#basalt towers

[emvisual]

Os acordáis de Encuentros en la tercera fase, una más de las empalagosas películas de Steven Spielberg. Es la columna de basalto conocida como la Torre del Diablo en Wyoming.

[bellshazes]

a few day's progress at spawn in my singleplayer, large biome world. the lighthouse (incomplete) is now mostly a mob farm using the scaffold water dispensers from ianxofour's design, but super compacted and a different shape because i don't even want high-volume output, just something i can let run passively or AFK at if i'm pausing to go do a chore or whatever.

the green part has an enchanting room & i think i might try to make fake light beams to hide the scaff tower for AFKing if i can stomach another 7000 block boat trip.

once I get the lighthouse a little better off I wanna focus on the farming/animal area, which will be behind the bamboo across from the wheat farms. there's a big ole plain just north of here that i might convert wholly to farmland, so it'll just be practical small scale for now to give a pretty view.

[mini-uzzy]

.

[tarnishedtwill]

Nevarran Locations & Landmarks

Nevarra City– This is the capital of Nevarra. Home to the Grand Necropolis among other things. This is also primarily where most festivals and balls are held, as well as where the Palace of King Markus is located. Nevarra City is also home to the  residence of the Anaxas house, and location of the Duchess Games. [Though the current ruler of Cumberland hails from this family: Duke Sandral Anaxas.] It is also home to the Castrum Draconis as well as the Minanter River which carves through it.

Castrum Draconis– Vast Botanical Gardens with hundreds of statues depicting Royalty and Heroes of legend [Powerful Generals, Dragon Hunters etc.] Along the roadways leading up to the Castrum are stately columns of black marble amidst which statues of Kings & Queens of Nevarras past are on prominent display. In Autumn there is a festival held [ see Ancestral Pageant in my Nevarran Culture Post] where many great families hire performers to recreate famous moments in the statues lives by lantern light. Often draping the statues themselves with their house colors. Notably the Pentaghasts and Van Markhams tend to compete for the best show each year.

Blackthorne Manor– The estate was gifted to a family who then took on it’s name by Queen Vanneska the Fourth. [codex: ‘A Tale of the Blackthornes’] Twenty Generations have walked its halls, [meaning if a generation is estimated at 25-30 years, I would potentially date both the manner and Vanneska to 500-600 years ago, placing somewhere around 3:50 Towers to 4:50 Black.] That said, the codex this is from is annotated by Emmrich stating this must have been written in better days– that no one knows what horrible fate befell the Blackthornes. Noting rumors of suspicious deaths, untended crypts and salacious affairs. [This means that my date estimates could be to young and the manor could be even older.] At some point since its abandonment, it became the base for the Necromancer Johanna Hezenkoss.

Grand Necropolis– A large mausoleum sometimes said to be at the heart of Nevarra city while other sources say it's on the outskirts of the city. This is the main base of operation for all Mortalitasi, including the Mourn Watch. There are open-air gardens, crypts, and mausolieums. The structure is as large as a city in its own right, some royal burials being described as palaces of their own. [Lead concept artist Matt Rhodes remarked while designing the structure that, at least in early concepts, his inspiration was an inverted Tower of Babel. The Mortalitassi, instead of seeking knowledge from the stars, they seek it from their dead.] It is also of note that the geography of the Necropolis shifts quite a bit. Chambers are known to shift and change sporadically. [Note the Memorial Gardens being lost until Rook discovers they had moved to the Vault of the Beloved & also the lack of panic over the Basalt Hypogeum at first because it was thought they moved within the Necropolis, not that they were stolen.] Though Emmrich does say during the 'Walking the Graves' questline that it is unlikely for a section to move while people are inside of it, impling it's more common for less traversed chambers to shift. Unless I am mistaken it appears the cause of this is shift is largely unknown, if not gently implied that it's something to disuade tomb raiding. [I cannot remember which dialogue it is said in, I will search, but I am pretty sure looting deterents are mentioned at one point.] While some areas like the gardens are open to the public for days of mourning, many of the lower wings are heavily restricted even among the order.

Basalt Hypogeum– A vast section of the Necropolis that was stolen and transported to Blackthorne Manor to facilitate Johanna Hezenkoss’ experiments. Many Watchers were curious of its disappearance as it was sudden, though the Necropolis does tend to shift often. Myrna noted it was a ‘matter of strange obliquity’. Once Johanna is defeated Myrna notes a great magic will be required to attempt to transport and restore the wing to its place in the Necopolis. Design wise we know this is one of the more impressive and old sactums within the Necropolis, the basalt being shipped from Rivain in 4:57 Black. We also know the name of the Stonemason who crafted its impressive halls: Othmar Gerdebrand.

Cascades– One of the ‘Lost Watcher’s Wings’

Chamber of the Unforged– This is a hexagonal chamber with several small treasure caches on each spoke. Notably this is where Rook faces the Formless One when it possessed the body of a taxidermied high dragon. It is considered one of the ‘Lost Watcher’s Wings’. The hallway leading to this chamber seems to hold several important memorials, as statues, paintings and gated off rooms of gold and urns line each side. [Knowing that the Tanhausen family commissioned the high dragon to be taxidermied it could possibly be a wing for their quite prominent family. However we do know that the ‘last’ crypt of the Tanhausen’s is in the Memorial Gardens.]

Charnel Bridge– Mentioned briefly in banter between Bellara and Emmrich for good places to learn more about undead. It’s briefly mentioned that the ‘nightmare fog’ has overwhelmed it.

Charnel Pyramid– A section of the Necropolis that is ‘disagreeably cursed.’ [Codex entry: From Myrna, on Rediscovering the Gardens] Myrna recommended that the Pyramid should go through a lustration before the next Equinox. [Lustration: a policy that removes public officials or beings from positions of power associated with a repressive regime; this makes me wonder if it is similar to the situation with undead during the War of Banners.] The area surrounding the pyramid must also be quite sizeable as it was debated to be used as a backup location for public days of mourning in the event the location of the Memorial Gardens was not rediscovered in time.

Cobalt Ossuary– A resting place for skulls within the Necropolis. This is the location of the spiritual disturbance in the short story ‘A Flame Eternal’ in which a skull began to hiss and scream from it’s niche. [We know that some royal families and high nobility have full Palaces as their resting places. I would assume an Ossuary with skulls in niches more than likely is for lower nobility, or even commoners if they are able to be inturned in the necropolis, based oh how unextravagant in sound in comparison. But this is just a guess.]

Crescent Fane– Another chamber of burial, described vaguely as having sunken black walls, with bowls of silver flames [I am not sure if this is a descriptor for veilfire or something else entirely.] around each coffin. [‘A Flame Eternal’] The only known person interred here is a woman named Mathilde, whose husband’s skull became restless until they were once again joined together. [Fane, also means a temple or shrine, so it is possible this is a temporary resting place for the recently dead, maybe to prepare them or just until they are moved to a more final resting place, as Emmrich mentions Mathilde passed ‘in her sleep, last midnight.’]

Hollow Belfry– This seems to be a common area, or main spoke. Several hallways branch off into the other chambers of the Necropolis. The center has a lowered portion where Myrna and Vorgoth tend to be stationed, alerting watchers to hauntings & providing the guild market. It also has an upper atrium. Above the chamber sets a massive bell called the Sunken Star. It is responsible for keeping malign spirits from entering certain chambers of the Necropolis (but probably not 100% of them). A ritual is need to ring the bell, so more than likely it happens intermittently through the year as the wards weaken. The direct quote when pertaining to the Sunken Star’s ability: “…in fact any malicious spirit that hears the tolling of the bell will be banished back into the Fade.”

The Memorial Gardens– This is where public days of mourning are held, while we don’t know it’s original location we do know that this chamber went missing before appearing at the vault of the Beloved [Which, in my opinion is in some way the Necropolis foreshadowing Emmrich & Rook getting together (conditional) since this seems to be Emmrich’s favourite spot to wander, and well Vault of the Beloved… anyways I digress.] The Garden is a cemetery that spralls outward amongst an array of flowers and statues.  This includes the Tableau of the Dead, created from real skeletons in 7:20 Storm. As well as the large statuary monument ‘Love in Life and Death’ which displays two skeletons kissing among other posed figures, overgrown with a flower called shrouds kiss. This is a statue dedicated to the enduring passion of those bound by love. We know that the Rites of Rememberance can be performed by Watchers here as well as a meditative puzzle involving the cleansing bells. In addition to that, the only known/named people to be buried here are Rupert & Elannora Volkarin [Emmrich’s parents], and  the last tomb of the Tanhanhausen line. 

The Path of Glory– Just off to the Side of the Memorial gardens. It holds rooms featuring boardgames, grave mist, and such along with it’s skeletons.

The Path of Sighs– One of the ‘Lost Watcher’s Wings’.

Shrouded Halls– One of the ‘Lost Watcher’s Wings’.

Spectral Court– One of the ‘Lost Watcher’s Wings’.

Unspoken Valley- Mentioned briefly in banter between Bellara and Emmrich for good places to learn more about Spirits. It’s briefly mentioned that the ‘nightmare fog’ has overwhelmed it.

Upper Mortuary- in banter with Neve, Emmrich mentions he left several of his books in his apartment at the Necropolis. When questioned if most Mourn Watchers live on the Necropolis grounds, he simply replies that the ‘Upper Mortuary is quite pleasant.’ this to me signifies that he is not the only one, and/or this could be one of many more residential areas within the Necropolis. I would assume if this is an area for high up faculty, students and trainees may be housed elsewhere.

Vault of the Beloved– One of the ‘Lost Watcher’s Wings’. This is the new resting place of the Memorial Gardens.

Weeping Vale– We simply do not know much about what the Weeping Vale is, but dialogue between Emmrich and Rook (conditional to Mourn Watch) tells us that recently there was a problem solved by the Mourn Watch to stop wandering cenotaphs from appearing. [A cenotaph is a memorial or monument to someone whose body is buried elsewhere. This is typically done to honor those who died in war, but not always.]

Flora of the Necropolis– I cannot find much on plants related to Nevarra specifically, but some are mentioned directly, or visually matched from past games: Variegated Weeping Widower, Shrouds Kiss, Blue Creepvine, Moon Blossom, Embrium* [A flower that is similar in apperance and color except for the ember at the center is found in some of the vases] & unknown willows capable of making their own noises [Codex: New Fauna].

Hunter Fell– A small city west of the capital. This is where King Caspar Pentaghast is from, as well as the location of the tea house that Charter calls a meeting of spies to discuss the movements and motivations of Solas. [Tevinter Nights: The Dread Wolf Take You] The only other thing to really note is that when Tylus Van Markham seized the throne from King Nestor Pentaghast [5:37 Exhalted], several surviving Pentaghasts fled to Hunter Fell. Eventually in 9:42 Dragon, the Inquisiton was called in to investigate Duke Tythas Pentaghst, ruler of Hunter Fell. He commanded a network of spies and warriors called the ‘Five Belles of Hunter Fell’ suspected of being tied to the Venatori.

Cumberland– One of the largest cities in Thedas, it sits South of Nevarra city, where the Imperial highway forks and portside to the Waking Sea. Not only does it function as a major trading port but also as a seat of immense knowledge. Home to the College of Magi, which is thought to bear the brightest mages and scholars throughout Thedas. It is also where many tournaments of combat, and archery are held. The current ruler is Duke Sandral Anaxas.

Diamond Lass– in the ‘Dragon’s Den’ district of Cumberland, this is a luxury inn. Drinks are said to be served with crystal goblets alongside runes said to keep the beverage cold.

‘Dragon’s Den’– This is a walled off sector of town, adjacent to the more wealthy quarters of the city. It functions as a Dwarven trading hub and due to his most of the buildings are described to have distinctly Dwarven Architecture.

Forsythia Estate– This is the ancestral residence of the noble house Forsythia.

College of Magi– The college of Magi sits at the center of the city the Sun Dome’s golden exterior and massive spires making the city itself seem gilded and brilliant.  The palace itself was gifted to the Chantry by  a Nevarran Duchess. Keeping with the Nevvarran tradition of statues, the College of Magi is no different, the entryway featuring busts of ever Grand Enchanter from the last 600 years since this is the place from which they are chosen by a council of First Enchanters. The College of Magi is thought to bear the brightest mages and scholars throughout Thedas, some of which then move on to recruitment with the Mortalitasi.

Additional notes about historical events at the College of Magi [& some Dorian and Ashur lore]: In 9:38 following the Kirkwall Rebellion, the Chantry disbands meetings of the College of Enchanters [Based on context and what I am able to find, it seems the College of Enchaters is the name of the council of First Enchanters.], as well as any unsanctioned mage gatherings. This meant the dissolving of mage fraternities. This is also around the time that former Warden Fiona is elevated to the position of Grand Enchanter. [Wynne blames this as the reason the conclave was disbanded.] Grand Enchanter Fiona was quick to begin campaigning for independence, leading a vote among the College of Enchanters to secede from the Chantry entirely. Though the vote did not pass, the existence of the vote was enough for the Templar order to call for the dissolution of the College of Enchanters. More political unrest insues leading to Divine Justinia II calling for a meeting of the College of Enchanters, now disbanded, to the White Spire instead of their traditional seat in Cumberland. This lead to Grand Enchanter Fiona once again pleading for secession, causing High Seeker Lambert to declare the College of Enchanters treasonous. After a daring rescue of some of the enchanters, Fiona once again led a vote on succession in Cumberland. This time since too few first enchanters remained, some having died in capture, the fraternities casted their votes. This lead  ultimately to the dissolution of the circles and the movement towards mage freedom. The factions mentioned above include:

Aequitarians– This is the most dominant of the fraternities in the College of Magi. Their ideology is moderate, and thus popular. It is that mages must use their abilities ethically, and responsibly within society regardless of Chantry law. They believe mages have the power to help people, and should be doing so. Historically leaders of this group include Wynne & Rhys.

Isolationists– While less popular, this smaller faction simply believes mages should separate from the Chantry, and society as a whole. Creating their own systems and culture without any scrutiny towards the practice of magic or danger towards those without.

Libertarians– This group desires the Circle to become self governed and separate rom the chantry. While on the surface the Libertarians seek to do this peacefully, a subgroup of resolutionists within the faction have no issue usng violent means to achieve this. This group has been led historically by Fiona & Adrian.

Loyalists– As the name implies this group is the most devout, following the word of the Chantry. They are often viewed negatively by other mages for being apologists to the oppression faced by mages.

Lucrosians– the smallest fraternity amongst the College of Magi, these mages simply align themselves with the priority of gaining wealth, and political influence over any social cause.

In Veilguard we receive a conversation between Dorian Pavus and Ashur [who may or may not be Divine Aequitas II] in which Dorian comments, ‘Speaking of brash rebels, remember Cumberland? Spring of ‘38?’ to which Ashur replies ‘I wish I didn’t.’ This has had me so curious as to why they were present, were they part of the fraternities that helped vote against the circles since fraternities voted in the place of first enchanters? Or were they simply there as support to keep templars from intervening the College of Enchanters meeting. Either way. Super interesting additional lore on Dorian & Ashur. We know Dorian was part of the Lucerni [a faction dedicated to redeeming and restoring Tevinter] but that is a group exclusive to the Magistirium and not one of the fraternities of the College of Magi. In fact it is more than likely closer tied to the Shadow Dragons. [If you want a less summarized version of 9:38 Dragon, most of the information comes from Dragon Age: Asunder.]

Thank you all for the kind words on my first lore post. In this next section I tried to break down several key locations. If there are ones you'd like to see that I did not explore please let me know! If there is anything I missed or got incorrect, I am open to corrections! Additionally I would love any additional descriptions or information about the sections of the Necropolis, information is scarce, so any additional notes are welcomed. For more posts on this topic, they will be marked on my page under the tag Nevarran lore.

I hope for this to be a resource for fic writers but also knowledge for my fellow lore nerds. More will be posted soon as feel sections become complete.

Update Edits: More insight on the shifting chambers of the Necropolis, and additional lore on the Basalt Hypogeum. Info on the Sunken Star.

Thank you guys for the feedback <3

[stickyspeckledlight]

Dear Diary… [Yan!Anaxa x GN!Reader]

WC: 1.4k

Note: A lil OOC; I haven’t actually gotten to finish 3.1 yet but after hanging out with @harmonysanreads @naraven @teabutmakeitazure I needed to get this out into the world

Wrote this in one go so might be a few mistakes here and there (don’t smack me anaxa I promise I’m a decent student—)

The Grove quakes. A daunting force descends upon its ground with an earsplitting thud innumerable times, leaving behind cracks cut deeply into the city. In hindsight, the only reason the city didn’t crash into the earth, was because the Titians themselves mended these cracks after they formed—a gift met with jubilation by its residents. Such an annoyance was yet another jab at the Blasphemer’s conscious, but alas, idiots were never something in short supply, even at the Grove. It wasn’t like his steps were causing the Grove to shake, but idiots preferred to spin narratives from salience as opposed to fact.

A door swings open, nearly splintering, and with a few more earthsplitting thuds, everything returns to a peaceful, wise standstill.

The shaking Dromas’ eyes are bulging as it stares down at the disgruntled scholar, frozen mid-chew as it was enjoying its red soil. Though it towers and casts a shadow on him, the Dromas had never felt so small and afraid. Discontent and nigh on belligerence hung in the air like smog, all from a single, aggrieved man.

Anaxagoras’ features are drawn into a frown, puckered lips barely containing fire. Though, his brows, angled and pushed together, are the only indication that there is any fire at all.

His one good eye snaps to the poor Dromas’ face. A sound of fear escapes it, and the red soil drops to the ground with a comparatively delicate thud to the scholar’s thunderous steps.

There is not a single light to be found in that eye. But as a beast, the Dromas instinctively knows just how deceptive that emptiness is. It knows that what it fearfully gazes into is anything but an empty void, and how it wished it was instead. Like cracks in the earth, nothing is apparent at first glance. It stretches too deep into the earth to make anything out of it at all, other than a dark void promising nothing but the abyss. But, as any decent scholar could surmise, that crack signified not a void, but a dark unknown. Unknown was its depth, even, for even the heaviest rock thrown into it could fall and not produce a single sound. Unknown was its contents, the crack too narrow to slip into with ease; and there was little hope of making that crack gape, for if one were to try and widen that crack, then the very earth itself may splinter and split, plunging all life into a gaping maw.

But, known was the core: pure, hot magma, oozing into itself with dulled passion. But, passion, a frivolous thing, could just as easily be reignited and gush unto the surface with renewed vengeance. Even a pebble could be the thing to stoke the flames. Dulled passion was merely just emptied, hungry passion. And the core? Dulled it was, until a pebble dropped; and now, with passion reignited, it would be a severe understatement to call it voracious—in fact, it would be laughable to assume there existed any words at all to describe it. To describe just how much that passion would be willing to consume to fuel its vengeance.

The Dromas, anchored to its spot, had no interest in letting loose the straw that’d break the camel’s back. Lest it writhe as searing magma sunk into its skin, cooling to leave behind a permanent fixture of agony written in misshapened basalt.

The scholar sharply inhales, clenching his jaw into a vice. The towering beast cowers, taking a slow step to back away. Despite a lifetime of domesticity, this man had reminded the Dromas of the instincts its ancestors had honed generations ago. The laws of nature, the rules of survival. And the Dromas knows that now, backed into a corner, that the rules dictate complete submission. It’s the only way to guarantee its survival or a quick death.

However, the Dromas might prefer the latter, if only so that it does not have to live with this memory haunting it for a lifetime.

Anaxagoras bites his lip, and clenches his fist. His chest rises and falls at a rapid pace, like the waves of an approaching tsunami. His teeth grind against each other, like tectonic plates crashing into each other.

As he opens his mouth, the Dromas begins to wish it had never been born at all. Anything is better than having to bear the release of magma, even if it only causes the earth to rumble, because at least then, the Dromas would’ve never had to know the difference between ominous dread and looming doom.

The ground rumbles, as the scholar pushes his aggrieved, pained words from deep within his chest.

“Why don’t they like me?” The earth shudders, sending life into a frenzy, “After all I have done, they still continue to hate me?”

Oh, oh no, the Dromas thinks. Maybe it would’ve been better if Amphoreus itself had never come into being.

“Are they still such a fool that they cannot see how I would get to my knees at the snap of a finger?” The waves slosh against the shore in discontent, “How I’d point my weapon at anyone just to rid them of the incessant vermin who nip and swarm them for even a crumb of their attention?” Blood starts to leak from his lips, “More over, why does such an ignorant, derelict fool cause me such torment? If they are too incompetent to see the lengths I would go, then I should just turn my heel as I do with the rest of them!”

The hisses and growls arising from him are more befitting of creatures from the black tide than any one human; than any Dromas, at that.

“Should I just force them to the wall, and push my barrel to their head?” The earth shakes and starts to rip when a horrific sound comes into being: a laugh, “No, their heart. There can’t be anything to speak of in that vapid mind. It would be a shameful waste of ammunition.”

A bit of dust falls as the Dromas finally runs out of steps to take, its back firmly forced against quaking rock walls.

