#grace borderlands

[skag-lick]

there is something so so important to me about the fact that throughout the games, mordecai is presented clearly as someone who cares deeply about the people around him. btw.

like obvs there's his birds, but it's the people that gets me. he's the only bl1 vh who remains close with his group throughout the games. when lil and brick were taken and in hiding, he was roland's right hand for years. after roland's death, he was there to comfort lilith and grieve him with her. hes the one that gives you the mission in bl2 to find the tapes of jack abusing angel, and he's fucking pissed about it. he takes an active role in raising tina, and from the dialogue in fight for sanctuary, it seems like he is the only thing by that point keeping lil and brick in contact with each other. he's also the one encouraging brick to branch out, to get him interests and hobbies outside of fighting as we see in fight for sanctuary (even if brick's gardening still involved violence, lol).

and while we don't get to see their dynamics really play out in the games, from the way moxxi talks about mordecai its very obvious that he loved her deeply even though they were only together for a short time and their relationship ended messily. nevermind the fact that in bl3 mordecai takes up training grace and raising her up to be a vault hunter, and her death hits him hard. we get an entire funeral mission for grace, a character we've never been introduced to, just for mordecai.

idk!!! it's just really interesting to me that as the character who is usually seen as the solitary sort of loner/scout, he actually has such deep connections to the people around him. such a guy

[heartshapedcurl]

and ken

[loader-bot]

FOUR

4. If you could meet your favorite character, what would you tell them?

// oh well if this unit had the honour of meeting the big man himself, it would thank him for doing such a wonderful job cleaning up pandora from all those yucky bandits and giving honest hard-working loaders such as itself a steady source of employment. 🫡

[empyreansentinel]

if angel was raised on pandora it means that she and jack lived as residential settlers during dahls occupation. grogmouth likely worked for the flynts who, being a high status family at the time, in turn worked for dahl. baron flynt was the warden of thor, a dahl mining rig that doubled as a prison. the companys sole interest in pandora to begin with was to extract eridium and find alien relics, so a siren would be a priceless bargaining chip for their efforts. all of this to say its very possible that the flynts were the ones who sent out the order for angel to be kidnapped.

[angeltannis]

Gearbox going out of business before releasing Borderlands 4 honestly Would be pretty funny. Like wow, how are they gonna tie up all these huge plot threads about Lilith’s disappearance, Maya’s prophecy about new types of siren powers manifesting, the Guardians gaining sentience, the mysterious War from TPS, Ava leading the Crimson Raiders, and the fact that there’s a sentient space rock with the power to both create and destroy all life in the universe according to its whims floating around? Well, you see- [the smoke clears to reveal Randy Pitchfork lying completely dead on the pavement]

[tremolo-legato-suckas]

yogurt date

[minitherin]

me ando viendo alice in borderland de nuevo así que si el trío perdido participará, la especialidad de leo seria diamantes (razocinio) , el de jason el trébol (trabajo en equipo) y el de piper el de espadas (resistencia fisica).

I'm watching Alice in Borderland again, so if the lost trio is going to participate, Leo's specialty would be diamonds (reasoning), Jason's would be clover (teamwork), and Piper's would be spades (physical resistance).

[moodiestmags]

Hey y’all! Totally disappeared from posting writing updates on here, but I’m down to my last exam and I’ll try to be more consistent 🤡

So anyway

Chapter 9 of Rise to Grace 2 was posted yesterday!

Read it here

[weirdtakoyaki]

Fandom is so good at finding a scape goat in the creative team to lay all their (inconsequential, in the grand scheme) ire and personal grievances with the franchise onto the without understanding how much power or final say that person even has. I’ve watched it happen so many times, I’ve been that misinformed fan before learning more about industry process and experiencing some of it myself. So take it from me and stop giving this insane amount of power to an individual person on a large projects team, it’s unfair and it’s unkind.

