we should vanish. Just disappear. Maybe hm... maybe together." She exhales, almost still smiling in pain. "I started spiraling. I mean, it was embarrassing, it wasn’t very me to say all that. But I told you… maybe we could go somewhere quiet. Where the sky wasn’t full of surveillance drones and our names weren’t on anyone’s kill list." The words shift. She’s remembering something she never let herself believe in. "I asked what you would’ve become if not a soldier. Then you asked me, and I said..." Her voice catches for a second. "I said maybe I’d be teaching Art History. Standing in front of bored students at the university or something." The books. The plant. The light. She frowns, deranged, enraged, suspicious. "It’s this. It’s almost this. Plants. Books. Walls that aren’t bulletproof. A life that looks like the fantasy I built in my head while bleeding out in the dirt." A low, bitter laugh is shaking out of her throat, almost manic. "Fuck," she says, louder now but still in between her teeth, her fists clenching. "I’m insane... No? I’m fucking insane and this is a fucking dream, isn’t it?" Her fingers rise to her temples. She presses hard, massages, digs. As if she could physically squeeze the dissonance out, taking a step back from him as if needed space to process her thoughts, talking to herself like a deranged person. "Did I die in fucking Cyprus? Is this some stupid afterlife dream? A reward simulation for a life I didn’t even want?" Her breath stutters. "YOU WOULD DO THIS TO ME HUH?" She suddenly shouts, looking above. "YOU WOULD FUCK ME OVER EVEN AFTER I DIE HUH YOU CRAZY BITCH?!" She then kept on screaming out of rage, kicking the nearest chair around the table with a sharp move that made the chair hit the ground in a loud bang. Her words addressed to someone above as if she was being watched by a cynical God in a pc simulation. By whom could she be watched... Oh if that theory is true, only one evil mind would be able to pull that off.

Her pupils are too wide now and then she stretches her neck. A slow, sharp movement like a broken doll, from left and right. Vertebrae crack. It looks violent. It looks wrong. Her head tilts just enough to unsettle. Hysterical, she reaches into her pocket, pulls out her phone. It’s useless here. No signal. No network. Just like all the other equipment she brought. All of it dead, obsolete, irrelevant in this world. She taps the screen and turns it toward him in a sharp move, her arm extending, her wide and wild eyes on him. A photo. In gear. Mouths mid-laugh like one of them just made some dumb joke... probably her. Their eyes are heavy but alive. Real.

"Us. THIS. This is Us, Rem."

[noiranamnesis]

His fingers twitched, the impulse to touch her, to verify she was actually here, surging beneath the surface, but his hand remained at his side. Dark hues unwavering as she lessened the distance between them. His jaw twitching when she uttered his name. That voice. Years had passed, but he knew it all the same. Only the tone differed- a strain he couldn't recall. A potential effect of death- but there was no cheating death.

Her question seemed...redundant. Irrelevant. He had confronted her and she had addressed him. A fact which furthered his sense of unease. I stood by your open casket. "Yes." He answered. "I recognize you." I watched them lower you in the ground. Itching for another cigarette, he instead diverted his attention, aware of wayward glances they were receiving. It wasn't uncommon for people to block walking paths and while the attention didn't bother him- the mounting questions weren't fit for this environment.

"Where are you staying?" A question deemed more acceptable in light of other matters on his mind. "Come with me." His place was relatively nearby, via transit.

The first thing Gaya registers is the scent of rain on asphalt, the distant hum of a city breathing, living—whole. A dissonant familiarity sinks into her bones, like waking up in a dream so close to reality it feels like drowning. She should be somewhere else. She should be somewhen else. But the experiment failed. The rip in time never opened. Instead, she is here. A city identical to the one she left behind, except it isn’t fraying at the edges. There are no war drones prowling the skyline, no silent alerts embedded in her wrist reminding her of the countdown. The world isn't dying. No impending catastrophe is set to unravel the very foundation of civilization. And yet, she is still alone. The base she built for herself is small—pieced together from an abandoned storage unit and a handful of repurposed electronics. It isn't much, but it's enough to work from. Enough to investigate. Enough to start again. The governmental organization she works for does not exist here. There is no branch, no records, no hidden caches of information buried beneath the city. She is a ghost in a world where she was never meant to be. Her first instinct is to find a way back. She scours libraries, public records, classified ads for research institutions that might hint at interdimensional anomalies. There is nothing. No sign that this world has ever attempted what her own did. She makes contact with scientists, theoretical physicists—people who might understand. But without her credentials, without the weight of her organization behind her, she is dismissed. A stranger with impossible claims. They do not know her name. Some are polite in their skepticism. Others scoff outright, reducing her to another eccentric chasing fiction. She learns to choose her words carefully, to gauge whether a conversation is worth pursuing before she even begins. But with every dead end, the weight in her chest grows heavier. Then, she finds herself. Or at least, she finds the absence of herself. A passing article, buried in the archives of an old newspaper. Gayane Elyssa Lockwood—deceased. No further details, no public obituary, just a name listed among the lost. The knowledge burrows into her like a splinter. She tracks her past here, the people she should have known, the places she should have lived. They exist, but altered—subtly different in ways that make her chest tighten. There is no pattern, no logic. And no matter how much she searches, she never finds herself. Days blur together. She builds routines, retraces steps that were never hers to begin with, until she begins to forget which life belonged to her first. She watches from afar, follows threads of possibility like an operative on a mission she never received. She is careful. Always careful. By approaching the former friends and lovers of the deceased Gaya, she remains a shadow, slipping between cracks, resisting the pull of curiosity, realizing that the deceased Gaya associated with people of colorful, artistic and regular lives... Painters, Writers, Assistants, Working moms, it's all different than the people who gravitate around her back in her reality yes, the Gaya from here seemed to have had a good and honest life. While snooping, she is an observer, not a participant. She cannot risk becoming a replacement for someone who no longer exists, to create a paradox or something she cannot contol.

Until the night he sees her. It should be impossible, she thinks : this country, this city, they are so vast and again, she has been so careful to remain a ghost, a shadow, not to exist in this dimension. But Rem does see her. Her breath catches. He is just as she remembers him. The shape of his stance, the quiet weight of his presence. A man who once walked the same fractured path as her in her own reality. But here—he does not know her .. or, he's not supposed to? And yet, when he speaks her name, the world around disappears and all she wants is for him to remember her from another life. She takes a step forward, searching his gaze, searching for the Rem she knows. "Rem." Her own voice is steady but troubled. "Do you... " A pause. A thought. A beg. A prayer. " Do you recognize me? Say that you recognize me."