“Or maybe not,” the man cruelly muses, “It might succeed in getting everything through to that thick skull of theirs. Then they’d understand that it’s best to come along. They clearly need my guidance for all with such lacking mental faculties.”

A smile rests on his face, as a slight bit of magma oozes out of a crack.

“Hm, that is a fine hypothesis,” the Blasphemer chuckles. The earth only rumbles at that, as the core’s passions shift from vengeance to a singular revenge. “Or rather, thesis. There is nothing here to speculate about, only gathering the clear cut pieces so simply organized—as is expected from an idiot.” Somehow, that might’ve been the most terrifying thing the Dromas had ever heard, even if it doesn’t understand what exactly the words mean.

But its instincts are more than enough.

Anaxagoras laughs with the triumph of solution; the most gratuitous feeling of them all for a scholar such as he.

“Thank you for listening to my woes,” he grins, thanking the quivering Dromas as if he were merely a boy venting about his first crush. The soft fondness in his voice now is in sharp contrast to the splitting earth, but there is little respite to be found in it. There was nothing more terrifying than a beast who could hide its claws, after all. “I’ll get you some extra high quality feed; much better than what those stable hands see fit to feed you all…though, mark my words, there will be a day I ensure it will be all you eat one day.”

Madness must be truly etched into his soul, if he does not pay even the slightest mind to the fear coming from the Dromas in waves—in tsunamis, even.

“Have a good rest of your day,” Anaxagoras fondly says, “You and your friends. Unfortunately it may be a bit until I can pay you all a visit, but alas…all scholars must pay some price, one way or another, for their ambition. Farewell, my good sir.”

He easily turns his heel, and hums a simple tune. For most, it’s unimaginable for the scholar to do such a thing, but that is only because they are met with the Blasphemer, and not the true insanity lurking within him. He slips his gun, calmly ensuring its care before he departs and enacts his thesis. It would do no good for him to have faulty equipment.

The doors do not threaten to splinter with a thud this time, but the Dromas finds itself desperately wishing that they did.

[choose-your-own-dentistry]

Captain Vermeil in episode 2 when they all went to the basalt tower

[vestaignis]

Черный пляж Фаускасандур расположен на южном побережье Исландии, недалеко от небольшого городка Вик-и-Мюрдал. Этот регион характеризуется суровым вулканическим ландшафтом, который является результатом миллионов лет геологической деятельности. До пляжа можно добраться по национальной дороге № 1, известной как Хрингвегур, которая проходит вокруг всей Исландии, соединяя самые важные города и туристические достопримечательности.

Регион, в котором расположен Фаускасандур, отличается исключительным ландшафтным разнообразием. Рядом с пляжем расположены величественные скалы, вулканические скальные образования и многочисленные пещеры. Одной из самых впечатляющих особенностей ландшафта является гора Рейнисфьялль, которая возвышается над пляжем, откуда открывается захватывающий вид на океан и окрестности.

Черный песок пляжа состоит из измельченного базальта, образовавшегося в результате извержений вулканов. Базальтовый песок чрезвычайно мелкий и мягкий, благодаря чему пляж кажется почти сюрреалистическим. Рядом с пляжем можно увидеть впечатляющие базальтовые колонны Рейнисдрангар, которые по легенде являются окаменевшими троллями. Пляж Фаускасандур так же примечателен своим черным песком и огромным монолитом, возвышающимся над его берегом. Почти прямоугольная гигантская скала выглядела неуместно, выступая как недостающая часть окружающих горных оснований. С ее вершиной, покрытой зеленой листвой, которая сползает по скалистым склонам, это естественное скальное образование добавляет уникальный элемент темной береговой линии.Также стоит упомянуть поразительный контраст между белыми изломами в волнах и черным песком.

В целом, уникальный вид Фаускасандура делает его особенно идеальным местом для фотографов. Фаускасандур можно посещать круглый год. Летом, когда погода хорошая, а световой день достигает своей максимальной длины, посетители могут наслаждаться долгими прогулками по песчаному берегу, наблюдая за волнами, разбивающимися о темный песок под полуночным солнцем в течение 20 часов в день. Так же в теплый сезон окрестности становятся зеленее и ярче, а зима подчеркивает завораживающий контраст между белым снегом и черным песком.

The black beach of Fauskasandur is located on the south coast of Iceland, near the small town of Vik y Myrdal. This region is characterized by a rugged volcanic landscape, which is the result of millions of years of geological activity. The beach can be reached via National Road 1, known as Hringvegur, which runs around the entire country of Iceland, connecting the most important cities and tourist attractions.

The region in which Fauskasandur is located has an exceptional landscape diversity. Near the beach there are majestic cliffs, volcanic rock formations and numerous caves. One of the most impressive features of the landscape is the mountain Reynisfjall, which rises above the beach, offering breathtaking views of the ocean and the surrounding area.

The black sand of the beach consists of crushed basalt, formed by volcanic eruptions. Basalt sand is extremely fine and soft, making the beach seem almost surreal. Near the beach, you can see the impressive basalt columns of Reynisdrangar, which according to legend are petrified trolls. Fauskasandur beach is also notable for its black sand and the huge monolith that towers over its shore. The almost rectangular giant rock looked out of place, protruding as a missing part of the surrounding mountain bases. With its top covered in green foliage that creeps down the rocky slopes, this natural rock formation adds a unique element to the dark coastline. Also worth mentioning is the striking contrast between the white breaks in the waves and the black sand.

Overall, Fauskasandur's unique appearance makes it an especially ideal place for photographers. Fauskasandur can be visited all year round. In the summer, when the weather is fine and the daylight hours are at their longest, visitors can enjoy long walks along the sandy shore, watching the waves crash against the dark sand under the midnight sun for 20 hours a day. Also, during the warm season, the surroundings become greener and brighter, and winter highlights the mesmerizing contrast between the white snow and black sand.

Источник://t.me/divo_planeta,/guidetoiceland.is/travel-iceland /drive /fauskasandur-black-sand-beach,/park4night.com/en/place/111259, //sophiecarr.blogspot.com/2018/04/iceland-14-day-7-from-wonderful. html,/www.hatlastravel.com/destination/Iceland/?category=Highland &place=Fauskasandur#pictures,/sandee.com/iceland/east-region/ starmyri/fauskasandur,/ru.gancarczyk.com/Черная-площадь-Фаускасандур-доступ-автостоянка-достопримечательности/, /www.irishroots.pl/czarna-plaza-fauskasandur.htm , /35photo.pro / tags/fauskasandur/.

[toskarin]

I mean it's like, mostly fine to constantly end up awash in witches' blood. like that just happens. it's literally occupational. ideally you wouldn't be doing that and it would probably be a lot better for all your organs and stuff, but the rules on this kind of thing were written by basalt tower scholars, who notably don't do much witch-opening in their day-to-day, so their opinions should be weighed accordingly

[kyri45]

The Forgotten Island, AKA The Kingdom of Stars

A ISAT and Sky:Cotl Mix list of headcanons for a possible sequel of the main game.

MAP HERE!

Basic Information and Assumptions from the game:

From what we know, The Country is a rocky, forest, and mountain-filled island, close enough to be seen from Bambouche. Because of the cold climate, I’ll assume that it's located more northern than anything else in the ISAT world. Let’s also assume that it’s a highly humid country (it’s an island, so). Therefore, for a society built principally on the study of stars, I will further assume that the mountains there are high enough to well surpass the level of the clouds.

Another post also pointed out how the Country closest reference would be Iceland, which I couldn’t agree more ( even though I don’t think it would be THAT cold, I think the cold is more from the altitude than the position on the globe itself)

My personal take:

If even children are aware from a very young age of the physics and rules of the cosmos, then it’s safe to assume that these things not only are being taught in schools but are also present in their everyday lives in their homes. Just like the Change god is present in the form of statues and figurines around every house of Dormont, we could imagine that every house of The Country could have had its own observatory floor.

For an entire town, or city, or even country, to be able to see the stars perfectly at night, they would need to have their buildings more elevated than wide, so that the upper floors aren’t so affected by street lights pollutions or other form of illuminations for the roads.

As for the materials, we can drop down to at least:

Wood, from probably evergreen trees such as birch or even pine and spruce?

Basalt, from the (most likely) volcanic beach. It has also wonderful heat-keeping properties so It wouldn’t be strange to assume they use it in their buildings as well. The dark color also reflects less light during the night and would increase the star's visibility.

Other grey stones or concrete, from which they build at least the base of their tower-based architecture to be able to sustain multiple floors.

While an island such as The Country should technically be poor in metal, the presence of volcanic terrain and geysers should, on the positive side, mean that there is the presence of gold! So yes, shiny gold decorations for observatories or other star-related rooms are realistically allowed :)

I will take as a reference from the world of Sky 3 main realms for this AU:

Isle of Dawn: can be used as a reference for the surroundings part of the kingdom, using the same rocky and sandy morphology. Sky also has many boats scattered around the kingdoms, and since the Country mostly based its economy on trade and fishing was its main source of protein, I’ll take those as a reference as well.

Valley of Triumph: for its peaks, mountains, and climate. Also maybe for their transportation methods and house architecture from the Village of Dreams

Vault of Knowledge: the Vault itself is just one big building that could be well used as a like the main capitol center building for archive, research, and study of Wish Craft and stars. The architecture itself can also be used as an inspiration for other buildings such as libraries and schools.

I'll be updating this thread with possible more personal designs and sketch about the architecture!

Let me know if you finds errors in what I wrote or personal suggestions!

[dreamersworldduh]

charmed parker caine x male reader

ALWAYS LET ME IN

PARKER CAINE x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — You were born a child of duality, part demon and part witch, with strong magical and demonic abilities. Your blood is tied to the Caines, a noble demon family, making you their legacy. You were brought up alongside Alistair Caine's children—Abigail, Parker, and Hunter. 

Abigail was fierce and cunning; Parker was kind and burdened by his lineage; and Hunter was mysterious and captivating. 

As tensions rise within the family, your role as a mediator becomes crucial. Alistair's power is diminishing, and rumors of a battle for succession spread. You are the wild card everyone desires, poised on the brink of a vital choice about loyalty and identity.

WARNING! 18+ MDNI. Suggestive Langauge. Swearing.

WORDS! 10.2k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Here we are with another request! This was really fun because I was going more for a little royal/demonic lifestyle for Parker and I love how it turns out—I even make a part 2 but after I complete my to-do list. Anyway, enjoy your reading✨🫶🏽

YOU WERE born beneath the surface of the world, in a subterranean sanctum carved from volcanic obsidian and scorched basalt. The chamber was alive with old power, the kind that sang through stone and wept fire from its cracks. Runes etched into the walls glowed faintly with eldritch light, pulsing in rhythm with the earth's molten breath. It was not a place meant for innocence, and yet it was the cradle of your life. The moment your newborn wail pierced the charged silence, the coven gathered around knew—this was no ordinary child. You were an omen.

A child of duality. Demon and witch. Your blood carried the infernal legacy of brimstone and darkness, fused with an ancient strain of magic so potent it warped the very air around you. Midwives recoiled at the first sparks of telekinesis that shattered the steel instruments meant to measure your power. By the time you were three, your mind had begun creeping into others'—thoughts unspooling before your eyes like threads waiting to be pulled. By five, your tantrums could fracture enchanted barriers and crack the walls of your stone-formed nursery.

You were raised in fear and reverence—equal parts blessed and cursed. Your telekinesis matured into something surgical and cruel, able to splinter bone with a flick of your wrist or suspend entire battalions midair. Your telepathy grew more refined, more invasive. You didn't just read thoughts; you could twist them, implant fears, shatter psyches.

But it was the demon in you that demanded true caution. Your strength exceeded even the elite warriors of the underworld. You once punched through a tower wall for being denied a spellbook. You learned to "flame" at an age when others were still struggling with basic summoning—ripping through walls of fire and stepping from shadow to shadow like a whisper. Heat lived beneath your skin. When angry, the air around you warped with thermal distortion. And when truly enraged—when that ancient, inherited wrath flared—your touch disintegrated matter, reducing flesh and stone alike to vapor and glowing ash. It didn't just kill. It erased.

Your bloodline bound you to the Caines—demon nobility feared across realms. For generations, your ancestors served Alistair Caine: a demon lord born not of rank but of raw conquest, who clawed his way to power through blood and black magic. Your parents were his closest—his war strategists, his enforcers, his right and left hands in every campaign he led. You were his legacy by association. His investment.

And so you were raised beside his children—not as an equal, not as a rival, but something more dangerous: a tether.

Abigail Caine, the scalding daughter of ambition and cruelty, treated affection like a weapon and loyalty like currency. Her beauty was a wildfire—dangerous, blinding, and born to consume. She trusted no one except perhaps you, and even then only in whispers and half-truths.

Parker Caine, her half-brother, was a contradiction in human form. Half-demon, half-mortal, he bore the curse of compassion and the burden of a lineage he never asked for. His eyes held kindness and ache, and when he looked at you, it was as if he saw not the power, but the boy beneath it. And that... unnerved you.

Then there was Hunter.

Hunter Caine was the ghost in every room—the one who didn't need to speak to command presence. His silver eyes were voids of knowing, his smile curved with secrets you weren't sure you wanted to learn. He was beautiful in that predatory way some nightmares are—sharp lines, cool shadows, the kind of man whose silence made your pulse quicken more than any scream. When he touched your shoulder in passing, it burned. Not from heat. From hunger.

You watched them grow, trained with them, bled beside them. You became their confidant, their counselor, their blade when needed. They stood at the center of a tempest of power and expectation—and you were the still eye of the storm. Never choosing sides. Never needing to. You were what held the family together.

Abigail came to you with whispered plans in the dead of night. Parker came to you when the weight of his bloodline crushed him. They confided in you because you listened. Because you understood. But understanding comes at a cost. You became the mediator of their war, the bridge between hate and heritage. And slowly, dangerously, that power—their reliance on you—became something neither of them could ignore.

And now...

Alistair is fading. Not in strength, but in patience. The mantle of the Source—the living conduit of evil's most potent force—is ready to be passed. Whispers swirl through the demon courts. Blood will be shed. Only one heir can rise.

You are the wild card.

You are the one everyone wants but no one can truly claim. You are power unbound, loyalty uncertain, and desire incarnate. You stand on the edge of prophecy, a creature born of fire and spell, of love and war, with eyes that have seen too much and hands that can destroy worlds.

And soon, you will have to choose who—if anyone—you'll burn for.

THE AIR in the courtyard of the Caine estate churned with a suffocating heaviness, a thick blend of brimstone, magic, and ambition that made your skin prickle beneath your ceremonial armor. Sulfur clung to every breath like ash from a dying fire, and the torchlight burned hot against the carved obsidian pillars that encircled the space like a dark coliseum. Flames flickered wildly atop twisted iron sconces, casting restless shadows across the sea of gathered followers—demons with glistening fangs, warlocks cloaked in charmed bone, creatures older than language with eyes like molten ore.

This was not a gathering. It was a reckoning.

You stood near the front, a breath away from the central dais, where the throne—monstrous and magnificent—rose like a wound in the world. Forged from volcanic glass and blackened bone, it pulsed with residual magic, hungry and sentient, as if aching for its next master. Though no heir had yet claimed the title of Source, the throne already exuded a force that reached into your bones and dared you to kneel.

But you didn't.

At the apex of the platform, Alistair Caine towered like the final word in a spell. His presence bled through the crowd like fire through parchment. Tall and terrifying, he wore ceremonial robes the color of aged blood, their edges embroidered with infernal script that shimmered in tandem with the flickering light. His molten-gold eyes scanned the court with predatory calm, and the weight of his power pressed down on your mind like a grinding vice.

Then he stood. Slowly. Deliberately.

The silence that followed was immediate and absolute—like the entire underworld inhaled and forgot how to exhale.

You stood still, every muscle coiled, every sense sharp. The heat of the torches blurred the edges of your vision. Power, dark and ancient, rippled across the stones like a tide preparing to break.

Then—you felt it.

A shift in the air. A quiet pull.

A gaze.

You scanned the crowd, drawn to it like gravity. And then your eyes met his.

Hunter Caine.

He stood in the shadows, near the eastern archway where the firelight faltered. A few minor demons hovered around him like moths to a blade, but he remained still—statuesque and silent, wrapped in a fitted black coat lined with silver runes. His silver eyes—icy, unblinking—locked on yours with a focus so intense it silenced everything else. There was no smirk, no raised brow, no hint of charm. Just that devastating stillness, that impossible attention.

It was the kind of look that didn't ask a question, but demanded an answer.

And something inside you responded.

The air between you vibrated, taut with something unspeakable. That familiar flutter stirred in your chest—heat, tension, the ache of wanting something you shouldn't. It had never left you, not since the first time you saw Hunter watching you across the training yard years ago, expression unreadable, eyes burning with everything he refused to say.

Then—

"You're staring," came a low murmur at your ear, thick with amusement.

You turned, startled—but not alarmed.

Parker Caine stood at your side now, as if he had always been there. Loose-limbed and effortlessly magnetic, his dark curls were slightly windblown, a few strands falling over his brow with calculated mess. His ceremonial coat hung open at the neck, collar unfastened like he didn't give a damn about protocol.

"Didn't know he had it in him to hold a stare that long," Parker said, smirking as his eyes flicked toward his brother. "Must be your influence."

You exhaled a dry laugh, trying to mask the heat lingering in your cheeks. "Maybe he's just finally learning to pay attention."

"Or maybe you're just too damn magnetic to ignore," he said, his tone dipping lower, his body leaning closer. The scent of him—cedarwood, musk, and something faintly spiced—brushed against your senses. A slow, warm pull.

You arched a brow, lips twitching. "Flirting? Really? Here?"

Parker's grin widened. "I like to think of it as... strategic reassurance. This war's going to get messy. Figured a little charm might help." He bumped your arm gently, eyes dancing. "Besides, I'm not the only one watching you tonight."

Your gaze flicked instinctively back toward Hunter, only to find his eyes now locked on Alistair. His jaw was clenched, mouth drawn in that perfect line of cold restraint. But the shift in his posture—shoulders squared, spine taut—told you the moment between you hadn't gone unnoticed.

The weight of it lingered.

Just like that, whatever had passed between you and Hunter dissolved into smoke, swallowed by duty, by legacy, by the storm rising around you.

And then Alistair spoke.

His voice rolled across the courtyard like thunder cracking through the bones of the world—ancient, commanding, heavy with finality. The crowd bowed their heads. The flames bowed with them. And beside you, Parker's fingers briefly brushed your forearm, grounding you—whether in comfort or possession, you weren't sure.

The war for the leader of the Caine dynasty had begun.

And you—caught between ambition and desire, loyalty and danger—stood exactly where fate wanted you.

In the eye of the storm.

Parker's voice curled into your ear like a silk ribbon—soft, warm, threaded with that casual mischief that always seemed too effortless to be harmless.

"You've been avoiding me," he murmured, barely above the low rumble of the crowd. His breath ghosted near your cheek as he leaned just close enough for your shoulders to touch, the brush of his coat against yours sending a faint jolt down your arm.

You kept your eyes forward, but your lips tugged sideways. "Maybe I like the silence."

He chuckled, low and easy, a grin teasing the corners of his mouth. "Liar. You miss me. Admit it."

You turned slightly, fixing him with a sidelong glance. "I miss you the way I miss hexing myself in the face."

It was meant to be cold. Flat. But the faint twitch at the corner of your mouth betrayed you, and Parker saw it instantly.

His grin split wider, victorious. "Adorable," he declared, as if he hadn't just been insulted. "You're absolutely adorable when you lie."

He bumped your elbow with his, playfully. That familiar charm rolled off him in waves—dangerous in its ease, in the way it snuck into your bones before you could remember not to let it.

"And the way you were looking at Hunter just now?" Parker continued, voice dipping into something silkier, almost suggestive. "You might need a cold shower. Or..." He leaned in, just a breath away now, his voice a whisper only you could hear. "You could let me help with that heat."

Your pulse stuttered. Just slightly. But enough.

You masked it with a dry scoff, head tilting ever so slightly toward him. "Keep dreaming, Caine."

"I do," he whispered, the words a confession wrapped in flirtation. "Vividly."

But before he could press the moment further, another voice sliced through the charged air like a dagger wrapped in fire.

"Oh, gods. Are you two flirting again?"

You turned to see Abigail Caine striding toward you, her ceremonial robes trailing behind her like liquid flame. The fabric shimmered with layered enchantments, catching the torchlight as she moved with theatrical grace. Her arms were crossed, expression sharp with faux-annoyance, but the glint in her eyes betrayed her amusement.

"Honestly, Parker," she sighed, stopping in front of you both. "Do you ever get tired of hearing your own voice?"

"Never," Parker said without missing a beat. He turned to her with a smirk full of teeth. "It's a gift. Like my face. Or my charm. Or my ability to be heartbreakingly irresistible."

Abigail rolled her eyes so hard you thought they might get stuck. "Heartbreaking is right. But not for the reasons you think."