[snailpebbles]

matters of the heart

chishiya shuntaro x gn!reader

summary: a three of hearts game revolving around secrets. not ideal for a secret relationship.

wc: 2k ish

tags: angst/fluff, some hurt some comfort, established relationship (yall are married), secret relationship, sorry i'm a sap and haven't written in ages :/

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

Nobody knew you two were dating. It was better this way in both of your opinions! The Borderland is dangerous to all and doesn’t discriminate on who lives and who dies, a lesson you learned quickly. 

Chishiya is a private man, in and out of the Borderlands; as his wife, you know this. What is not widely known, ie. by nobody at all, is your relationship. Somehow the general consensus is that you despise one another all because your husband is a bit more teasing to you than anyone else. Neither of you try to refute these claims for many reasons: there can be no one using the other against you, Kuina, and the monstrosity that is the military (Niragi). To many this level of privacy and secrecy would strain the relationship, but not you. It took literally five years for you to even mention Chishiya to your family. 

They were not pleased, to say the least.

Leading into your current predicament, let us set the scene. Your visas are about to run out, so you both go out on the next run and by happenstance end up on the same team. With the way Chishiyas shoulders relax slightly, you know that being able to protect you is a relief to him. There have been far too many close calls and unknowns. Climbing into the car with the honestly obnoxious bunch, you both make the realization that oh! Tatta is here too! The pinkie that crept toward yours stays in place once remembering that the aforementioned boy has the observation skills of a dead duck.

The game, a level three hearts, is the one type Chishiya never wants to be playing with you at his side. Fuck. The concept is relatively simple and, if played correctly, could result in no death! Great, right? The objective is to tell who's a liar and who isn’t. Each player tells a secret or memory and the others cast their vote on whether it’s a truth or a lie. The option with the most votes is chosen. What’s the problem then? There is one player chosen secretly as a trickster whose goal is to get a unanimous incorrect vote - a truth is voted as a lie or vice versa. If this is managed, all the other players die. If it isn’t then the trickster will die instead.

The three of you walk into the old classroom and sit down at the desks arranged in a circle, all facing one another. Tatta is a nervous wreck but you quietly talk to him about random things, an effective distraction. If a small smile graces Chishiya’s face…well that’s no one's business. The other five players worry you - cocky young boys with quick tempers and two nervous wrecks. Lovely. The rules are explained and your heart rate ticks up, silently matching Chishiyas even as his body language says otherwise. 

“Player three, start!” The young boy with no eyebrows steps up to the podium and a timer of two minutes counts down. You pay attention to his tapping fingers, breathing, and where his eyes go. Being with Chishiya for as long as you have has certainly taught you some things. 

“Uhm..one time I uh, kissed a fish.” The snort that comes from Tatta almost gets you, but you cool your face. Hands tap a button and the counts tally in - unanimous truths. The alarm bells go off and your palms grow sweaty even though you’re confident that this weirdo did kiss a fish. His burning ears made it obvious. Your husband's dark eyes glance at you, the deep color so familiar that it’s calming. The slight nod of his head soothes any worry you had. The screen lights up green - all clear! The boy sits back down and another with a…tasteful mullet, takes his place. 

“I’m allergic to oranges.” He deadpans, fingers still and skin unchanging. Shit. The blond beside you watches his peripheral, decides he doesn’t like seeing the nervousness on your face, - at least not in this context - and tilts his tablet screen just enough for you to see ‘lie’ highlighted. The trust you have is unmatched so you don’t hesitate to choose. Tatta taps your shoulder and based on his sweaty brow, needs help. You share your choice much to the chagrin of the group across you. 

“You can’t do that!” Fish-kisser complains to which you recite the rules. Never once is it mentioned you can’t share answers so he pipes down real quick. Reality is brought back to you when the screen lights up red - fail. The rules never stated what happens when the player tricks the majority of you. The thought is sobering and you nervously look at Chishiya, only to see his eyes already on you. A tick mark appears in the corner of the screen and text flashes stating, “if the guessers fail three times, one randomized player will be disqualified!” The cheerful voice does not match the deadly rules, nor does it pair with the fear that flashes within Chishiya’s eyes. Already he was planning ways to get the both of you out of this unscathed, but now he has to factor in other peoples idiocy and randomization? A pinky finds yours and you hold on tight.