Then she turned her gaze to you, and that glint sharpened into something more discerning. "And you. You're supposed to be the sensible one. Don't tell me he's finally managed to drag you down into the muck with him."

You gave her a measured smile. "I'm humoring him."

"You always humor him. That's the problem."

Their bickering resumed like a well-rehearsed play—barbs sharpened by years of rivalry, affection buried beneath sarcasm. You stood between them, the reluctant fulcrum of their fire-forged dynamic, and despite yourself, something warm curled low in your chest. This—this was familiar. This was how you'd survived the chaos of the Caine legacy for so long.

But the moment broke.

The ground beneath your feet trembled, subtly at first, like a heartbeat deep in the stone. The torches flared high along the courtyard walls, their flames crackling with renewed violence.

A hush fell over the crowd like a blanket of ash.

Alistair's voice rang out, the silence became something sacred. Every creature, every demon, every warlock froze as though instinctively recognizing the shift in gravity—the world tilting toward something inevitable.

"My blood. My legacy. My chosen."

His voice thundered through the air like a death knell. Atop the dais, the Sacred Flame flared behind him, bathing his silhouette in a terrible glow. The jagged crown of obsidian and bone on his brow shimmered with runes that pulsed with infernal light.

"Abigail. Parker. Hunter. Step forward."

The words weren't a command. They were a decree.

Your breath hitched.

Beside you, Parker straightened, all playfulness draining from his face. In its place—something harder. Sharper. He no longer looked like the flirt by your side, but the heir to a kingdom of fire and shadows.

Abigail's smirk faded as well. Her chin lifted, eyes burning with ambition, with defiance. She moved first—measured, powerful, no trace of hesitation.

And then Hunter emerged from the darkness like he had been born there. No fanfare. No pretense. Just quiet certainty. He walked past you without a glance, but you felt him. The cold weight of his presence brushed your chest like a whisper that knew too much.

The three of them climbed the obsidian steps together, casting elongated shadows across the platform as they stood at their father's side.

Together—for now.

But you knew the truth.

Only one would remain standing when the flame chose its master.

And down below, with the torchlight flickering against your face and your heartbeat still recovering from Parker's nearness and Hunter's silence, you stood motionless.

"The three of you," Alistair spoke, his voice low and deliberate, heavy enough to vibrate through your ribs, "are bound by blood, by name, and by my legacy."

A current of dread and reverence swept through the crowd. His tone alone had weight—enough to bend weaker minds, enough to silence even the eldest fiends.

"But only one," he continued, stepping forward as the Sacred Flame roared higher behind him, licking upward in tongues of crimson and gold, "will rise to claim the throne of my dominion. When I ascend fully as the Source, I will leave behind a kingdom forged in chaos. That kingdom—my kingdom—demands more than bloodline. It demands dominance."

He stopped at the edge of the dais, the flame casting his shadow over the siblings. The light painted them in firelight—Abigail gleaming like a blade, Parker dark and thoughtful, and Hunter cloaked in flickering shadow.

"This realm was born of treachery. Of blood spilled by kin, and empires won by will alone. I did not inherit. I took. You will not be handed my power. You will seize it. If you can."

His eyes moved from Abigail... to Parker... and then rested, longer than before, on Hunter. The pause was subtle. But the tension it carried was razor-sharp.

Hunter didn't flinch. He didn't move. But you saw it—the faint flicker in his eyes. A ripple, like the first crack in calm water.

The silence in the courtyard stretched, taut as a pulled string.

Then Alistair turned. The shift in his stance was slight, but the power of it rippled outward. He was no longer a father addressing his children. He was the king addressing his court.

"My loyal legion," he declared, his voice rising like a war cry cloaked in velvet. "Bear witness. Tonight, we gather not simply to celebrate my reign, but to mark the beginning of the Trials."

The word landed like a strike.

"The Infernal Atrium will host a gala at dusk," he continued, arms stretching wide. His robes flared, crimson silk and shadow billowing like wings of smoke. "All are welcome—every warlock, every demon, every serpent born of my dominion. Come. Drink. Feast. Wager. Let the walls echo with celebration."

He smiled then—a terrible, knowing thing that did not reach his eyes.

"For when the sun falls... my children will rise—or burn."

The Sacred Flame behind him exploded upward in violent ecstasy, spiraling into the air in a roaring column of heat and light. The inferno swallowed the top of the dais for a moment, casting monstrous shadows across the courtyard.

Gasps. Whispers. A low, restless murmur rippled through the horde.

The Infernal Atrium. You knew it well. A place of opulence steeped in cruelty. Where laughter was laced with poison, and every dance step doubled as a threat. Where alliances were born with kisses and murdered with smiles. Nothing was sacred. Everything was spectacle.

And tonight, it would become a battlefield draped in elegance.

Your eyes returned to the siblings.

Abigail's smile was now sharpened into a predator's grin. She relished the challenge—craved it like blood in her teeth.

Parker stood still, but his jaw was tight. You could see the flicker of conflict in his eyes—strategy forming beneath layers of restraint.

And Hunter...

Hunter was watching you again.

His gaze met yours for only a breath, but in that second, the rest of the world dropped away. No fire. No crowd. Just the two of you, and that unspoken thing that curled between your ribs whenever he looked at you like that. Not desire. Not entirely. Not anymore.

He looked away.

And you knew, with a sick kind of certainty, that this night would be the last before everything changed.

The war hadn't begun in blood yet. But it had begun.

AS THE final echo of Alistair Caine's decree faded into the smoldering quiet, the courtyard held its breath, thick with heat and prophecy. The Sacred Flame continued to roar behind the throne, its light licking the obsidian walls in sharp, rhythmic pulses, but the center of gravity had shifted. The spectacle was over. The shadows lengthened, and now came the aftermath—the part where eyes sharpened, alliances whispered into being, and the siblings of House Caine were quietly weighed like coin.

Demons began to peel away from the edges of the gathering, their cloaks brushing stone, their murmurs low and loaded. You could hear them: speculation, strategy, bets placed like daggers on a game board. The war hadn't started yet—but it had most certainly begun.

You remained still, arms crossed over your chest, standing sentinel near the base of the dais. You didn't chase the crowd. You didn't need to. You were the gravity in this place now. And sure enough, they came to you—one from the left, one from the right.

Parker's steps were slower than usual, his charm thinned at the edges, as if the weight of what was coming dulled his usual sparkle. His dark curls were tousled from the anxious drag of his hand through them, and he wore his sarcasm like a thinning cloak.

"That went well," he muttered, voice dry, almost hollow. He stopped beside you, shoulder brushing lightly against yours, gaze flicking sideways.

From the opposite side, Abigail's heels clicked softly over scorched stone, her stride as smooth and sharp as ever, but tension radiated off her like a simmering flame. Her arms were crossed tight against her chest, posture perfect but brittle, her crimson-lined eyes glinting with the venom of bitter truth.

"'Earn it,'" she echoed, voice low and razor-edged. "As if we haven't been bleeding for this legacy since we could walk. As if we weren't born into fire."

You looked between them—two siblings forged into weapons by the same father, taught to draw lines between loyalty and ambition in blood. They didn't trust each other. Not completely. But right now, they stood within arm's reach of you.

That meant something.

"Don't tell me you two are finally getting along," you said quietly, offering them a sliver of levity. Your voice was low and calm, the kind of tone you'd learned to master when everything around you threatened to break.

Parker scoffed, lips twitching into a tired smile. "Hardly. If she so much as breathes wrong at the gala tonight, I'm spiking her wine."

Abigail turned her head just enough to glare at him, though her expression lacked real bite. "Please. Your drinks are so diluted I'd get more kick from a healing tonic. You've never had the spine for anything stronger."

The exchange was sharp—but the fact that neither of them stepped away from you said more than the words did. You could feel it in the way their presence lingered close—tense, yes, but tethered. Seeking steadiness. Seeking you.

For all their fire, their arrogance, their pride—they were still just people. People raised in a gilded cage that looked like a palace but felt like a battlefield. And right now, behind the polish of their facades, they were fraying.

"You don't have to carry this alone," you said, voice steady as stone. You looked to Abigail first, then to Parker. "Either of you. This throne—this title—it's not just power. It's a crucible. It burns whatever touches it. Don't let it burn you away."

Abigail's eyes met yours, something flickering in their depths—faint, but real. Vulnerability, maybe. Or fear disguised as defiance.

"And what if it already has?" she murmured, her voice a whisper forged in glass.

Parker looked away, jaw tight as he stared toward the horizon. The sky above the cursed ridgelines was beginning to darken, the faint glow of dusk spreading like spilled ink across the brimstone clouds.

"We don't have a choice," he said softly. "The gala tonight... it's not just pageantry. It's a declaration of war dressed in silk and smiles. Everyone will be watching. Waiting for one of us to falter. And we've already been thrown onto the field."

You reached out without ceremony—one hand settling on Parker's shoulder, the other on Abigail's. The gesture was quiet, but it anchored them both. Not with magic. Not with command. Just presence.

The kind they had come to rely on more than they would ever admit aloud.

"You have me," you said, and there was no room for doubt in your voice. "Both of you. No matter how vicious this gets, no matter how many masks you have to wear—I'll be the one thing that doesn't change."

Neither of them spoke at first.

But neither pulled away.

You stood like that for a long moment—shoulder to shoulder, tethered not by peace, but by you. Their brother in everything but blood. Their compass in a world built on shifting ground.

And for one breath in time, before the poison-draped elegance of the gala swallowed them whole, before the betrayals bloomed like thorns beneath laughter and music—they weren't heirs. They weren't rivals.

They were just Parker and Abigail.

Still human, still holding on.

Still standing in your shadow.

Suddenly, your name echoed through the thickened air like a low spell, summoned not with urgency but with authority. You turned, your expression tightening just slightly, muscles coiling beneath your skin as one of Hunter's guards—an armored demon with obsidian-plated limbs and hollow eyes—approached with a beckoning gesture. The creature didn't spare Parker or Abigail so much as a glance. Its sole focus was you.

Without a word, you stepped away.

You didn't look back—but they watched you go.

At the base of the spire, beneath an arch carved from molten rock and stitched with glowing runes, Hunter stood waiting. Still as a statue. Cloaked in black trimmed with faint silver threading that caught the light of the Sacred Flame in strange, fleeting ways. The fire bathed his features in a warm, deceptive glow, but his expression remained untouched by it—his silver eyes locked on you with that unwavering intensity that always made your chest tighten.

There was no smirk. No smoldering charm. Just that quiet, deadly focus. The kind that stripped you bare whether you were ready or not.

Behind you, a breath escaped Abigail—quiet but sharp. Her arms stayed crossed, her gaze narrowed as she followed your retreating form with something that danced between suspicion and concern. Her voice was low when she finally spoke, but it cut through the air like a blade.

"You're wasting time."

Parker, still beside her, barely flinched.

"If you want him," she continued, her tone laced with warning as she turned her head to fix him with a look, "then act. Because if Hunter gets his hands on him..." Her words lingered, unfinished. But her meaning was clear. Hunter doesn't share. Hunter doesn't release.

And when Hunter claims something, it's with claws and fire.

She waited for the reaction. A crack in Parker's carefully constructed smirk. A flash of unease.

Instead, Parker's lips curled—slow, deliberate. That familiar smirk returned, thick with arrogance, yet now edged in something darker. Possessive. Personal.

"Let him try," Parker murmured, voice dipped in satisfaction. "But he's already tasted what's mine."

Abigail's brow arched, skeptical. "So you've—?"

"Oh, I've done more than that," Parker interrupted, his tone turning silken with memory. His gaze drifted, no longer focused on her but on the shadows where you had disappeared. "While you were busy scheming and Hunter was brooding in corners, he was in my bed. Skin flushed, voice breaking. Trembling under me. Moaning my name into the sheets like a curse he couldn't stop chanting."

His voice didn't rise. It didn't boast. It claimed.

He turned toward her fully now, the smirk on his lips deepening—no longer flirtatious, but something far more primal. There was heat behind his eyes. And warning.

"So no, I'm not worried."

Abigail stared at him a moment longer, reading him like only a sister could. She didn't challenge the truth of what he said. Didn't try to unravel it. There was nothing to unravel.

Parker didn't lie about things like that.

Still, a flicker passed behind her eyes—something taut and conflicted. Maybe envy. Maybe fear for you. Maybe both.

Because Parker, for all his charm, had never let anyone in—not like that. And she knew what it meant that he had. And she knew, too, how far Hunter would go to win anything he truly desired.

Her gaze slid once more to the darkened corridor where you'd vanished, swallowed by firelight and stone.

"Be careful," she said quietly, almost to herself. "Hunter doesn't play fair. And he doesn't lose well."

Parker didn't respond right away. His smirk held steady, his posture unbothered.

But for the briefest moment, something behind his eyes shifted.

A flash of memory. Of caution. Of warning unspoken.

He already knew that.

THE CORRIDOR to Hunter's private wing felt like entering another realm entirely—severed from the grandeur and menace of the main Caine estate. There were no towering obsidian arches here. No gilded demonic reliefs leering down from above. This was something colder. Sharper. More intimate in its austerity.

The walls were carved from a dark stone so smooth it nearly reflected the low flicker of the sconces lining either side. Silver-veined and humming faintly with restrained magic, the stone radiated a chill that clung to your skin. The light here wasn't warm—it danced in a cold spectrum, casting warped shadows that crawled across the floor as you walked. The silence was profound, like a breath being held by the walls themselves.

Behind you, the metallic tread of Hunter's guard was the only sound accompanying your own footsteps, until even that ceased. No words were spoken. No gestures made. The demon simply halted and let you continue on alone, as if you had passed some invisible threshold meant only for you.

You stepped through the last door.

It closed behind you with a clang—sharp, decisive, final.

Inside, the chamber felt like the inner sanctum of a war god. Dimly lit, the only source of illumination came from a tall wall of blue flame that licked upward without smoke or heat, casting long, dancing shadows in hues of cobalt and steel. The air smelled of scorched parchment and metal, with an undercurrent of something older—blood, perhaps, or ash from a time long past.

In the center of the room sat a wide table made of blackened stone, the edges cracked and scorched, its surface covered in ancient artifacts. Blades forged in hellfire, scrolls bound in cracked skin, broken relics that buzzed faintly with trapped curses. This was no scholar's workspace. It was the collection of a strategist—a warrior who played in both blood and silence.

And there stood Hunter.

Half turned from you, still as death, framed in blue firelight. Arms crossed. Head slightly bowed. The fall of his coat made him look carved from the night itself. He hadn't acknowledged you with a glance. But you felt him. The weight of his presence was immediate—like walking into the center of a storm where the wind hasn't begun to scream yet.

"You came," he said, his voice low, rough velvet dragged across stone. It wasn't a question. It wasn't even surprise. It was an acknowledgment, laced with something too quiet to name.

"You summoned," you replied evenly, not rising to his bait.

Hunter turned slowly, like a shadow peeling free from the fire. The light touched his features as he moved—sharp cheekbones, a set jaw, silver eyes that burned cold. His face was unreadable, all edges and silence. But not empty. Never empty.

"You looked good standing beside them," he said at last, voice soft but cool. The words weren't a compliment. They were an observation shaped like a blade.

You held his gaze. "They needed me."

He took a step forward. The room felt smaller.

"Do you?"

The question wasn't casual. It hung between you like a suspended spell—fragile and ready to ignite. You felt the meaning beneath it, twisted through with something too intimate to be strategy.

You hesitated. Not because you didn't know the answer, but because with Hunter, every answer was a choice.

"I don't need anyone," you said at last, your voice low and certain.

A flicker passed through his expression. A subtle shift—like recognition. Like agreement.

"Good," he murmured.

And then he moved.

In a single, fluid motion, he crossed the space between you, silent as smoke. One hand braced the wall beside your head, the other hovered just near your waist, close enough to feel the tension, the heat. But he didn't touch. Not yet. His presence was a snare of power and restraint, coiling around your senses until your heart beat in rhythm with the fire.

He leaned in—slowly, dangerously. His breath ghosted across your skin.

"Because anyone who does..." His voice dipped into a near whisper, his silver eyes darkening. "Will lose."

You didn't blink. You didn't step back.

You let the moment consume the air between you. Let the heat build, taut and heady, wrapped in threat and promise both.

"Is that what this is?" you asked, your voice a hushed thread. "A warning?"

For the first time, Hunter's gaze dropped—to your lips. Just for a beat. Then back to your eyes, fiercer now.

"No," he breathed, the word edged in something feral.

"It's a promise."

THE HOUR had deepened into that cursed, molten twilight where even the skies of the Underworld bled. From your balcony, the horizon stretched in bruised shades of crimson and violet, fractured with streaks of scorched gold like veins beneath cracked stone. The Infernal Atrium flickered in the distance—its towering spires aflame with glamoured lanterns, casting halos of light that danced across a tide of arriving figures cloaked in shadow and silk. Music—deep, dark, and sinfully slow—throbbed through the sulfur-laced air, barely reaching your ears, but enough to vibrate in your bones.

Inside your chamber, the walls were painted in a soft, ember-glow from the sconces embedded in blackened rock. The flames licked lazily at the air, steady and subdued, casting shadows that rolled and twisted across the floor. The heat was comforting, almost lulling—until you looked at yourself.

You stood before a full-length mirror of obsidian polished to a flawless sheen. Your tuxedo—cut from infernal silk and stitched with threads of charmed obsidian—hugged your form with immaculate precision. The suit was black, of course, but not dead black—this was the kind that shimmered like liquid shadow, catching the low light and reflecting power in every curve. The lapels were sleek, edged in deep grey runes that pulsed faintly, and the cuffs gleamed with hexed silver buttons etched in demonic script. You looked like a weapon dressed in finery. Regal. Controlled. Untouchable.

But your reflection betrayed you.

Your eyes, dark and unreadable, held the weight of something you hadn't named. Not yet. Your jaw was set. Your chest rose too slow, too steady—as if any shift in rhythm might break the illusion you were wearing along with your suit.

You hadn't moved since fastening the final button.

Then—knock knock.

A double tap on the door. Not hurried. Not timid. Smooth. Confident. The kind of knock that wasn't a request—it was a statement.

You turned, slowly, tension coiling in your spine as the door creaked open.

He didn't wait for permission.

Parker Caine stepped inside like the room belonged to him. Like you belonged to him.

He closed the door behind him with a soft click, the sound somehow louder than it should've been in the quiet. His eyes—warm gold veined with the same mischief and madness that had haunted you since you were boys—found you instantly. And stayed there.

He was dressed in midnight blue and black, the jacket tailored within an inch of sin, its satin lining visible only when he moved, like the flick of a blade under moonlight. His shirt collar was open just enough to tease the hollow of his throat, where a delicate gold chain rested—a Caine heirloom you recognized from childhood, once worn by Alistair in his younger days. His cufflinks bore the family sigil in onyx and garnet, catching firelight with every breath he took.

But none of that held your attention for long.

It was the look in his eyes. The kind of look you didn't often get from Parker anymore. Hungry. Soft. Hungry again.

Like he was remembering every inch of you he'd ever touched. And imagining the ones he hadn't.

"Gods," he murmured, the word dragging over his tongue like molasses, thick and slow. "You clean up too damn well."

You arched a brow. "You're late."

Parker smirked, moving toward you with the unhurried, knowing stride of someone who already knew what game he was playing—and how it would end.

"Worth the wait," he said, stopping just close enough for you to feel the heat rolling off his skin. "But I'll admit..." His gaze swept over you again, slower this time. Down your chest. Over the sleek lines of your suit. "This is better than I imagined."

You swallowed once, resisting the urge to shift.

"And what, exactly, did you imagine?"

Parker's grin deepened into something wicked and devastating. "You. In that suit. Flushed. Breathless. Pressed against a wall."

Your heart gave one traitorous thump, loud enough you swore he could hear it.

He didn't touch you. Not yet. But the space between you was heavy now, humming with heat and tension so thick it felt like magic itself. Every breath was a dare. Every flicker of his gaze was a promise.

"You planning to ruin all my hard work before I even show up at the gala?" you asked, voice low and steady—but your throat felt tight. The thrum inside you was growing louder.

Parker tilted his head slightly, his eyes dipping to your lips for the barest second.

"Maybe," he said. "But if I don't, someone else might. And I'd rather the room know whose hands were on you first."

You opened your mouth to reply—but stopped.

Because he moved. Just a little.

His fingers rose, brushing the edge of your lapel. His touch was slow, deliberate—gliding down your chest until it reached your sternum, then pausing there. Right above your heart. The place where your pulse fluttered like something trying not to be caught.

"You look like royalty," he murmured, eyes locked on yours.

Then his voice dropped to a whisper, and the heat behind it was enough to sear.

"But you feel like mine.”

Parker's fingers remained poised just above your heart, the pads of them warm against your skin through the fabric. His gaze was locked on the slight, betraying flutter beneath your shirt, as if he could read the rhythm of your pulse like a coded confession. He didn't press, didn't rush—his touch was steady, knowing, a slow burn instead of a blaze. Every movement told you one thing: he knew you. Knew how your body tensed when he got this close, how your breath always hitched before your walls fell.

Your chest rose with a shallow breath.

"Parker—"

You didn't finish the sentence.

Because in the next heartbeat, his lips were on yours.

It wasn't a collision. It wasn't chaos. It was claiming. A kiss that unfolded with simmering intensity—confident, deep, and intimate in a way that made your lungs forget their purpose. His hand cupped your jaw with practiced care, thumb brushing your cheekbone, while his other arm slipped around your waist and drew you into him, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat. The silk of your suit caught against his, sparking friction, heat, want.

And you kissed him back like you'd been waiting all night.

Your hands gripped the front of his jacket, fingers twisting in the lapels like anchors, like if you didn't hold on, you might unravel. He tasted like spice and control and the dangerous edge of something addictive. The low sound he made—half growl, half groan—vibrated into your mouth, down your spine, lighting a fuse under your skin.

He broke the kiss with devastating slowness, lips brushing yours, breath ghosting across your face as he whispered, "You still think I'm worried about Hunter?"

You didn't respond. Couldn't. The words had melted on your tongue, replaced by heat and hunger and something heavier—something you couldn't name without cracking open.

His mouth found your neck next, lips grazing the sensitive curve of your throat before his teeth scraped lightly, just enough to make your breath stutter. Then his tongue soothed the spot, slow and hot. A shiver lanced down your spine as his hands grew bolder—one trailing down your back, the other slipping under your jacket, fingers gliding over the fine line between tailored control and bare skin.

"You wore this for me, didn't you?" he murmured against your throat, his voice almost reverent. "You always do. Even if you'll never admit it."

And gods help you, you didn't stop him. Couldn't. You stood there and let it consume you, mind buzzing, body leaning into every touch.

With a quiet, possessive sound, he turned you—guiding you gently but firmly back until the backs of your thighs met the edge of the velvet chaise near the mirror. The impact was soft, but your breath hitched all the same. His hands moved with familiar grace, pushing the jacket from your shoulders in one fluid motion, letting it slide to the floor like falling shadows.

His gaze stayed locked to yours, never wavering as his fingers found the buttons of your shirt—each one undone slowly, almost ceremonially. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat. In your fingertips. In the way your skin tingled beneath his touch.

"I've had you beneath me," Parker whispered, voice low and tight with memory, "trembling... begging. Saying my name like it was the only thing you could remember."

The last button came free. Your shirt parted, revealing flushed skin and the rise and fall of your chest, ragged and uneven.

"Do you really think I'll let him take you?" he asked, almost gently. "You're mine."

The words burned. Not cruel. Not sweet. Just true. And gods, you felt it. In your blood. In your breath. In the heat gathering low in your belly.

Then he moved again.

His mouth traced a line across your collarbone, down the center of your chest. Every kiss left fire in its wake. His hands roamed lower, familiar and sure—one resting lightly on your hip, the other teasing the waistband of your trousers with maddening slowness.

That was when your control finally cracked.

You reached for him, hands sliding into the soft mess of his curls, tugging him up, pulling his mouth back to yours. The kiss this time was rougher—hot and hungry and full of need. You could feel him smile into it, wicked and satisfied, like he'd just won a game he'd always known he would.

And maybe he had.

Because right now, in this moment, you weren't thinking about the gala. Or the Atrium. Or the war waiting in lace and whispers.

You were only thinking of him.

And the way he made you forget the rest of the world.

"We don't have much time," Parker growled against your mouth, his voice low and frayed with urgency. "So we make it count."

Before you could respond, his grip found your hips—firm, commanding—and spun you back toward the velvet chaise. The world tilted with the motion, your heart thudding against your ribs as your knees brushed the edge of the plush seat. You barely had time to catch a breath before he dropped to his knees in front of you, his movements smooth, practiced, yet reverent in a way that made your breath hitch.

His fingers were already at your waistband, working the clasp with deft, impatient precision. A sharp click, a tug—and the tension unraveled. The fabric of your trousers slid down your legs in a fluid rush, followed by the softer brush of your boxers. Cool air ghosted over your now-bared thighs, the sudden exposure drawing a shiver from you—not from chill, but from anticipation. From the weight of his gaze.

Parker's palms slid upward from your calves to your knees, then along your inner thighs, calloused fingers leaving fire in their wake. He rose slowly, inch by inch, like a man savoring the sight of something he hadn't seen in years.

And gods, the way he looked at you...

"Fuck," he murmured, breath catching in his throat. "Look at you..."

His voice wasn't loud—it was broken reverence. The kind of awe that made your stomach twist and heat curl low in your belly.

Then it was his turn.

You watched, barely breathing, as he stood tall and reached for his belt. The sharp snap of the buckle being unfastened made your skin jump. Leather whispered as it slipped through the loops of his pants, his every move slow now, measured, seductive. He held your gaze the entire time, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, just enough to show he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

He tossed the belt aside with a flick of his wrist, then slid his fingers beneath the waistband of both his trousers and boxers. The garments dropped together, exposing the full, aching evidence of his dick—thick, flushed, already hard, and pulsing with the same impatience running through your veins.

The tension between you snapped tight. Hunger. Raw and molten and demanding.

Parker stepped forward again, closing the space between your bodies until you could feel the heat of him everywhere—your skin crackling, your breath tangled. His hand curled around the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, firm but careful as he guided your forehead to his.

His eyes were molten gold, pupils blown wide, his breathing uneven as he whispered, "You're mine for the night."

His words coiled through your chest like smoke, thick with possession, rich with promise.

"So let me remind you why."

Then his mouth found yours again, crashing into you with raw need.

It wasn't a kiss—it was a brand.

Hot, consuming, desperate. A mess of teeth and tongue and breath stolen from between your lips. The kind of kiss that stripped away every last pretense and bared the truth: he wasn't just wanting you—he was already burning for you. His chest pressed hard into yours, every line of his body molded to you with perfect, feral alignment. You could feel the heat of his cock against your thigh, thick and flushed and achingly hard, dragging against your skin with every slight movement, leaving fire in its wake.

Then—he pulled back. Just enough to breathe.

His lips brushed against your cheek, trailing the ghost of the kiss in their wake, and in a voice that was more command than request, he murmured, "Turn around."

Your pulse jumped. You obeyed without speaking.

You pivoted slowly, the air thick around you, your hands reaching forward to brace against the cold obsidian wall. The stone bit into your palms, grounding you as your chest rose and fell with anticipation. Your stance shifted naturally, bowing forward slightly, your back curving in offering. Vulnerability made beautiful beneath the flicker of firelight.

You heard him move behind you—heard the faint inhale he took when he saw you like that.

Then his presence was there again, pressing in. The heat of his chest brushed your back, his breath warm against your spine. The air between your bodies disappeared as he leaned in, grounding you with every inch of his proximity.

And then—

Spit.

The crude, wet sound of it filled the air between you like a shot of lightning.

You swallowed hard, your eyes slipping closed as Parker slicked his spit over the full length of his cock. You could hear the slow, rhythmic glide of his hand stroking himself—long, deliberate pulls meant to torment you both. The wet friction was loud in the stillness, syncing with the ragged sound of your own breath, building a tension that crackled like live wire beneath your skin.

His hand slid to your hip, gripping tight—his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave the promise of bruises. And then his mouth was on you again, this time pressing a slow kiss to the back of your neck. A contrast to the roughness of his hands. A vow whispered in heat.

"You feel what you do to me?" he growled, the words rasped against your skin like fire catching silk. "All night... I've been thinking about this. About you. Bent over. Waiting."

You bit your lip as his cock nudged between your cheeks, the swollen tip slick and hot as it teased at your entrance. He held you still—one hand anchoring your hip, the other sliding up your spine like he wanted to memorize the curve of it. His body was coiled, every muscle tensed, his breath fanning hot across your back.

And then he paused. Right there at the brink. Poised. Ready.

His entire body humming with the promise of everything you both were about to become.

Parker's grip on your hips tightened like a vice, fingers sinking into your skin with a possessive force that bordered on desperate. There was no gentleness in it—just intent. He was anchoring himself to you, or maybe anchoring you to this moment, to him. His breath came hot and uneven against your shoulder as the swollen head of his cock pressed against your entrance—slick, throbbing, his heat radiating off him like a furnace.

He didn't move right away. He just held you there, teetering on the edge, the tip of him nudging against your entrance with unbearable patience.

And then—with a low, guttural groan that shivered down your spine—he pushed in.

Your breath left you in a sharp gasp as your body opened around him, stretching slowly to take him in. The burn was immediate—a tight, aching pull that lit your nerves alive and left your fingers scrabbling against the smooth obsidian wall. Inch by inch, he filled you, the stretch near-blinding as pressure gave way to sensation, and sensation to something deeper. Your forehead fell against the stonep, cool and grounding, as you moaned—soft, breathless, wrecked.

He stilled once he was fully seated inside you, the length of him pressed deep, his hips flush to yours, his chest curved over your back. You could feel his heartbeat against your spine, feel his shuddered breath ghost over the side of your neck.

"Fuck..." he breathed, hoarse and reverent. His lips brushed against your skin as he spoke. "So tight... you feel perfect."

You whimpered, your body quivering from the fullness, from the way you could feel every vein, every throb. The sheer presence of him inside you left you trembling.

Then he moved.

He pulled back just slightly—barely enough to break contact—then rolled his hips forward in a slow, fluid thrust that drove into you like a wave. You gasped, your mouth falling open as he sank back in, deep and deliberate, stealing your breath all over again. There was no urgency in him. Not yet. Just a focused rhythm, relentless and devastating.

He was making you feel every inch.

"That's it," he murmured, voice gravel-thick and laced with heat. "Take me... just like that."

His hips rocked into yours again, deeper this time, his rhythm steady, agonizing in its restraint. Each movement sent a pulse of heat through your core, building tension with unbearable slowness. His hand slid from your hip to the front of your body, palm flat against your lower abdomen, grounding you as he held you still. The other trailed upward, over your chest, your clavicle, fingertips tracing the ridge of your collarbone—light enough to make you shiver, hard enough to remind you of his control.

You moaned again—louder this time, the sound breaking in your throat and echoing against the dark stone walls. The pressure was mounting, the heat pooling, and Parker... he knew. He thrust again, angling his hips slightly, and hit that spot inside you with surgical precision. Your knees nearly buckled.

"Yeah," he growled, his voice deeper now, raw and edged with hunger. "Right there. You feel me, don't you?"

You could only nod—barely—biting down on your lip as your back arched into him, wordless and shaking. Your hands fisted against the wall. Your body opened for him, needing more. Demanding it.

Parker pulled you tighter against him, his pace just beginning to quicken. The heat between you swelled—feral, sacred, consuming.

And still, he made you feel everything.

"Hold on," he growled, voice rough and dark with promise.

And then he moved.

Gone was the slow, teasing rhythm. Now, his pace was brutal—deep and unrelenting. He pulled back and slammed into you with purpose, the sharp crack of skin on skin echoing off the stone walls, raw and obscene. Your body jolted with each thrust, the force of it pressing you forward against the obsidian wall until your palms flattened, your breath fogging the polished surface in frantic, broken gasps.

"Fuck—" you moaned, the word ripped from your throat as his hips snapped into you again, harder, faster. Your knees buckled from the sheer force of his rhythm, but Parker was already there—one arm banded tight around your waist, the other snaking across your chest, dragging you upright and slamming into you again.

"That's right," he hissed into your ear, his breath hot and filthy. "Let me feel you. Let them hear you."

And gods, they would. Anyone outside the chamber could hear this—the sound of Parker fucking you mercilessly, the helpless cries spilling from your lips, the wet, pounding rhythm of bodies colliding with desperate hunger.

He shifted his angle just slightly, and that was all it took—his cock driving into the exact spot that sent sparks through your entire body. You cried out, head falling back against his shoulder, the pleasure so sharp it left you shaking, overwhelmed, undone.

His thrusts came faster now, hips snapping into yours in a savage rhythm, relentless and claiming. His cock dragged against that spot again and again, deeper, harder, until your moans became breathless sobs of pleasure.

And then his hand slid lower.

You gasped as his fingers curled around your cock, already flushed and leaking. His grip was firm, confident—stroking you in time with the brutal rhythm of his hips. Each movement was perfectly synced, designed to unravel you. He knew your body too well—where to touch, how to touch, how to ruin.

"So perfect," Parker growled against your skin. "So fucking perfect like this—taking me like you're meant to."

You clenched around him involuntarily, your body trembling, and he groaned, low and ragged, his thrusts faltering for a split second before he gritted his teeth and drove in harder.

The heat in your gut was climbing—tightening. Every drag of his cock, every stroke of his hand was pushing you closer, closer, until it was too much. The tension coiled in your belly, pressure building to a breaking point as your moans turned frantic, your thighs shaking with the effort to stay upright.

"Come for me," he snarled, breath coming fast now. "Let go."

Parker's hand didn't falter—not once. His palm stroked you in relentless rhythm with the savage thrusts of his hips, pushing you to the edge and beyond. Your breath shattered into pieces, your body seizing up as pleasure exploded inside you like fire through your veins.

You came with a strangled, broken cry—your release spilling hot across his hand, your hips jerking helplessly as your vision blurred at the edges. You collapsed forward against the wall, only Parker's grip around your waist keeping you from falling apart entirely.

But he wasn't done.

He groaned behind you—raw, wrecked—as he slammed into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt. His cock throbbed violently, pulsing deep inside you as he spilled with a growl that trembled against your spine. He moaned your name like it was a prayer and a curse, hands gripping your hips so tightly it was all you could do to breathe.

Then, silence.

Only the sound of your harsh, panting breaths, the quiet hiss of fire from the sconces, and the ragged beat of two hearts pounding in sync. Parker rested against you, his forehead pressed to the back of your neck, sweat slicking his skin. His breath ghosted against your shoulder as he whispered, almost dazed, "Fuck... I needed that."

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, still clinging to the wall, your legs barely steady beneath you. "We're going to be late."

Behind you, Parker gave a lazy, satisfied hum. He slowly slipped out of you with a soft groan, one hand trailing down your side before squeezing your hip. "Let them wait," he murmured with a crooked smirk. "You're worth it."

For a long, breathless moment, the room held still.

The only sound was the low crackle of the sconces on the walls, their flames casting soft flickers over sweat-slicked skin and scattered clothes. Then, quietly, you heard him shift. Fabric whispered against skin as Parker bent down, retrieving your shirt from where it had fallen, and gently shook it out. Instead of tossing it to you or cracking a joke, he brought it up behind you—delicately dragging the silk across your lower back, wiping away the evidence of what had just taken place.

His touch was slow. Gentle. Reverent.

No teasing quip. No triumphant smirk. Just silence.

That, more than anything, made your brows knit.

You turned slowly, letting the wall support your weight, watching him as he stood and stepped back into his trousers with a kind of quiet efficiency. He moved fluidly, like he'd done it a hundred times before, but something was off. His head stayed slightly bowed, and the sharp line of his jaw tensed as he refastened his belt. He was chewing on something. Not food. Not words. A feeling, maybe. One he hadn't quite decided how to face.

You reached for the shirt he'd just used and slipped it on, the fabric cool against your flushed skin. But your eyes never left him.

"You're quiet," you murmured—not accusing, just noticing. Like stating a shift in the wind before the storm finally broke.

Parker looked up at that, and there it was: the flicker. Barely noticeable, but there. A tightness around his eyes, a weight behind them. The mask—the smirk, the flirt, the devil-may-care sparkle—was still there, but it didn't reach as far tonight.

"That wasn't a complaint, was it?" he asked with a forced grin, voice coated in the usual charm—but it landed like a sigh, not a tease.

You stepped toward him, the stone warm beneath your bare feet. Your voice stayed even. "No. But you didn't come in here just to fuck me against a wall either."

He didn't argue. Just sat down heavily on the edge of the velvet chaise, elbows on his knees, his fingers laced loosely in front of him. His shoulders—normally cocky, open, unapologetically confident—were sloped with a weight that didn't belong to physical strain.

He looked like someone expecting a blow he couldn't dodge.

"It's starting to feel real," he said softly, almost to himself. "All of it. The trials. The politics. The games. And the weight that comes after the crown."

You didn't interrupt. You just stood close, quietly buttoning your shirt, letting your presence speak louder than words.

"I've always played the fool," he continued, his voice steadier now, but not by much. "The charming heir, the distraction. The joke between Abigail's fire and Hunter's silence. No one expected anything of me. That was the point."

He glanced up at you, eyes searching.

"But now... tonight, they'll be watching. Measuring. Like I might actually win this. Like I might actually become the next leader of my father’s dynasty."

You didn't let him spiral further. You moved—dropped to one knee in front of him, your palm resting against his thigh, grounding him.

"Because you might," you said simply. Truthfully.

His eyes met yours, unguarded this time, stripped of the armor and wit he always wrapped himself in. "And what if I'm not ready?"

The words landed heavy. Honest.

You studied him—really studied him. Not the heir. Not the flirt. Not the performer. Just Parker. A man shaped by pressure and pain and shadow, suddenly teetering on the edge of something so much bigger than himself.

You tightened your grip slightly on his leg, voice low and certain. "Then we get ready together. You don't have to face this alone."

Something shifted between you—deep, quiet. Not lust. Not rivalry. Something older. Something rooted.

He stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.

"Alright," he said softly. A promise, not just a word.

Then—finally—a hint of the old Parker crept in, the corners of his mouth curling with the ghost of a smirk. "But next time I fuck you..." he murmured, rising to his feet and brushing his fingers against yours as he passed, "I'm taking my time."

You snorted, rising after him. "You're lucky I let you in this time."

He looked over his shoulder, that smirk turning just a bit warmer. "Please," he murmured, with a familiar glint. "You always let me in."

[aigle-suisse]

Volcanic Chasm (Iceland) par Ondablv Via Flickr : This dramatic volcanic chasm, carved by time and nature, showcases the raw power of Iceland’s geology. The jagged basalt walls plunge deep into the earth, forming a striking contrast against the surrounding green and rocky landscape. In the distance, a towering mountain stands against the clear blue sky, adding depth to this breathtaking scene. Iceland’s rugged terrain is shaped by volcanic activity, and formations like this serve as a reminder of the island’s ever-changing nature. The play of light and shadows enhances the textures of the rocks, creating a visually captivating landscape. Traduzione in italiano: Questo drammatico crepaccio vulcanico, scolpito dal tempo e dalla natura, mostra la potenza grezza della geologia islandese. Le pareti di basalto frastagliato precipitano in profondità nella terra, creando un forte contrasto con il paesaggio circostante, fatto di rocce e vegetazione. In lontananza, una montagna svetta contro il cielo azzurro, aggiungendo profondità a questa scena mozzafiato. Il paesaggio aspro dell’Islanda è plasmato dall’attività vulcanica, e formazioni come questa ricordano la natura in continua evoluzione dell’isola. Il gioco di luci e ombre esalta le texture delle rocce, creando un paesaggio visivamente affascinante.

[aquaquadrant]

from eden, part VII

Word count: 15,641

Warnings: Strong language, mild body horror, violence, blood/injury, mild gore, death, manipulation/deception, fictional bigotry, discussion of fictional eugenics (I guess??)

Summary: As Bravo continues working with Hels Tek to create a portal, the frequent complications and delays start to wear on his patience- not to mention the aggressive behavior of the Hels players he’s forced to associate with. But over the years, he finds himself treading deeper and deeper water to get what he wants. And after a shocking revelation is made about Tango, Bravo will have to confront exactly what kind of player he is.

A/N: I can’t believe I once thot I’d cover all of Bravo’s time in Hels in just one chapter. Holy shit. This is now the longest chapter by far, over 15k words. But I can safely say that we’re done w this mini-arc, and next time we’ll get back to the Ranchers in the Double Life times.

Disclaimer: I don’t understand a lot of redstone, and what they’re trying to do with redstone here isn’t even a thing in Minecraft irl, so just go with it. Also, mind the gore warning. There’s a death in here that isn’t super descriptive, not any more than Bravo’s various deaths in part 2, but the way it occurs is kinda disturbing. Hope y’all enjoy, please reblog if you do! - Aqua

~*~

from eden, part VII - babe, there’s something wretched about this, something so precious about this, oh what a sin

~*~

Somewhere in Hels, one player follows another through a gate.

Pistons lurch as the door closes behind them. But Bravo can hardly hear it above the sudden cacophony of noise beyond the walls of New Helington.

There’s far more life and activity here than he’d been expecting, a virtual sea of movement as players rush past each other. Mismatched buildings crowd the busy streets on either side, accented by flashing lamps and the occasional puff of steam. The air is filled with shouting and the sound of machinery; loud, chaotic, violent.

Over the years, Bravo’s grown accustomed to the various scents within Hels, from the ash-choked basalt detlas to the deep caves of sulfur. Every biome with trees in it smells like smoke, because inevitably, some part of it is always burning. Here, though, there’s a new smell added to the mix; the thick smog of coal and the metallic tang of iron. It reeks of industrialization- which might’ve been comforting, except he can see that New Helington is still very clearly uncivilized.

Much of the things being shouted between players are threats and insults. Players shove and scowl at each other as they pass. Several fist fights are currently taking place right before Bravo’s eyes, and that’s just what he can see out on the streets; the muffled sounds coming from within the ramshackle buildings are just as discouraging.

Bravo reminds himself to be careful. They may be more technologically advanced, but they’re still just as savage as the rest of Hels.

Atlas takes in the sights without comment, expression unchanging. He’s been here before, Bravo recalls. “Now,” he says lowly, “I do believe someone has been sent to collect us-”

“Hey man, how’s it going?”

Bravo jumps at the new voice, whirling around. A player is looking down at them from his perch on one of the wall’s watch towers. But it’s not his precarious position that makes Bravo’s heart jolt; he actually recognizes the player.

A well-built man, with a neatly trimmed beard and bright, teal eyes. The trident strapped to his back is further evidence- this is bXMiner, the player who killed Bravo the last time he tried to come to this city, years ago.

“Ah, Mr. bX,” Atlas says with a smile, seeming not at all surprised as bX drops to the ground in front of them. “Always a pleasure. This is my associate, Mr. Bravo.”

bX nods at him. “What’s up?”

Bravo blinks. “What’s up?” he repeats, struggling to keep his voice even as his temper flares. “That’s- that’s all I get? What, you don’t have anything else to say to the guy you murdered in cold blood?”

Rather than look taken aback, bX chuckles. “Oh man, you’re gonna have to be more specific,” he says with a rueful grin. “I kill a lot of people. Nothing personal.”

“Right,” Bravo says tersely, folding his arms. He’s not sure what stings more; that bX killed him, or that bX doesn’t even have the decency to remember killing him.

Atlas shoots him a warning look. “Of course, that’s not why we’re here.”

“Yeah, I gotta say, I was surprised to hear you were coming by.” bX’s tone is light, conversational- but there’s a knowing glint in his eyes as he studies Atlas. “Bit early for our next visit, isn’t it?”

Atlas’s grin tightens. “I assure you, Mr. bX, this is no ordinary house call. But I’d much prefer to discuss the details once we’re inside.”

“Sure, yeah.” Nodding, bX turns and starts walking towards the main street. “Follow me.”

Atlas steps in close, grabbing Bravo by the arm. “Mind yourself,” he says, still smiling.

Bravo jerks his arm away with a huff. “Fine! I’ll play nice.” As if he has a choice.

They follow bX into the street. Fortunately, it’s easy to keep track of him because the other players hasten to get out of his way. Clearly, bX holds some sort of status here. His presence must be fairly common, however, because Bravo and Atlas seem to be garnering most of the attention. Bravo tries not to bristle when he feels the weight of curious eyes on him.

He’s fully aware of how dangerous this is. Nearly every Hels player he’s met has been unpleasant at best, and outright hostile at worst. He’d once thought that a structured civilization like this could only exist due to cooperation and common decency. It’s obvious now that he was wrong. The players here must be kept in line by nothing short of brute force. The tension in the air is like a misplaced block of TNT, just waiting to explode.

Atlas, of course, doesn’t seem at all bothered by this. He keeps his chin up and his eyes forward as he walks, shoulder set and grin firmly in place. Like he has absolutely nothing to be nervous about.

Bravo desperately tries to channel that energy as they delve deeper into the city.

~*~

“Wait here,” bX says, slipping through the door.

Bravo opens his mouth to protest, but is quickly silenced by the warning look Atlas gives him. They’re in Papa Al’s house, now, he reminds himself. They must tread carefully.

bX has taken them to a lavish quartz mansion, much bigger than any other structure in the city, complete with a fenced-in, fully landscaped garden. Everything on the premises is impeccably maintained; a sharp contrast to the rest of the city. It was clearly designed with aesthetics in mind, and seems well-staffed. If Bravo had any doubts about just how powerful and wealthy Papa Al is, they’ve been thoroughly refuted.

After leading them through the mansion, bX took them up a rather impressive piston elevator, stopping at a floor that consisted of a single hallway with a single door at the end. It’s this door that they’re now waiting in front of, as bX presumably speaks with Papa Al inside.

Bravo definitely isn’t nervous. He definitely doesn’t try to listen to the conversation through the door- to no avail. And he definitely doesn’t jump out of his skin when the door suddenly swings open, almost smacking him in the face. Quickly straightening up, he takes a breath to compose himself, hoping bX didn’t notice.

bX definitely noticed. “Come on in, guys,” he says, amused.

“Thank you,” Atlas says graciously, pulling Bravo into the room behind him. “Ah, Papa Al, it’s good to see you!”

Bravo has to make a conscious effort not to let his mouth fall open. The floor and ceiling of Papa Al’s office are completely paved with solid diamond blocks. Oh, that’s so… tacky. So, so tacky. But it’s the most expensive kind of tacky Bravo’s ever seen. The fact that this guy has so many excess diamonds, he can build with them...

“Spank you, queenie,” the man sitting behind the desk tells bX. He turns to beam at them. “Doctor Sinny! Come in, come in, take a seat!”

Papa Al. He’s dressed to match the room, in an obnoxious teal suit and multiple diamond rings. His own features are rather plain, aside from the countless thin lines hatched across his face. And his voice is… not what Bravo was expecting. Strange accent aside, there’s a playful nature to it. It’s extremely unsettling, coming from a man with this kind of reputation.

bX moves to stand beside Papa Al, who reaches a hand up to caress the side of bX’s face. It’d be a possessive gesture if it weren’t so affectionate, if bX didn’t smile softly back at him. Bravo’s taken aback- seems like this crime boss is full of surprises.

“Of course,” Atlas says, “thank you for seeing us.” He takes one of the two chairs sitting in front of the desk, gesturing for Bravo to follow suit. As Bravo sits down, Papa Al gasps.

“And oh wow, look at dis beautiful face!” he coos. “Now, look into my eyes, and nufin’ but my eyes…”

Then the rest of his eyes open up.

Atlas warned him not to stare, but Bravo can’t help it. Being told that the man has a bunch of extra eyeballs on his face is one thing, but it’s another thing to see it. To see them all mismatched and misshapen, moving and blinking completely out of sync. It’s horrifying.

Rather than take offense, Papa Al almost seems pleased by Bravo’s reaction. His grin widens, and he leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Wassa matter, sweetface?” he asks innocently, cocking his head to the side. The motion makes his various eyes roll around in a dizzying manner.

A cold sweat trickles down Bravo’s neck. “Nothing,” he grits out, averting his gaze. “Uh, sorry. Sir.”

Luckily, Atlas swoops in. “Now, Papa Al, I know you’re a busy man,” he starts smoothly, “so in the interest of saving time, allow me to be brief. I believe I’ve found the solution to our Tango problem. Mr. Bravo here-”

“Ain’t from dese parts, humm?” Papa Al says thoughtfully, his eyes dragging over Bravo’s form. “Or even from dis world.”

Bravo suppresses a shudder. He’s never been scrutinized so intently before; it feels like layers of his skin are being peeled back. And how Papa Al can tell he’s from another world just by looking at him, he has no idea.

Atlas recovers quickly. “Yes, that’s correct. Mr. Bravo came to Hels by accident through a portal, the same time Tango disappeared. I know you never meet Tango, but their similarity is quite striking, too much to chalk up to mere coincidence. I believe they share a connection that we could utilize to open a portal and track Tango down, to retrieve the information he stole, and get our project back on track.”

“Is dat so?” Papa Al hums. His eyes are split between looking at Atlas and Bravo; an expression that’d almost be goofy if it weren’t so off-putting. “Den what’chu waitin’ for?”

Atlas pauses, his face twitching the way it does when he’s trying very hard not to let his annoyance show. “We’ve run into some difficulties with actually isolating this connection,” he explains carefully. “See, we still have Tango’s communicator, which we’ve been comparing to Mr. Bravo’s, but my team is sorely lacking a specialist in data analysis.”

“Ooh, I see…” Papa Al nods earnestly. “You need a real smart guy, huh?”

Atlas’s grin is so tight, it’s a miracle his teeth haven’t cracked. “This degree of analysis is a bit beyond our scope, yes,” he admits, begrudging.

Papa Al taps his chin- the eye located there quickly squeezes shut. “Hmmm… I fink I know a guy,” he says after a moment. “But he’s a vewy hard guy to track down, so it could take some time. Could be a bit scary, a bit hairy.”

Satisfaction flickers across Atlas’s expression. “Who do you have in mind?” he asks, leaning forward.

“Uh uh uh!” Papa Al tuts, wagging his finger. A few of his eyes close for a second- is he trying to wink? “All you need ta know is that he’s da best of da best in dis kinda fing. An’ he reaaaally likes his privacy.”

Atlas purses his lips. Clearly, he’s displeased, but isn’t willing to argue. “Well, if you think he’s the man for the job, I trust your judgement. I’d be happy to speak to him myself to explain the-”

“No, no, no, no, nooo,” Papa Al interrupts, waving a hand dismissively. “Don’t you worry your purdy little head about it. If I can get him ta take da job, he’ll find you, mkay?”

“Of course. As you wish.” Atlas inclines his head. “Though I must stress that this is rather sensitive information, and the utmost care should be taken to ensure-”

“Oh, Sinny,” Papa Al sighs. He rests his head in his hands. “You really fink I got to where I am today wifout knowin’ how ta keep my mouth shut? I know what’s at stake, same as you do.”

Atlas exhales slowly. “Of course.”

“Now,” Papa Al continues, “step outside wif bX for a second, mkay? I wanna talk ta Mistah Bravo.”

Bravo jolts in his seat. What? This wasn’t part of the plan!

Atlas stiffens. “If you require any more information about the project, I’m sure I can-”

“Dat wasn’t a request, sweetface,” Papa Al says, his tone deceptively light.

Atlas falls silent. With a terse nod, he rises from his seat and follows bX out the door. As he does, he gives Bravo a look that isn’t so much reassuring as it is saying ‘don’t mess this up.’ Normally, Bravo would roll his eyes, but he’s just as worried about messing this up as Atlas is. Atlas was supposed to do all the talking, Bravo doesn’t know how to navigate Hels business like this-

“Soooo,” Papa Al drawls, “Mistah Bravo… you come from other worlds outside a’ Hels, is dat right?”

Now that they’re alone, Bravo bears the full weight of Papa Al’s gaze. He straightens his back unconsciously. “Yeah. Uh, yes sir, Papa Al.”

Papa Al hums noncommittally. “Tell me… what are da other worlds like?”

Bravo blinks. “Um- you mean like, just in general? I guess… they’re usually a lot nicer than Hels.” He scratches the back of his head. “See, other worlds have a separate nether from the overworld, and- and we travel between them using portals.”

Papa Al nods, motioning for him to go on. Evidently, he’s familiar with the concept.

Bravo swallows. “Okay so, all the biomes with ash and lava and fiery stuff, that’s- that’s nether stuff.” He counts on his fingers. “Basalt deltas, warped and crimson forests, soul sand valleys, nether wastes- that’s all pretty much the same. I mean, it’s fine if that’s what you like, but uh, I prefer the overworld.”

Papa Al’s expression is utterly unreadable, those many eyes watching him with rapt attention.

“So, the overworlds,” Bravo continues haltingly. “There are… okay, so- so overworlds have tons of different biomes, right? The biomes here are sorta like uh, hybrid biomes, so you’ve got like, netherrack veins in a stone mountain or a jungle filled with crimson fungus. But in a normal overworld, the biomes don’t have any features of the nether. And other than a few specific kinds, they all usually have some kinda grass and trees, and they’re green. Not brownish-green like the ones here.”

His tone turns wistful, despite himself. “And the sky- there’s no bedrock ceiling in the overworld, just an endless blue sky… there are clouds sometimes. The air’s clear. And the sun… it’s this giant, yellow ball of fire way up in the sky, too far to reach, and when it shines down on your skin, it’s just the most amazing feeling. Warm, but not painful. And- and at night, the sky turns black, and you can see a bunch of tiny bright lights called stars, and one big, white moon. Like a smaller sun. The moonlight isn’t warm, but it’s beautiful in its own way. I…” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Sorry, I uh- I didn’t realize I missed it so much…”

A gentle smile spreads across Papa Al’s face, forcing several eyes into a squint. “Oh, das alright,” he murmurs. “It must be hard, ta be away from home for sooooo long. And I bet you’d do whatever it takes ta go back, hmm?”

Bravo is immediately on edge again. “I suppose,” he says warily.

“Now tell me dis…” Papa Al leans in, his voice low. “Do you trust Atlas?”

Well. That’s not what Bravo was expecting. He knits his brows together, trying to figure out how he should answer. Is this some kind of test? “I… trust that he wants a portal opened as much as I do,” he says eventually.

Papa Al tilts his head. “Is dat so?”

It’s impossible to tell whether he approves of the answer or not. Bravo makes a frustrated noise. “I- I don’t- look, compared to how other players here have treated me- I mean, Atlas is one of the few who didn’t just kill me on sight.”

“Oh, sweetface…” Papa Al clicks his tongue. “Dere are so many fings a player can do ta you dat are worse dan killing.”

Irritation flares through Bravo. He hates being treated like he’s naive; he didn’t make it on his own here for several years through the power of friendship. “Okay, so- so what, are you sayin’ I shouldn’t trust the guy who’s working for you?” he asks, folding his arms. “I mean, what- what do you want here?”

“I want ta know dat you’re committed,” Papa Al says, holding his gaze evenly. His earlier playfulness has fallen away into the cool demeanor of a hardened businessman. “Dat you’ll uphold your end of da deal. Cuz- cuz if you don’t, den I’m wastin’ a lotta time and energy for nufin’, mhmm. You get me?”

“I- yeah, I get you,” Bravo says shortly. In his opinion, it’s a stupid question. There is so much more on the line for him than there is for them. They want to get back important research. He wants to get back his entire way of life and an infinite universe. It’s almost insulting, for Papa Al to question Bravo’s commitment.

“Good, good.” Papa Al nods. “Cuz ah, little word to da wise; I am not someone you wanna cross.”

Bravo grits his teeth. He generally considers himself a nice guy, but god, he’s so tired of all the posturing. “Yeah? Well, well maybe I am, too,” he says lowly.

For a moment, Papa Al just stares at him, as if he hasn’t fully processed the threat. Then he throws his head back and laughs, all his eyes squeezing shut. “Oh, I knew I liked ya,” he says cheerfully. “Alright, you’ve convinced me. Tell Doctor Sinny dat I’ll work on sending da specialist over pronto, mkay? And in da meantime, he should tell me if dere are any updates or probbylems. Got dat?”

“I- yeah, sure,” Bravo says, taken aback. “Uh-”

“Great! You can go, now.” Papa Al sits back in his chair, waving his fingers. “Buh bye! Spank you! See ya next time!”

Well, that’s that.

Bravo steps out of the room almost in a daze, into the hallway where Atlas and bX are waiting. bX nods at him in greeting and leads them back out of the mansion, through the city, and to the gate before bidding them farewell.

Atlas waits until they’re on the flying machine back to Hels Tek to start pestering Bravo about his meeting with Papa Al. Bravo tries to relay the odd conversation the best he can, still trying to make sense of it himself. But he leaves out the part where Papa Al asked if he trusts Atlas.

Somehow, he doesn’t think Atlas would take that well.

~*~

“What? That’s it?”

Bravo jumps a little as Tyrannicide slams his hands on the conference table. Atlas sighs, looking almost bored as he waits for the other scientist to stop shouting.

“Are you fucking kidding me? All we get is some flimsy promise that he’ll send for a specialist, without even knowing who?”

“Dr. Tyrannicide, indoor voice, if you please,” Atlas says dryly. “I understand it’s not ideal, but-”

“It’s a rip off, is what it is,” Phantonym cuts in, her arms folded as she leans back in her chair. Her shoulders are hunched, jaw set. “I thought this guy was supposed to be our top sponsor!”

The tension in the room is palpable. Bravo knew that the rest of the portal team wouldn’t be thrilled by the news of their visit with Alisker, but he’s unsettled by all the hostility. It’s like they’re going to leap over the table at Atlas any second now. Surely they wouldn’t actually attack each other here- Hels Tek is better than that, right?

“Alisker is our top sponsor,” Atlas replies, giving Phantonym a stern look. “I’m sure he has his reasons for all the secrecy. All we have to do is be patient.”

“And what if this so-called specialist never even shows up?” L8R_H8R demands. He’s tense, hands gripping the armrests of his chair so hard his knuckles are white.

Atlas smiles, shrugging a shoulder. “Well, in that case, I suppose we carry on as we have been.”

H8R frowns. “At the rate we’ve been going, it’ll take years just to figure this data thing out, much less build a working portal from it,” he points out. “Isn’t Alisker’s patience with us already running thin?”

Atlas’s smile widens. “Yes, yes it is. So if I were you, I’d stop wasting time throwing fits over things beyond our control and get back to work. Do I make myself clear?”

The scientists mutter their agreement, a reluctant, “Yes, sir.” The tension dissipates, and Bravo remembers to breathe again.

It’s fine. This is fine. The specialist will come, they’ll figure out how Bravo is connected to Tango, they’ll finally be able to make a portal, and this nightmare will be over. He’ll go home and forget about this horrible place. He just has to be patient for a little bit longer.

It can’t take more than a few days, right?

~*~

Several days come and go, with no news.

Atlas is starting to get annoyed by how often Bravo asks if he’s heard from Alisker. But he can’t help it; he hates feeling out of the loop like this, feeling completely and utterly powerless. He tries to keep himself busy, but progress on the portal has screeched to a halt. The rest of his team is once again trying to teach themselves how to read and analyze data, the lab covered with pages and pages of code, and all his attempts to help are met with stiff rejection. Even just being in the room with them is getting increasingly uncomfortable; tempers are short, and there’s a lot of bickering.

The other scientists seem to tolerate his presence better. His assistance on the various projects at Hels Tek isn’t always necessary, but they don’t mind him hanging around to observe and ask questions. They seem to be in higher spirits than the portal team- probably because their projects aren’t stuck on the backburner, waiting for some mysterious specialist to show up out of the blue. So long as they’re being productive, they’ve got nothing to fight about.

At least, that’s what Bravo thinks until he walks in on a scientist throwing one of the interns against the wall.

“How many times do I have to fucking tell you?” the scientist snarls, a piece of paper clenched in his first. “Double check your calculations before showing them to me. If you can’t even do basic math, you’re-” He pauses when he notices Bravo, all his fury suddenly vanishing. “Oh, hey. Didn’t know you were dropping by today.”

The intern has quickly recovered himself, standing with a carefully composed expression.

“Right,” Bravo says uncertainly, a pit forming in his stomach. “Uh, sorry- I’ll come back later.”

He leaves before the scientist can protest, his heart pounding. He’s never seen violence used so casually around Hels Tek, the way it is elsewhere in Hels. The closest time was when Atlas had to snap Clear out of a breakdown, and even that hadn’t been done so lightly.

Atlas told him that Hels Tek was different. That it was better than the rest of Hels, that he’d be safe here. 

It’s… probably not that big of a deal. Everyone loses their temper from time to time. And Bravo can’t hold them to the same standards he would normally, because they’re still from Hels. Things just… work differently here. It doesn’t matter anyways; as soon as that portal is working, he’ll be out of here for good.

He just has to be patient.

~*~

Days turn into weeks.

~*~

“-informed me that they should have the entire lexicon fully transcribed by now,” Atlas says, his quick footsteps bouncing off the empty hall.

Bravo keeps pace with him as they make their way to the portal lab. “Yeah, well, that’s what H8R said last week-”

He breaks off when he hears a sudden crash. Behind one of the doors to another lab, he can make out the sound of furious shouting- two scientists he’s vaguely familiar with- and more heavy thunks and crashes.

Bravo turns to ask Atlas about it, but he’s already slipping inside the door. The sounds immediately stop. After a minute, Atlas comes back out, smoothing down the front of his lab coat.

“Just a little work dispute,” he tells Bravo with a smile. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Right,” Bravo says flatly. He almost lets it drop there, but something prompts him to keep going. “Y’know, I- I’m not stupid. I know you guys are trying not to be so… so Hels around me. What, do you think a- a few harsh words and fist fights are gonna scare me off?”

“Of course not,” Atlas says, raising his eyebrows. “It’s true that my staff are attempting to be more conscientious than what’s standard for the rest of Hels, but I instilled those rules even before you got here.” He looks at Bravo from over the brim of his shades. “Contrary to what you might believe, we Hels players don’t all thrive on chaos and violence. Some of us would prefer a little more civility and order.”

“Oh, okay.” Bravo glances away, almost sheepish. “Sure, yeah. Sorry.”

Atlas hums noncommittally, continuing down the hall. “Now, where were we…?”

~*~

Weeks turn into months.

~*~

“I’ve told you, I’m working on it!” Tyrannicide snaps. “Who died and made you queen?”

“Well, someone has to keep us on schedule,” Phantonym shoots back, her eyes narrowed, “and it’s clearly not you!”

Bravo pinches the bridge of his nose. The two scientists have been arguing all morning about things he can barely follow. Something something, responsibilities, something something, timelines. It’s really getting hard to bear. If this is the best redstone lab that Hels has to offer, he shudders to think about how the others must function…

“I’m sick of your shit!” Tyrannicide pushes away from the lab bench, his chair toppling over with a loud thud as he jumps to his feet. “If you don’t like the way I do things then you can just-”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence; a sword suddenly appears in his chest, splattering blood across the lab bench. Instantly, he vanishes in a puff of respawn smoke, the sword dropping to the ground with a clank.

Phantonym calmly leans over to pick it up. Shock crashes over Bravo as he processes what just happened, only two feet away from him.

H8R sighs loudly. “For godsakes…” he groans, rising from his chair. He shuffles over to grab the mop leaning against the wall. “Couldn’t you have taken this outside? Papers, ruined…”

Bravo finally finds his voice. “You killed him,” he says, stunned.

Phantonym rolls her eyes. “Sorry, yeah, I know that was rude,” she huffs, putting the sword back in her inventory. “But whatever, maybe he’ll come back with a better fucking attitude.”

Bravo isn’t sure how to respond to that. Fortunately, Atlas is quick to arrive, having noticed the death message in chat. He lectures Phantonym about ‘appropriate workplace conduct’ and then pulls Bravo to the side.

“I apologize for that,” Atlas says lowly. “With respawn anchors set up, death has little consequence, and as such, players can sometimes get careless- even those who should know better. But I can assure you, no one here would even think about harming you.”

“Oh, yeah?” Bravo demands. He finds that hard to believe. “Why’s that? Has- has my sparkling personality endeared me to them?”

Atlas sighs; he has little patience for Bravo’s sarcasm. “No. I’ve simply impressed upon them that, if such an unsightly event were to occur, there would be dire consequences.”

“Oh.” Bravo swallows. “Uh. Thanks?”

“You’re welcome,” Atlas says, stepping away. “Now, all of you, get back to work.”

Bravo runs a hand through his hair, pausing as he feels a few strands stuck together with still-warm blood. A lump forms in his throat, but he forces it down.

Business as usual at Hels Tek.

~*~

“I don’t know why this couldn’t wait,” Atlas grumbles, rubbing his eyes behind his shades. “I’m all for starting work early, but this is a bit excessive.”

“Because,” Bravo says impatiently, ushering him down the hallway, “every time I try to get a straightforward explanation with the rest of the team there, it always turns into an argument. And I’m sick of being out of the loop. I- I need to know exactly where we’re at with this project, okay?”

There’s only a few more months to go before Bravo will have been at Hels Tek for two years. Not that they’ll throw him an anniversary party or anything. Most players don’t pay much attention to the yearly passage of time; the only reason he even knows how long it’s been is because he’s made a point to keep track on his communicator.

(It’s hard to tell for certain, but Bravo thinks he might’ve stopped aging at this point. He wonders if Tango’s stopped aging too, or if he’ll look younger or older than Bravo when they finally meet.

He supposes it doesn’t really matter. Since all players are immortal, they usually only keep track of age until they reach adulthood. After that, players continue to age up to a certain point that’s completely random; a player who looks twenty might actually be decades older than a player who looks forty. Socially, there’s no difference- an adult is an adult.

But privately, Bravo had been hoping to physically age at least a little bit more, to look more mature than he does currently. Maybe it’d help others take him more seriously.)

Atlas hums noncommittally. “Do you not trust your team?”

Bravo snorts. “I trust my team to get distracted by bickering, that’s what. So- so that’s why I just need you to catch me up to speed on everything, before the rest of ‘em get in this morning.”

“Very well,” Atlas sighs, fishing his keycard out of his inventory as they stop in front of the lab door. He swipes them in. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’d be happy to-” He breaks off as soon as they step through the door, blinking in confusion.

The lights in the lab are already on.

Bravo’s immediately on edge, quickly glancing around. He deliberately dragged Atlas down here at the crack of dawn so they could get here before anyone else on the team-

“Hey, everybody.”

That’s a new voice.

Bravo cranes his head up in the direction the voice came from, and his heart jolts. A player is sitting up in the metal rafters of the lab, balancing on the thin beam in a crouch. Before either of them can respond, the player drops off the side- and catches himself in a rapidly-placed block of water, which disappears back into its bucket and into his inventory just as quickly. He straightens up, standing only a few feet away from them with his hands in his pockets.

The first thought Bravo has is, ‘What a show off.’ Seriously, what kind of guy places water in a redstone lab just to pull off a silly MLG trick?

The player in question is a man with a tall, lanky frame- made even more apparent by the baggy bomber jacket he’s wearing. The gray jacket is old but well-maintained, with patches on the elbows and the collar lined with matted white fur. Complimenting it is a pair of dark cargo pants tucked into trim combat boots. A clock hangs at his hip, suspended on a delicate chain.

His white hair is in the style of an undercut; shaved around the sides and back, with only the top left long and tied into a small bun. His whole left eye is glowing bright red- artificially red, like redstone- with a white iris. The skin surrounding it is thick and mottled, like some kind of burn or chemical scar, standing out in sharp contrast against his pale complexion. It’s impossible to tell the extent of it, though, because the entire lower half of his face is covered by a black mask.

Bravo’s never seen him before. But Atlas inhales sharply, eyes widening from behind his shades.

“Well, well, well.” Atlas spreads his hands, breaking into a broad grin. “If it isn’t Mr. Patho, of Patho’s Lair!”

“Oh, you know who I am?” the player, Patho, asks. It’s difficult to read his expression with so much of his face hidden, but he almost sounds amused.

“But of course.” Atlas is practically vibrating with excitement as he approaches Patho, coming to a stop in front of him. Bravo follows him cautiously. “Any competent redstoner knows who you are, Mr. Patho. It’s an honor to have you here, I don’t know why my staff didn’t inform me of your arrival-”

“I let myself in,” Patho says casually.

It takes a second for the meaning to register; he snuck into Hels Tek completely undetected.

“Ah.” If Atlas is disturbed by this information, he doesn’t show it. “Well, this is a pleasant surprise! It’s an honor to meet you,” he says emphatically, holding out his hand. “I’m Dr. Atlas, the head scientist here.”

Patho just stares at him, hands still in his pockets, making no move to shake Atlas’s hand. It seems to Bravo as if the temperature in the room has dropped by ten degrees.

Atlas, to his credit, recovers quickly. “Thank you so much for coming,” he says, tucking his arms behind his back. “I wasn’t aware that Alisker knew you.”

Patho nods. “Oh yeah, me and Papa Al go way back.” 

Now that Bravo’s getting a closer look, he realizes that Patho’s red eye is mechanical; he can see the little metal plates that make up the iris, moving to change the diameter of the pupil. That, combined with the scar around Patho’s orbit, mean it’s probably a cybernetic replacement.

Injuries that kill a player are healed upon respawn, but they occasionally leave a mark, depending on the nature and severity of the wound. The likelihood of retaining some sort of damage increases the longer a player has an injury without actually dying. Bravo’s seen players with all sorts of scars in Hels, but never one that’s missing an actual body part. He wonders what sort of circumstances could lead to an entire eye being permanently lost, and shudders.

“Well, we’re happy to have you,” Atlas says. Man, he’s really laying it on thick. “I’m certain with your help we’ll be able to-”

“So, this is the overworlder?” Patho interrupts, turning his keen, mismatched gaze onto Bravo. There’s something calculating in his expression, and the intensity of his robotic eye is a little disconcerting- like it’s evaluating Bravo on some level he can’t understand.

“My name’s Bravo,” Bravo says, feeling a spike of irritation. He folds his arms. “So Alisker sent you? You know uh, we talked to him about sending a specialist months ago. Like, almost a year ago.”

Atlas shoots him a warning look. Clearly, he holds this player in very high regard- for whatever reason.

But Patho shrugs a shoulder. “Yeah, well, I’m a busy guy,” he says, completely unapologetic.

Bravo’s jaw tightens. He’s trying really hard not to let his annoyance show, but this guy is quickly getting on his nerves. “I just don’t- what, he- he couldn’t just send a quick whisper, asking you to drop by?”

“No, actually.” Patho finally takes his hands out of his pockets, pushing up the sleeve of his left arm. The entire limb is mechanical- a prosthetic, Bravo realizes, just like his eye- and there’s a familiar screen embedded in his forearm. “I don’t get whispers anymore. I permanently disabled chat.”

He’s built his communicator into his own arm. And disabled the chat. In a world without an admin who can just replace his communicator if something were to go wrong.

Bravo stares at him. “Wh- why would you do that?!”

Patho gives him a curious look, huffing a laugh. Like Bravo’s some kind of dumb animal that’s doing something mildly amusing. “Sorry, that’s actually none of your goddamn business,” he says, tone deceptively light. “Now let’s get to work, yeah?”

Bravo’s too stunned to respond. But Atlas swiftly intervenes, sweeping an arm out towards the lab benches. “Of course! Our set up is right over there, Mr. Patho. Feel free to take a look at our progress thus far while I call the rest of our portal development team over.”

Patho simply nods and turns away, sidling over to the lab benches. Atlas seizes Bravo by the arm and leads him aside.

“Do you remember,” Atlas asks lowly, speaking through the clenched teeth of his grin, “how I told you that a long time ago, a very smart player used data analysis to figure out that Hels is made of two distinct realms fused into one?”

Bravo quirks a brow. “Yeah?”

“Patho is that player.”

“What?” Bravo jolts in surprise. “But that’d make him-”

“One of the oldest players in Hels, yes,” Atlas says, nodding. “I know he doesn’t look it; he stopped aging a long time ago. But trust me when I tell you that this player is ancient, and someone you do not want to cross.”

Bravo frowns. “Seems to be a running theme here, with the sorta people you work with.”

Atlas tilts his head. “Let me put it this way. If I had to choose between having Alisker or Patho as my enemy, I’d choose Alisker any day.” His grip on Bravo’s arm tightens. “You must be on your best behavior.”

“Okay, okay, jeeze!” Bravo huffs, shaking Atlas’s hand off. Despite his annoyance, he can’t deny the concern that Atlas’s words have instilled in him. This must be serious. “Relax, I’m- I’m not gonna do anything stupid.”

“I should hope not,” Atlas responds cooly, pulling up his communicator. “We can’t afford to waste this opportunity.”

Bravo manages not to roll his eyes. “Don’t have to tell me that,” he mutters under his breath as he turns away.

~*~

It only takes a few minutes for the other three to arrive. Introductions are a rushed affair, with far too much fangirling for Bravo’s taste. Apparently, Patho is some kind of celebrity in the redstone community here. Go figure.

Once everything’s settled down again, Atlas explains the situation to Patho in excruciating detail, with frequent interjections from the other scientists. They’re all so eager to prove how much they know about the subject. The hostility between them from the last few months has been all but forgotten; clearly, they wouldn’t dream of devolving into petty bickering in front of Patho.

If nothing else, at least this visit has given them a serious attitude adjustment.

Patho listens to them with rapt attention, speaking only to ask an occasional clarifying question. There’s absolutely nothing in his expression to give away what he’s feeling about the information. Certainly not the excitement Bravo might’ve expected, from someone learning that there’s a way out of Hels.

Maybe Patho’s always suspected. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.

Patho also spends some time looking over Bravo’s and Tango’s communicators- which makes Bravo more than a little nervous. Patho’s inspection goes beyond a cursory glance; he actually starts digging through data logs and memory banks, reading the embedded codes.

“Lotta early deaths, huh, Bravo?” he comments at one point, making Bravo flush.

To top it all off, Patho pops open a panel on his robotic arm and tugs out a little cord. He uses this to plug into each of the communicators for a few minutes, his expression blank as his cybernetic eye rapidly scans back and forth. It’s… a little disturbing to watch. By the time he finishes up and gives Bravo his communicator back, Bravo’s practically ready to snatch it out of Patho’s hands. He quickly stows it in his inventory while simultaneously trying to look as though he isn’t at all bothered.

Jury’s still out on whether he was successful or not.

“Okay, so here’s what I’m thinking,” Patho announces finally, after all these minutes of information-gathering.

They’ve all settled at the chairs by the lab benches now. Tyrannicide, Phantonym, and L8R_H8R each have notepads out. Atlas doesn’t, but he can’t disguise the interest in his eyes as he leans forward slightly in his seat.

“In the worlds outside Hels,” Patho starts, “you can make portals two ways; a nether portal to travel between overworld and nether, or a portal from your communicator to travel between worlds. In Hels, we can’t do either. But um, there’s actually a difference in how these mechanisms have been blocked here. Aha.”

“You see, buried deep inside every communicator’s memory is a command for creating a new world, and a command for traveling to an existing world- like, a derivative of the ‘summon portal’ command. These commands are locked on a Hels player’s communicator, just like, completely nonfunctional. No amount of tampering can activate them again, so one of these communicator portals has never physically existed in Hels.”

“Now, a nether portal, on the other hand, can still be created in Hels. The uh, the frames just don’t ignite. This is because they were designed to travel between two distinct realms that are now fused in Hels, so the portal gets confused. It’s like, you’re asking it to teleport you somewhere, but you’re already there. So it just crashes. But, theoretically, if you gave a nether portal in Hels a new destination, outside of Hels, you could trick it into teleporting you there.” He finally pauses, gaze drifting around the table. “With me so far?”

Eager nods from the scientists as they scribble down notes.

Bravo frowns. “So why hasn’t anyone successfully done that yet?” he asks.

Patho blinks at him. “It’s a paradox,” he says slowly. “In order to make a portal out of Hels, you need to anchor it to something outside of Hels. But in order to find something outside of Hels to act as an anchor, you need to make a portal out of Hels. So um, historically, there’s been no way for anyone in Hels to access anything from other worlds.” He shrugs. “Until you showed up.”

Atlas looks pleased. “So, you’re saying Mr. Bravo is the key to interworld travel?” His tone makes it clear he already knew that, but is now having it confirmed by a top authority on the subject. It must be extremely validating.

Patho nods. “Yeah, so player data is actually influenced by the world you spawn in. Sort of like, an origin ID tag. I could tell just from reading him that he’s not from Hels. All we have to do is use his data to create an anchor point to another world and link it to a nether portal.”

There are surprised and agreeable little murmurs from the scientists.

“Oh, genius-”

“Of course!”

“-yes, I see.”

“Uh…” Bravo clears his throat. “Hey, so- so as the aforementioned ‘he’, would this uh, hypothetical scenario be in any way painful or damaging? Or permanent? I mean, it’s not gonna- it won’t turn me into a portal, right?”

Patho waves him off. “No, no, it shouldn’t be. It’d be like um, a fingerprint or retina scanner. You’d just need a setup that can read your data and feed it to the portal, and it’ll ignite inside the frame.”

That’s something, Bravo supposes. “Okay… but we aren’t trying to go to just any other world, or my homeworld, we’re trying to find Tango,” he points out. “And- and we have no idea where he is.”

“Ah, you didn’t let me finish,” Patho says good-naturedly. “Based on what I can tell from this Tango guy’s communicator compared to Bravo’s, you can use Bravo’s data to create an anchor point to Tango, too.”

Oh, that’s all kinds of strange. “But why?” Bravo asks, throwing his hands up. “How exactly are Tango and I connected? Is it like that- that thing when one chicken egg spawns in multiples? Like, twins?”

Patho shakes his head. “No, you’d be completely identical if that were the case, and I can tell from your communicators that you aren’t.” He gives Bravo a considering look. “The real answer is, um... more complicated than that. You sure you can handle it?”

Well, that’s not concerning.

Despite his sudden unease, Bravo huffs a laugh. “Uh, yeah? I mean, that’s- that’s what we’re here to find out, right?”

“Alright, then,” Patho hums. He pulls a potion out of his inventory- night vision, Bravo thinks. “So like, imagine that this bottle is Bravo. And all his data- all his code, like everything that makes Bravo who he is- is represented by the potion in the bottle. And that potion is made up of different ingredients, right?”

Bravo knits his brows together. “Where are you going with this?”

“Just stay with me.” Patho pulls another bottle out, but this one is empty. “So when Bravo was spawned, he had all these different ingredients in him. But for whatever reason, the uh, the universe took certain things out and dumped them into a second bottle, making a new potion.” To demonstrate, he tips the potion into the empty bottle, letting some of the shimmering liquid pour into it. “That’s Tango.”

Bravo balks. “Wh- so Tango’s my clone?!”

Patho gives a rueful sigh, like he’s patiently trying to teach an actual child some very simple concept. “No, not a clone. Again, you’d be identical.” He scoops up some stray redstone from the lab bench and pours it into the second potion, swirling it around until the liquid turns reddish. “He’s a derivative of you, like some part of you that has been given its own sentience and form before getting spawned here. I don’t know why. But uh, I predict this is the case for every player spawned in Hels.”

There’s a moment of silence. The redstone particles in the potion eventually settle on the surface, like blood on water.

“Mr. Patho,” Atlas ventures finally, his tone careful, “surely you don’t mean... you’re suggesting we all have doppelgängers outside of Hels?”

“That’s right,” Patho says, putting the potions away. “It’s simple inductive logic based on the construction of the data of every player I’ve ever seen.”

The scientists don’t look quite so eager anymore, pens hovering motionless over notepads.

Bravo exhales slowly, running his hands through his hair. This is… so much more than he could’ve guessed. He’d thought there was a chance the universe purposefully spawned the worst players here in Hels, as some kind of preemptive punishment. But what Patho’s suggesting… it’s different.

“But... but why would the universe do that?” Bravo asks quietly.

“Like I said, I don’t know.” Patho scratches at his jaw over his mask. “Um, I’d need Tango here to do a direct comparison in order to figure out what ‘ingredients’ he’s made of. But we can estimate. So like, what similarities does Tango share with you?”

Bravo shrugs helplessly. “I- I mean- I’ve never met him, but-”

“Their tempers,” Atlas interrupts, his eyes widening with realization. “Mr. Bravo does a fine job keeping it under control, but when Tango got truly angry, he’d fly into an uncontrollable, destructive rage.” He gives Bravo a thoughtful look. “I was never certain how much of that was solely attributed to his blaze hybrid status, but now it seems to me that he got it from you.”

Something about that sentence rankles Bravo. He shoves it to the back of his mind.

“There you go.” Patho waves a hand. “Hels players are made of the worst parts of overworld players. Aha.” He winks. “Explains a lot, right?”

Bravo can only shake his head. “I just- I don’t understand how you can know all that just by looking at me and our communicators-”

“This is what you hired me for, right?” Patho asks, inclining his head. “It’d take way too long to explain. Look, trust my expertise or don’t. I get paid either way.”

“Apologies, Mr. Patho,” Atlas says quickly, “of course we trust your expertise. It’s just… quite a lot to take in.”

“Really?” Patho sounds genuinely surprised. “Seems pretty simple to me.”

Atlas’s smile is strained. “You mean to say you aren’t at all bothered by the concept of your existence being owed to some player in another world? That you’re nothing more than the most undesirable parts of them trimmed away and given shape, locked into an inescapable prison for the simple crime of existing?”

“Nope,” Patho says easily. “So I uh, I just foot the bill to Papa Al, right?”

The sudden change in topic throws Bravo for a moment. “Uh- what do you mean?”

“My payment,” Patho says, stretching his arms above his head before standing up. “Job’s done, so…”

“What?” Bravo demands, rising from his seat. His chair scrapes loudly against the floor. “That’s it? You- you’re leaving, just like that?”

“Yeah?” Patho chuckles, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Like, what else do you want, a kiss on the cheek? That’ll cost extra.”

Bravo feels himself flush. He’s not sure how much of it is from embarrassment and how much is from anger. “I thought you were supposed to be helping us open a portal,” he says, stalking up to Patho.

Atlas frowns at him. “Now, Mr. Bravo-”

“Well,” Patho says, tilting his head, “I already told you everything you need to know to open a portal to Tango.”

“Yeah, well,” Bravo snarks, glaring up at Patho, “knowing and doing are two very different things. We’ve waited months for you to show up, only for you to leave after ten minutes, are you serious? I- I mean, aren’t you gonna help us actually build the portal?”

Patho scoffs at him. “I’m a consultant, not a contractor,” he says, turning away.

Rage flares inside Bravo, like his blood’s turned to lava. “Hey! Don’t you have any idea how important this is?” He grabs Patho by the arm. “You can’t-”

Pain cuts across Bravo’s stomach, before he’s even processed that Patho’s moving. He sees the briefest glint of metal in Patho’s hand- some kind of blade- and something warm presses against his legs. He looks down and- oh. Those are his intestines. He’s looking down at his intestines, spilling from a neat slice that Patho has made through his abdomen.

All the air leaves Bravo’s lungs in a strangled gasp. He has a second to look up at Patho, who stares back impassively, those mismatched eyes cold and hard as stone, before Patho reaches forward with his other arm- the robot arm, easily pulled from Bravo’s grasp- and he plunges it into Bravo’s open body, grabs a fistful of viscera, and pulls-

Bravo sees a spray of red, then everything goes black.

He wakes up on the floor of his bedroom.

Oh. So that happened. Residual adrenaline crashes over Bravo like a bucket of cold water. Quickly he glances down, finding no sign of injury. This does little to calm him. His breath comes in short, ragged bursts, and his hands are shaking as he scrambles for his communicator.

Bravo was slain by Patho.

What the hell.

Putting his communicator away, Bravo forces himself to take a few slow, deep breaths. Okay. He respawned in his room. He’s fine. The respawn anchor is now missing one little wedge of light. It almost seems to mock him, like a solitary eye. That’s less fine. It’s been so long since his last death, damn it, he thought he was done with the random murder stuff!

As he gathers his composure, rising to his feet, he finds that his shock is quickly giving way to anger. He doesn’t care how smart or famous Patho is, he’s not going to take this laying down. Hels players might be fine with casually killing someone every time they get on each other’s nerves, but Bravo isn’t.

All he’s asking for is some basic fucking humanity.

Grabbing his spare sword out of his ender chest, Bravo smacks the button on the wall and darts out the door. His heartbeat is pounding in his ears. His feet swiftly take him back to the lab, the route subconsciously memorized after all the time he’s spent in this damn place, and he’s so angry he almost rips his keycard up as he swipes in.

“Hey!” Bravo shouts, rushing into the lab. “What’re you…”

He trails off. Patho is standing not far from where Bravo left him, casually talking to Atlas. His hands are in his pockets, his body language totally relaxed. There’s a splatter of blood across the front of his jacket. Atlas is smiling pleasantly and nodding.

Tyrannicide and Phantonym are hunched over the lab benches, comparing notes. H8R is mopping up the blood on the floor. Bravo’s blood. They all look up at his entrance, expressions disinterested, before turning back to what they were doing.

It’d be terribly unnerving, if it weren’t so infuriating.

Bravo storms right up to Atlas and Patho. “What’s going on here?” he demands furiously.

“Ah, there you are.” Atlas turns to him with a beseeching look. “Mr. Patho has agreed to stay and help work on the portal for a bit longer,” he informs Bravo, as if this is gracious news.

“Oh, has he?” Bravo rounds on Patho with a snarl. His grip tightens around his sword.

Patho shrugs, not at all concerned by Bravo’s very clear threat. “Your friend’s very persuasive.”

“Um, excuse me?” Bravo gives an incredulous laugh, made harsh with anger. “So- so are we just not gonna address what happened?!”

Patho chuckles. “Okay, okay. Here, I’ll use my words this time.” He stares directly into Bravo’s eyes, his cybernetic pupil constricting to match his natural one. “Don’t touch me again, or I’ll fucking kill you. Got that?”

The hair on the back of Bravo’s neck stands up. He can’t even respond, his voice dying in his throat.

Atlas takes the opportunity to grab Bravo by the arm. “Mr. Bravo, a word, please,” he says, steering Bravo away.

Bravo’s too stunned to argue. But once they’re at the other side of the lab, he finally finds his voice again. “Wh- are you kidding me with this?!” he snaps, not bothering to whisper. “This guy shows up out of nowhere after months and months of waiting, sneaks in unannounced, and then decides to fucking shank me just for grabbing his arm? And- and you’re okay with this? You actually want to keep working with him?”

“I do regret that such an unfortunate incident occurred,” Atlas says somberly, as if Patho killing Bravo in cold blood was some kind of freak accident. “I meant it when I said Hels Tek strives to be better than the rest of Hels in that regard. But you must understand that this is simply the way things are here. And with certain recent… revelations… realize that it goes beyond culture or tradition or just simple crassness. It’s in our nature, our very data itself.” He gives Bravo a knowing look. “Some are better at fighting that instinctual coding than others, but none of us will ever operate at the same level as an overworlder.”

Bravo pauses, his anger starting to fade. He hadn’t thought about it like that. He’d assumed most Hels players acted the way they did just because they could get away with it. Hels is a world with no rules and no admin to keep order, so common decency falls by the wayside. But he’d thought, he’d thought, that surely they were capable of being better? That there’d be some innate sense of humanity, deep down inside them, that would guide them if only they cared enough to listen.

But now. Now, it seems as if they aren’t capable of it. Not just because they don’t know any better, but because something inside of them is actively rebelling against it, spurring them on to ever more horrible, violent deeds. Bravo’s always felt he was different from Hels players, but now he has actual scientific evidence supporting the fact.

It’s… almost comforting.

“I… I guess that’s true,” Bravo says uncertainly. He puts his sword away, folding his arms. “But I mean- come on, do we really have to keep him around?”

Atlas smiles. “Patho is one of the most brilliant minds in all of Hels. He practically invented the field of data analysis. He is likely the only player who will be able to help us open a portal in a matter of years rather than decades. With your assistance, I’m certain we can figure it out.” He puts a hand on Bravo’s shoulder, and his grin sharpens. “I’m still willing to uphold my end of our deal. Are you?”

The reality of the situation sinks in slowly, a cold dread.

Bravo’s spawn is set here via respawn anchor. He’s outnumbered and outmatched. This is a secure facility that would be near impossible to escape from. With what Patho’s learned, they don’t need Bravo’s cooperation to create a functioning portal. They just need him, his physical data. And he knows they’d be willing to hold him here against his will to get what they want, to keep him trapped like some kind of experiment, like an animal.

Atlas is offering him a chance to not do that. To work with them willingly. And to maybe, just maybe, still go home at the end of all this. He doesn’t know if the portal will require his continuous presence to work. He doesn’t know if Atlas will let him leave, if he’s their only way out of Hels. But it’s a chance.

The only chance he’s got.

“Yeah,” Bravo says, forcing a smile. “Yeah, of course. I mean, we’ve come this far, right?”

“I’m so glad to hear it,” Atlas says, releasing his grip on Bravo’s shoulder. “Now, play nice with Mr. Patho. Without his help, you just might be stuck here forever. Understand?”

Bravo’s throat tightens. “Loud and clear.”

~*~

“So I’ve got the blueprints done,” Patho announces nonchalantly, dropping a roll of paper on the table. “Have a look.”

Atlas quickly scoops up the blueprint, moving aside cups and bowls to make space. Bravo fights back a scowl and keeps eating his lunch.

The other scientists in the cafeteria have taken notice, whispering to each other excitedly and casting not-so-subtle looks at the portal team’s table. Patho’s arrival yesterday caused quite the stir, but this is the first time many of the other scientists are actually seeing him- though Bravo’s definitely noticed a few players snooping by the door to the portal lab.

After studying the blueprint for a moment, Atlas raises his eyebrows. “I must admit, I wasn’t expecting such a compact design,” he says. His tone is a bit mixed; he’s clearly impressed with Patho’s work, but is irritated that the solution has turned out to be so simple. “Is this really all it will take?”

Patho nods. He seems content just to stand by their table with his hands in his pockets, making no move to sit down with them. “For the most part, yeah. I mean, you know, I’m not sure what kind of power source this thing will need yet but the data processing itself isn’t bad.”

“Power source?” Tyrannicide chimes in, looking over the blueprint with knitted brows. “What do you mean? Isn’t opening a portal like punching open a doorway? Once it’s open, it should stay open.”

“Well, normally, yeah,” Patho says, “but this portal isn’t supposed to exist. We can force the portal to open a door for us by feeding it coordinates, but it’ll be updating every tick. And every time it updates, it’ll check its input and output coordinates, and once it tries to process the uh, the coordinates from Hels, it’ll crash. Because, you know, portals aren’t supposed to exist in Hels. But, if we keep sending our own updates to it, like in a constant stream of power, it’ll keep resetting the checker. Sort of like an update suppressor. And um, that way, it’ll remain open and stable.” He taps the side of his head. “Aha.”

Small murmurs and exclamations of realization and agreement around the table. Bravo sets his bowl of mushroom stew down with a little more force than necessary.

“You said that all we needed to open a portal was my player data,” he accuses.

“To ignite it, yeah, but not stabilize it.” Patho makes a noncommittal noise. “It’s like…imagine you’ve got this door, right? And you want the door to stay open. But there’s, like, a big windstorm on the other side, constantly trying to slam the door shut. So you have to provide your own opposing force to hold the door open. Too little, and you won’t be able to stop the door from closing. Too much, and you’ll blow the door off its hinges, and the uh, the doorway will collapse. It’s gotta be just the right strength. And uh, it’s gotta be 100% reliable, too. No stalling or malfunctions.”

Bravo exhales through his nose. “Wonderful.” 

Atlas puts a hand on Bravo’s arm. “I’m sure we’ll find a solution when we get to that point,” he says mildly. “There are plenty of options for powering redstone, should be fairly simple.”

Grumbling, Bravo shifts over on the bench so he can see the blueprints a little better. He scans the diagrams with careful attention, from the portal frame to the rows of data processors all the way down to the input chamber, where he sees what’s clearly supposed to be a player standing on-

“Is that a redstone ore block?” Bravo asks, taken aback.

“Yeah?” Patho quirks an eyebrow. “What, don’t you guys have any redstone ore in this place?”

Bravo snorts. “Uh, no. There’s like, a whole system of double chests filled with redstone blocks if you-”

“No, no good, you need the ore,” Patho says, shaking his head.

Bravo frowns. “Why?”

“There’s a neat little trick you can do with redstone ore,” Patho explains. “It like, lights up when you step on it, right? Turns out it’s actually reading your presence. Like a player detector.”

“Wait, really?” Phantonym asks, leaning forward in her seat. “I thought the particles were simply reacting to kinetic energy.”

“That’s a pretty common assumption, but there’s more to it than that.” Patho idly scratches at the side of his mask. “To keep it short, something about redstone in its raw, unmodified form allows it to, like, take in and process information at a higher level. Of course, we ruin that when we mine it into dust. So you can either use a super complex player detector that’ll take weeks to build and cover up the entire floorspace of this lab… or we can use a block of redstone ore. It’ll be able to read Bravo’s data and transform it into a signal that we can feed to the portal- after it goes through a data processor, of course.”

Bravo is begrudgingly impressed. However, he can’t help but jab, “If redstone ore is that useful, why don’t you have any?”

“Oh, I do,” Patho replies matter-of-factly. “I keep plenty in my ender chest. But like, I don’t really use my own materials on consults like this, so…”

“Right,” Bravo says flatly, less impressed. This guy won’t even give up a single block of redstone ore for a job? What a jerk.

Atlas rolls the blueprint back up into a neat scroll. “Well, this is just splendid work, Mr. Patho,” he gushes. Then he grins at the rest of them. “Anyone up for some mining?”

~*~

After a few days of work, the lab looks like a completely different place.

Several chests have been stacked up and stocked with all the materials Patho’s design requires. In the meantime, he’s laid out where everything is going to go using outlines made of redstone dust. The lab benches are littered with blueprints- Atlas had the good sense to make plenty of copies- and pages of notes.

(There’s also a new wooden platform up in the rafters, only the bottom of it visible from below. Bravo thinks that might be where Patho is actually sleeping, strangely enough. It’s not like they don’t have any spare rooms.)

Once all the preparations have been made, Patho runs the team through the details of his design. The portal is straightforward enough; just an obsidian frame with a redstone line feeding into it. But after that, the outlines quickly become more complicated.

“So, there’s a lot of information in a player’s data, right?” Patho starts. “If we tried to feed it all into the uh, the portal, it would completely overload it. Like, it might try and do some crazy things. So we’ll keep it simple by giving it only the coordinates we want it to open up at. But in order to get those coordinates, we’ve gotta take all that raw data and filter it to get what we want. Aha.” He gestures vaguely at the redstone outlines. “That’s what this is for.”

Bravo squints at the outlines. “And- and what’s this repeater circuit for?”

Patho shrugs. “Well, right now, the coordinates we get from your ID tag lead directly to Tango. Like, the coordinates would open a portal up directly on top of him. Since you guys are trying to get something back from him, I imagine you’ll wanna be able to sneak up on him, right?” A knowing look glints in his eye. “So this circuit is gonna add about fifty blocks of distance in the X axis. Just so you’re not right in front of him when you come through the portal. That way, you keep the uh, the element of surprise.”

“Oh, I see,” Atlas murmurs approvingly. “Very clever.” 

Bravo folds his arms. “Unless Tango happens to be standing fifty blocks away from a cliff,” he points out.

Patho’s eyes slant upward in what might be a grin. “Guess you’re just gonna have to take that chance,” he says simply, before moving on. “So uh, after the signal passes through this circuit, it’ll-”

The lab door flings open with a metallic clunk.

Dr. Clear sweeps into the lab, hastily shoving his ID card back in his coat pocket. He doesn’t even look over or acknowledge them at all as he beelines towards the stack of chests. Mumbling under his breath, he pops open the nearest chest and starts rummaging around in it.

Patho blinks at the unexpected interruption. Atlas looks like he might have an aneurysm.

“Excuse me, Dr. Clear?” Atlas calls, his voice and smile incredibly strained.

“Huh?” Clear pauses, glancing over his shoulder. He seems mildly surprised to see them, like he didn’t realize anyone else was there. Typical.

Atlas folds his arms behind his back. “Is there any particular reason you’re interrupting us while we work with Mr. Patho?”

Clear stares dimly at them. “Who?”

If Bravo’s not mistaken, Patho’s face twitches a little at that.

“Mr. Patho,” Atlas stresses. “You know, Patho’s Lair?”

“Patho Slair?” Clear cocks his head to the side. “Huh. Slair. Kinda sounds like stair. Anyone ever call ya that? Patho Stair?”

Bravo manages not to laugh, but it’s a near thing. Atlas looks like he could strangle Clear.

“Anyways.” Clear goes back to digging through the chest. “Don’t you worry none, just ‘ave ta grab somethin’...”

“Is your own lab not sufficiently stocked?” Atlas asks pointedly.

That gets Clear’s full attention. He steps back from the chest, letting it slam shut, and looks around. “Oh. This ain’t me lab. Right, then.” Without another word, he turns on his heel and exists just as quickly as he’d come, leaving the lab in baffled silence.

Atlas turns to Patho with an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry for the interruption, Mr. Patho. Dr. Clear isn’t exactly-”

“It’s fine,” Patho chuckles, waving him off. “Let’s uh, let’s get back to work.”

‘Yes sir, Mr. Stair,’ Bravo thinks to himself.

~*~

“Okay, everybody,” Patho calls. “This is gonna be a simple test.” 

Bravo sighs impatiently. Putting together the actual redstone for the portal generator took much longer than it ought to have. For someone with such an impressive reputation, Patho barely contributed to the building process, the real laying-down-blocks part. Instead, he mostly supervised and criticized. Apparently, he’s very particular about how his redstone works.

It wasn’t made any easier by the number of times random scientists would stop by the lab with flimsy excuses just to talk to Patho. They’d always end up asking him to explain the project, which he was always happy to do (because he’s a massive show off, too big for his combat boots) so everything would grind to a halt.

They haven’t even properly hooked up the portal itself yet, as Patho insisted on testing their data processing unit beforehand. And of course, Bravo would voice his complaints if it weren’t for the little issue of Atlas not-so-subtly reminding him that the only way to get what he wants is by cooperating with Patho.

So. Here they are.

“All we’re gonna do is have Bravo stand on the ore block,” Patho continues, “and see how the data reads out. Just to make sure everything’s accounted for, so like, nothing extra accidentally travels to the portal. If we’ve done everything correctly, we’ll find the coordinates properly counted in these hopper clocks.”

Tyrannicide, Phantonym, and H8r are standing by with notepads at the ready. Atlas is watching from the side with a smile that might’ve been meant to be encouraging, if Bravo didn’t know him better.

Patho glances over at Bravo. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Bravo pushes down a sudden surge of irritation (as if he’s the one they’re waiting on) and steps onto the redstone ore block. Particles gather at his feet as the veins of ore light up. He watches the signal travel along the redstone line, like a lit fuse, and enter the data processing series.

Dispenser clocks tick and observers flash. The signal makes it way through the circuit before reaching the end of the line and fizzling out. The other scientists wait with bated breath as Patho checks the input coordinate hoppers. His expression betrays nothing.

“Alright,” he says finally, “so uh, the hoppers all filled to exactly two and a half stacks before locking. Can anyone tell me where the problem is?”

All three scientists’ hands go up. Bravo groans and puts his face in his hands.

~*~

“Okay, that’s ready to go.” Patho straightens up, dusting the redstone off his hands. “Bravo, stand on the redstone ore.”

“Alright, I’m standin’,” Bravo huffs.

Patho turns to the others. “I wanna stress again, if this works, the portal that generates is not gonna be stable. No one is going in or out of it, okay? I mean, like, we might see it only for a couple seconds, if we’re lucky. Everyone ready?”

Enthusiastic nods from the sidelines.

“Alright, here goes.” Patho stoops over and hits the button.

A piston extends, pushing a redstone block out to complete the circuit. The signal from Bravo darts across the newly created path, into the data processor. They all wait with bated breath as the signal inches closer to the portal frame-

The temperature drops, a static charge filling the air. Light flashes in the portal frame for just a second, just long enough for Bravo to process the color of it (or colors, rather; an ever-changing rainbow) before there’s a loud crack, and it’s gone, leaving behind an empty frame.

For a moment, the room is filled with stunned silence.

“Amazing!”

“I can’t believe-”

“Did you see that?”

Bravo finally finds his voice. “Oh, finally.” He jumps off the redstone ore block, pumping a fist in the air. Excitement courses through him like electricity, and the relief is overwhelming. “Yes! We’ve got a portal, we’ve got a portal- oh my gosh, this is fantastic!”

Atlas shakes his head. “We’ve got the means to create a portal,” he corrects, though he can’t hide how pleased he is.

“Yup.” Patho nods, his satisfied gaze sweeping over the redstone. “Now all that’s left is to set up a sufficient power source to maintain the portal once it’s open. Can’t overdo it, though, or the whole thing will blow up.”

Bravo exhales slowly. “Right, can’t forget about that tiny little detail.”

“I have some ideas,” Atlas says with a grin. “Rest assured, we’re in the home stretch now.”

~*~

One day, they wake up to find Patho gone.

Just disappeared in the middle of night, without so much of a word to anyone. Atlas speaks with Alisker over whispers for a while, but the crime boss has no further information and insists there’s nothing he can do. Evidently, Patho’s decided that they’re far enough along as to no longer require his assistance, and whatever business he has elsewhere in Hels is more important to him than witnessing the creation of a portal.

Bravo really doesn’t get it. But he can’t say he’s not happy about it.

Good riddance.

~*~

“How’s it looking?” Bravo asks, straining to see without leaving his redstone ore block.

Phantonym makes a noncommittal noise. “Still not strong enough.”

In their search for the perfect power source, they’ve decided to start simple. Redstone torches and levers weren’t enough, so now they’ve moved on to a full redstone block, hooked up to the frame with a bit of dust. After that wasn’t sufficient, they hooked up multiple redstone blocks around the portal before finally just building a complete frame around it. But it seems even that isn’t providing the power they need to keep the portal open for more than a couple seconds.

“Alright,” Atlas says, “tear it out. Cross redstone blocks off the list.”

Bravo steps off the ore block with a sigh. “Well, what now?”

“Hey,” Tyrannicide says thoughtfully, scanning his notepad, “Patho said that redstone ore is more powerful than the mined stuff, right? What if we…?”

~*~

“Hit the deck!”

The light inside the portal frame is swirling madly now, almost violently as the air fills with an electric humming. Bravo dives behind a lab bench just as an ear-splitting boom shakes the entire lab.

Once everything is still and quiet, Bravo carefully peeks his head back out. His stomach drops.

There’s now a large crater where their entire portal machine used to be. Everything’s gone; the circuits, the data processor, the hoppers. All that’s left is the obsidian frame, floating above the newly-formed hole as concrete blocks and miscellaneous redstone items litter the ground- including the redstone ore block they used to try and power it.

“Damn it,” H8R swears. “Overloaded the circuit.”

Phantonym rounds on Tyrannicide with a furious snarl. “You idiot!”

“I was just-”

“Stop it,” Atlas interrupts sharply, glowering at them from behind his shades. “We knew this was a possibility. Go get another copy of the blueprints, we need to rebuild.”

‘I’m in hell,’ Bravo thinks. ‘I’m literally in hell.’

~*~

“And now, we- we’ve gotta do all this work to find the perfect power source to keep the portal open. Not too much, not too little, but just right. Can’t use any kinda mob power because that can fluctuate, and if we’re off by even one tick the whole thing will collapse. After all the years of research that went into this project, the last step is just to power the dang thing and it’s taking forever!”

Clear hums, attention completely focused on the flying machine he’s working on. “Mmm, yeah, sounds tricky.”

“And- and the worst part,” Bravo continues, angrily pacing back and forth, “is that I’d only need it open for a couple of seconds to get back home! But because of this stupid deal with Atlas, I have to hang around until it’s stable enough for them to track down Tango.”

“Track down Tango?” Clear repeats, quirking a brow. He snorts. “Well, that’s really quite simple. Tango Tek’s in the south wing, innit?”

Bravo stops pacing. “What?”

“The blaze farm,” Clear says, squinting at one of the observers. “S’what Atlas said, anyhow. Now uh, d’ya mind handing me that-”

“Wait, wait, wait, hold up. A blaze farm?” Bravo whirls around, kneeling beside Clear and grabbing his shoulders. “You guys don’t have a blaze farm here, Atlas said the spawning conditions weren’t right for them.”

“For who?” Clear asks absently.

“For blaze!”

“What blaze?” 

“Wh- I dunno!” Bravo pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. This is why he doesn’t often hang around Clear. “You said something about blaze, and- and Tango, and the south wing-”

“The south wing?” Clear makes a dismissive noise. “Oh, that’s under renovation.”

Bravo pauses. “... still? I… huh.”

He remembers being told the south wing was under renovation when he first got to Hels Tek, years ago. He didn’t think much of it at the time. But he can’t imagine what sort of renovations would take so long to complete, for a facility as well-supplied and well-staffed as Hels Tek.

That’s… suspicious.

Clear coughs into his sleeve. “Right. Now uh, would ya mind handin’ me that piston?”

~*~

Bravo stands in front of the door to the south wing, hesitating.

Squinting through the slats in the door, he can see the hallway beyond it entirely unchanged from the last time he stood here, years ago. The uneasy feeling in his stomach grows stronger with every passing minute. But really, he’s not the one in the wrong here; if Atlas is keeping something hidden from him, after the years they’ve spent working together, it can’t be for any innocent reason. He tightens his grip on his ID keycard, taking a steadying breath, before swiping it into the dispenser.

The keycard is quickly spat back out from under the floor, but the iron door doesn’t open.

Oh, that’s a bad sign. He doesn’t have access to this doorway. Swallowing, Bravo puts the keycard away and pulls out his pickaxe. He knows there’s redstone in the walls that’ll notify the security system if any door is broken, but he doesn’t have a choice. He’ll have to be quick.

Bravo breaks down the door, hastily placing it back up behind him before darting down the hallway. There are more iron doors lining the hall on either side; he quickly peers through these only to find them empty. Moving on, he finally stops at the final door at the end of the hallway.

There’s a sign next to this one that reads, ‘Tango Tek.’

Bravo’s heart is hammering against his ribcage. This is his last chance to back out, to claim that he was just curious but didn’t see anything besides empty rooms. To go back to their tenuous partnership, rife with tension and unspoken words, fighting to keep his head above the choppy water.

He lifts his pickaxe.

The room beyond the door is dimly lit by a couple carelessly placed torches, flickering against the checkered floor. Three of the walls are completely bare. The last one, facing Bravo, is acting as a facade for some sort of redstone contraption.

It’s a small glass enclosure, just big enough for a single player to stand in. The floor is made of soul sand, from which vines of wither roses sprout and curl haphazardly within the glass chamber. Among them are two short chains, as if broken, that hang limply at either side. The glass itself is stained with a dry splatter of something dark. There’s a dispenser embedded at one side, and a drained respawn anchor on the other. Three hoppers are arranged above the chamber, presumably connected to long hopper lines hidden behind the wall.

It hits Bravo suddenly. He’s looking at a farm; a kind of farm the likes of which he’s never seen before. But Clear had said there was a blaze farm-

“Well, well, well.”

Bravo whirls around, swapping his pickaxe for his sword.

Atlas is standing in the doorway with his arms folded neatly behind him, a wide smile fixed on his face. The light from the hallway behind him reflects in his shades, obscuring his eyes from view, his shadow looming long across the floor.

“I figured it was only a matter of time before Dr. Clear let something slip. I do wish you had come to me first.” His tone is deathly calm. “Though I suppose it’s my fault for leaving the farm in this state.”

Bravo raises his sword. “What is this?” he demands, though his voice comes out more fearful than angry. “Explain, now!”

Atlas seems unbothered as he steps fully into the room. “This was the best blaze farm Hels had ever seen, powered by a single blaze hybrid.”

“What are you- oh.” Bravo inhales sharply. “You mean Tango. He- he was in the farm? You put him in a farm?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t been fully honest with you, Mr. Bravo,” Atlas says with a rueful grin. “You see, Tango did work here for a couple years, but he wasn’t exactly gainfully employed. It took much trial and error, but eventually we were able to construct a fully automatic and extremely efficient blaze farm, just in the space you see here. It was a work of art, really. My crowning achievement.”

Bravo’s mind is reeling. “Tango never stole anything from Hels Tek, did he?” he realizes. “He just escaped. This whole time, you’ve been trying to track him down to catch him again, to put him back in-”

“Finally putting it all together now, are we?” Atlas hums. “Yes, the plan has always been to recapture Tango. He’s a clever devil; he waited until his respawn anchor was drained, and then drowned himself in his own blood.”

Horror seizes Bravo. He glances back at the enclosure, at that dark smear on the glass-

“What we never figured out, though,” Atlas muses, “was how he created that portal. That much of the story is true. It was solely his actions, his creation of the portal to… trade places, in a sense. I haven’t the foggiest idea how he knew about you and your connection, but clearly, he was able to utilize it. And once he had the chance, he took it.”

Bravo’s breath rings shallowly in his ears. It’s so much to take in- he never really knew how to feel about his missing counterpart. Second-hand accounts from the scientists didn’t paint the kindest picture, and he always knew Tango was responsible for getting him stranded here, but… 

“You should be happy, Mr. Bravo,” Atlas tells him earnestly. “This is good news for you. I know you’ve been worried about whether or not I’ll uphold my end of the bargain, once the portal is made. You’re worried that I’ll try to keep you here, against your will. But now I can tell you for certain that you don’t have to worry about that.”

“Oh, really?” Bravo spits. “And- and why is that?”

Atlas holds his hands up. “All I want is to get Tango back, so I can continue my work. And my work is here. My entire life’s aspirations, my purpose, is here.” His eyes flash from behind his shades. “The rest of the universe can rot for all I care. Once I have what I want, you can go home and leave this whole mess behind you, forever. You have my word.”

Bravo narrows his eyes. “Wha- why should I believe anything you say?”

“Because once we have a stable portal, you are of no further use to me,” Atlas answers cooly. “I have no reason to keep you here.”

That throws Bravo for a moment. He frowns, doubtful. “Not even as insurance? I mean, in case something happens to the portal?”

Atlas tilts his head. “To keep you here against your will is to risk you breaking out and causing further damage in retaliation. We’d also have to put in the time and effort to sustain you with virtually no benefit. No, better to let you go on your way. And in any case, I only need it open long enough to recapture Tango.”

Bravo swallows. “But if I help you catch him, he… he’ll be in that farm because of me.”

Atlas shrugs. “What does it matter? Tango is a mob hybrid- not a true player like us. Before we captured him, all he ever did was cause chaos and suffering wherever he went. At least at Hels Tek he was good for something.”

Bravo hesitates. “I don’t-”

“Besides,” Atlas continues smoothly, “it’s evident he didn’t give the same consideration to you. He took the first chance he had to switch places. For all he knew, you might’ve been a blaze hybrid as well. He had no issue sentencing you to his fate.”

It’s like a knife twisting in Bravo’s side. “You… you don’t know that,” he says, but it sounds weak even to his own ears.

Atlas gives a bitter laugh. “Oh, come now,” he says harshly. “Do you really think he’d feel any sort of loyalty to you? Why, because you happen to have some data in common? From everything you’ve seen and experienced at the hands of Hels players, do you really think we’re capable of feeling anything besides greed and spite and hatred? Oh, you are lost. You’re letting your overworld sensibilities get the better of your sound judgement.”

Atlas spreads his arms wide, black lab coat swishing around him, his grin manic. “It’s a dog-eat-dog world out here, Mr. Bravo,” he declares. “This is the nature of Hels. It always has been, and always will be. We were always going to hurt each other, to use each other- it’s how we were fucking made. There is nothing you can do to change that. Tango belongs here, and you don’t. Whatever else happens is none of your fault or concern.”

Bravo’s grip on his sword wavers. He knows he shouldn’t help Atlas. Deep down, he knows. Living in a farm must be a miserable existence for a player, one that he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy.

Except…

Is it really the same if the player isn’t really human? If the player is hardly more than a monster? Hels players are different, and mob hybrids even more so. Tango didn’t care about what would happen to Bravo when he swapped their places, didn’t care that he’d be stranding Bravo in this terrible prison forever. If he cared, he would’ve come for Bravo by now. But he wouldn’t risk his own safety, his own freedom, in order to save Bravo.

So why should Bravo? Why should he risk his one chance to go home just to protect an evil doppelgänger who couldn’t care less about him? Why should he have to keep suffering in this world as punishment for crimes he didn’t commit?

Tango’s had nearly ten years outside of Hels- ten years that he stole from Bravo. There’s no getting those back. But Bravo can make sure it ends here; he can finally right this wrong and get back to his life.

“Now,” Atlas says lowly, having once again regained his composure. He looks at Bravo over the brim of his shades. “Are you going to help me open a portal, or not?”

Bravo takes a final look at the empty farm. Then he puts his sword away.

“I’m in.”

~*~

Bravo stares at the portal in shocked silence.

It’d only taken a few more days of testing for them to find the right power source. Blaze powder, of all things. Now that they aren’t hiding the existence of their nearly-infinite blaze rod stockpile from Bravo, Atlas suggested they try it. And lo and behold, it turned out to give off the perfect amount of power.

They’ve set up a circuit of glass tubing around the portal frame, inside of which the blaze powder flows along in a steady stream. The constant movement provides endless updates to the portal, preventing it from ever catching up to the fact that it shouldn’t exist.

The portal ignited right away, lighting up with a mixture of red, yellow, and green. The colors are holding constant rather than shifting and changing like they did in prior attempts, and Bravo can feel with certainty that Tango lies somewhere beyond it.

“Okay, Mr. Bravo,” Atlas murmurs, watching the portal intently. “Go ahead.”

Holding his breath, Bravo steps off the redstone ore block. The portal doesn’t change, colors still lazily swirling about in its frame. He lets out a sigh of relief.

Atlas nods. “Alright, shut it off.”

Tyrannicide gawks at him. “But it’s stable-”

“Now.”

He quickly shuts the portal off, hitting the button that pulls the redstone block back out of the circuit. The signal dies, and the portal extinguishes.

Atlas rounds on Tyrannicide with a tight grin. “Need I remind you that we don’t know who else is in the world that Tango’s currently inhabiting? The last thing we need is one of them to discover the portal sitting idly. We’d completely lose our advantage.”

“Right. Sorry, sir,” Tyrannicide mutters.

Bravo stares longingly at the unlit portal frame. It was right there. He could’ve reached out and touched it…

“Chin up, Mr. Bravo,” Atlas says mildly, putting a hand on Bravo’s shoulder. “Now the final preparations can begin. Everyone, take the rest of the night off. Meet me in the conference room first thing tomorrow morning to discuss our plan of attack.”

“Yes, sir.”

Atlas looks at Bravo out of the corner of his eye, smiling. “You’ll be home soon.”

Bravo nods. “Yeah, I know.”

~*~

“Are you ready?” Atlas asks, his quiet voice almost lost in the anxious chatter of the lab.

Bravo exhales slowly. “Yeah.”

“Have everything?”

“Yup.” Bravo’s checked his inventory no less than five times in the last three minutes.

“Remember the plan?”

“In my sleep.” Like they haven’t run through it enough times over the last few days.

“Good. Said your goodbyes?”

Bravo snorts. “Oh, yeah, sure. It was super heartfelt. Tears were shed.”

“Mmm.” Atlas is unamused. “You know, I recall a certain blaze hybrid liked to use sarcasm, too…”

“Not helping.”

“Just stick to the plan, and everything will be fine. Once you step through this portal, you never have to return to this place ever again. Help us with this one thing, and we’ll be out of your hair forever.”

“I know. Let’s- let’s get a move on, huh?” 

“Very well.” Atlas lifts his voice to address the rest of the room. “Attention, everyone. We’re activating the portal now. Everyone in formation. Yes, yes, you too- no, you’re following Dr. Tyrannicide in, remember? No, not you- you’re all with Dr. Phantonym. There you go.”

Bravo makes a noncommittal noise. “Not instilling a lotta confidence…”

Atlas gives him a dry look. “Alisker didn’t select them for their intelligence, but they’ll serve us well when it comes to dealing with Tango.”

“Right.”

Atlas turns away. “Dr. H8R, start the countdown, if you please.”

“Yes, sir. Portal launch in ten… nine… eight-”

“Oh shit. Oh fuck.” It’s starting to sink in. Bravo’s leaving- he’s really, really leaving Hels.

“-seven… six-”

“Having second thoughts?” Atlas asks, his tone almost teasing.

“- five…”

Bravo scoffs. “What, you kidding? I can’t-”

“... four… three-”

“-wait to get out of here.”

“- two…” 

Atlas hums. “About time, isn’t it?”

“... one.”

“You’re telling me,” Bravo breathes.

“Initiate.”

H8R presses the button. The piston extends, pushing the redstone block into the circuit. Bravo’s signal courses along the redstone line like it has every other time they tested this, filtering through the data processor and sending coordinates to the portal.

The frame ignites. A familiar tricolor light floods the room; swirls of red, yellow, and green. A hushed silence falls over the room as Bravo slowly, carefully, steps off the redstone ore block. The portal holds- of course it does, they’ve tested it enough. He faces the portal, heart pounding, tears inexplicably gathering at the corners of his eyes.

“Good luck, Mr. Bravo,” Atlas says with a smile.

Bravo takes a deep breath and steps into the portal.

~*~

Somewhere in Double Life, a player steps out of a portal.

The sunlight is nearly blinding. For a second all he can do is stand there, blinking, one arm braced on the obsidian frame behind him as his eyes slowly adjust. The portal’s still stable, he notes absently; on this side, the light inside the frame is blood red.

He takes in his surroundings. He’s standing in some kind of field- wheat, he realizes belatedly. It’s been so long since he’s seen this much wheat. It’s growing along rolling hills that are otherwise covered in lush green grass, occasionally dotted with great big oak trees. The blue sky above him is peppered with fluffy white clouds. A gentle breeze plays with his hair, and the sun is shining high above him.

It’s beautiful.

He can hear animals nearby; he turns his head and sees a pasture filled with cows, another with sheep and goats. There’s one with pigs, and a little coop with clucking coming from inside. Somewhere nearby, a horse neighs loudly. He scans the horizon and sees a winding path that cuts through the wheat field, leading up to a house- some kind of modest, rustic farmhouse. A ranch, maybe.

Taking a shaky breath, he pulls out his communicator to check which world he’s on. As he does, he catches the last message just as it fades from chat.

Bravo has joined the game.

~*~

[inocyde]

"The Husk" terminal of Jormara 25x35

In the north of Jormerun... in fact in the north at all, at the antipodes of all civilization, at the end of the world, you'll find the Jormara ice pack. A wild, inhospitable desert of ice. An expanse of shifting, all-consuming, ever-changing pack ice. Instead of fine sand dunes, you'll find titanic icebergs frozen in time or floating in deathly calm along the shores of this sea of ice.

In this labyrinth of frozen teeth and fangs, you'll sometimes catch a glimpse of great black columns silhouetted against the blizzard. These gigantic peaks of basalt rock are Jormara's only fixed points, the summits of lost mountains. Dating back to a time when civilizations and men still slept the benevolent sleep that preceded their birth. The banished gods is the name given by the few inhabitants of this white hell to the mountains that rip through the depths of this frozen ocean.

If your eyes see one of these black towers emerge, after weeks of travel in the blind blizzard, you'll be able to contemplate the flickering, fragile glow of hundreds of torches on all sides of the peak, staking out the body and entrails of the rock. If you get any closer, you'll be able to hear the song of these gods, a symphony of clatters and sharp blows. The pickaxes of dozens of miners echoing in the wind.

That's why there's life here, barely surviving, eating the snow and chasing all forms of heat so as not to die out. The treasure of the dead gods, the heritage of an entire people, glory and wealth for deserters and adventurers. Mithril.

Veins of mithril almost outcropping! Mines so abundant and rich that sometimes you only have to stoop to pick it up. This is the honey that attracts bees of all races and all countries to this great chase: the mithril hunt of the Jormara ice floe.

That's where you set off, hoping with all your soul not to end up like all those pioneers, frozen for eternity on their knees in the middle of nothing, frozen with their hope and their life's fortune packed in their bag.

After two months by boat, you arrive at the furthest point from inhabited land. Zigzagging between icebergs that have become mountains, you can't go any further. You're at the gates of Jormara, one of the departure camps for the Great Devourer.

Welcome to the Husk, home to 3 and a half people and a few sled dogs.

On the menu for the year: fish in fish fat, all cooked in melted ice.

It's best to book your bed in advance if you don't want to brave the polar night and enrich the next day's ordinary.

Make the most of the fire fed by the remains of ships that weren't lucky enough to arrive, like yours, in one piece.

As you watch your nave sail away into the dawn, you'll realize that you are now a resident of Jormara. Your wealth, perhaps, your prison, surely, and your grave, no doubt.

-Sileas Kel Pionner of Jormara

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[teratocrat]

When I first came to Ajax, when I stepped out of the red-and-yellow shuttle to plant my feet in the planet's sand, what I noticed before anything else was how pale the buildings are. On Mars, even in the warmest and most equatorial provinces, human habitation is universally black (or its best approximation), built from fulcrete and basalt and painted wood, to absorb the warmth of the sun against the bitter cold. On Ajax, far closer to its sun than Mars or even Earth, and with its 39-hour days, they must build for the opposite, towers of white or reflective silver with burrowed basements and sub-basements and sub-sub-basements underneath. The Ajactes live in cities the color of bone. The second thing I noticed, the thing that probably any other person would notice first, was the surfeit of salt in the air. I noticed this because it stung my eyes, like the threat of tears. As it happens, Ajax's oceans are significantly more saline than Earth's or Emieni's, and even its topsoil is a kind of hardpan composed of sand and dust cemented in a salt matrix. For the first several centuries of its habitiforming, it hosted an extremely carefully managed tight ecosystem of halophilic algae, bacteria and lichen painstakingly shipped from Earth and Mars, fed upon by a few species of brine shrimp. Gradually, the Hesperides introduced more species as the previous ones found their foothold: turtleweed and saltbush and cordgrasses, periwinkles and blue crabs and flamingos, suites of genetically-modified mangroves whose knees whistled in the morning and evening hours, bananas and maize and halotolerant rice. Most recently (within the last two hundred and fifty years) the Ajax Planetary Authority had grown increasingly bold and experimental: a breed of sheep brought out of cryogenic vaults on Old Earth to eat the masses of seaweed that washed ashore around the Southernmost Continent, whitetail deer both to manage the turtleweed scrubland that was covering the northern half of the Great Continent and to provide a stable meat source more robust than flamingos and periwinkles, a kind of gopher tortoise/diamondback terrapin hybrid that had proved encouragingly robust in the prairies of Mars, and even tigers to laze about in the shade of the forests that bordered saltmeadows full of bounding deer. All the Ajactes I spoke to seemed both personally invested in and extraordinarily proud of these tigers, showing me images and videos on their utility wedges, and several of the state television channels would cut away to live feeds of the animals sleeping or bathing their cubs or stalking prey.

[cactguy]

Cactus Garden | Lotusland

I was not prepared for what I was to witness in Lotusland’s Cactus Garden. Paul Mills, Director of Conservation and Curator of the Living Collections (with 30 years at the garden) and Anna Bower, assistant curator, gave us a guided tour of this overwhelming garden.

This significant collection was bequeathed to Lotusland in 1966 by Merritt Dunlap, a longtime friend of Madame Ganna Walska, and then transported to Lotusland beginning in 1999. The move from Dunlap's home in San Diego to Lotusland was a sight to behold: Stake-sided trucks with hundreds of towering cacti rolling down the highway, wooden boxes constructed around their excavated roots, and crates to hold their branches together.

A total of 530 plants were moved from San Diego to Lotusland, each with a meticulous record of its orientation to the sun for replanting. Three hundred tons of sun-soaking diorite, an igneous rock (meaning it comes from magma), were used to create the beds, and formations of igneous basalt add drama to the entrance.

The outstanding and unique hardscape and landscape were designed by acclaimed designer Eric Naglemann as a gift to the garden. Today, Lotusland's Cactus Garden includes more than 300 species of cacti grouped by their country of origin.

Alright, let’s proceed to the real highlight of the trip.

[krautjunker]

Château du Sailhant is a 1000 year old château-fort in Auvergne region, central France. It stands on a triangular basaltic spur. The walls of the castle just like its 7 towers are made of ancient gray lava blocks while the roofs are covered with stone slabs. The first fortification at the site was a wooden tower protected by a wall and a dry moat – actually this is now the only side one can access the chateau. In the early 11th c. the Lords of Sailhant replaced the wooden tower with a square stone keep. The Saillans family kept expanding the fortress – by the 13th c. the spur was closed off by a curtain wall with ramparts and 2 towers and a deep, dry moat. By the 18th c. the chateau was in a dilapidated state, some structures were demolished. In 1997 the ruined castle was bought by architect Joseph Pell Lombardi from New York, who made it his residence following 25 years of restoration efforts.