The next person steps up to the podium and is caught in a lie, ‘clear’ soothing the staccato of your heart. This trend follows for the next two boys and you expect the same for Chishiya, your curiosity that initially drew him to you in the first place making a show towards what he might say. His relaxed form stands at the podium, both mysterious and gloating with how his eyes ghost over each player.

“My hair is dyed.” Ah. He’s playing it safe. The more obvious the answer, the faster he can get you to safety and back in his arms - fail!

What?

The three boys across from you are laughing, laughing, as if they haven’t royally fucked up. Before you can stop yourself, you’re speaking up.

“What the actual fuck are you thinking?” While your voice may sound level, internally you’re having to restrain yourself from throttling someone. A white coat fills your peripherals and for a moment you’re tossed back to the days of visiting Chishiya on his lunch break, soft touches and pastries eaten in amicable silence in the garden. Truth comes back to you when his pinkie relinks with yours and Tatta begins to panic beside you, the two tally marks seeming to take up the entire screen.

“We wanna get outta here faster, so we might as well just get disqualified.” Mullet shrugs. The fact that they’re new is even more infuriating. Your eyes squeeze shut so you don’t snap at them, but Tatta has you covered.

“No you- you don’t want to be disqualified. Just play the game.” His voice is higher than normal, giving away his stress. Your tablet flashes at you, reminding you that it’s your turn now. The walk to the podium is heavy on your shoulders but your eyes meet Chishiyas and stay there, imagination offering escape in the memory of lazy mornings in filtered sunlight. The three boys totally ignore Tatta in the time it takes you to reach the podium.

“I’m married.” Tatta chokes on his spit and Chishiya looks the smallest bit surprised at your secret as if he isn’t the one you’ve devoted your being to. To emphasize the truth to this, you take the simplistic ring - a metal band with a beautiful pearl in the center - out of your pocket and slide it on your left ring finger. There was the slightest tan line that is now covered and the ring fits perfectly, the nights Chishiya spent secretly measuring your sleeping figures hand definitely having paid off. The proud smile on your face doesn’t hurt either as you can never seem to hide the joy of being connected to another person. It’s something Chishiya deeply admires and will whisper to you when he thinks you’re fast asleep in his arms. All in all, the truth option is the only one.

Therefore, when the screen flashes red and a tally is added beside the ‘fail’ text, your surprise is palpable. Tatta only manages a squeak of fear and the two random people look physically ill, Chishiya’s face a blank slate and the group of three laughing annoyingly at everyones reactions. The results make no sense until one of the ill people starts rapidly apologizing, having believed you to be the trickster and convincing their partner of the same. The three boys find it hilarious.

You don’t even notice your trembling until Chishiya is sitting you back down in your seat and his hand is gently rubbing your back, murmured instructions to follow his breathing being subconsciously followed. The apologies fall deaf on your ears. A faint hum fills them instead and now the urge to speak to Chishiya, your one love, is overwhelming. 

“I love you.” The truth is whispered only to the man across from you and the reciprocation meets your ears just as fast, but lacks the resignation in your tone. The gears in Chishiya’s mind are turning rapidly as the buzzing hum grows louder and the chance of your death seems larger than it mathematically is. The three boys laugh and Tatta panics and the ill people vomit, at least until Mullet has a smoking hole between his eyes.

Tatta gets up to the podium and says some obvious lie,  ‘clear’ flashing across the screen and the card collected.

You’ve calmed down at this point but your pinkie holding has escalated to holding his hand, your free hand even wrapping around his bicep. Chishiya only holds on tight so his heart will calm back down and he can regain control. He tells himself over and over that you’re okay, but the level of stress is the exact same as when he got the call of you in a car crash. Tatta has the tact of wonder-bread and the timing of gold. 

“Are you two married…?” He asks on the ride back, filling the stark silence now that one new guy is gone and his two friends will return to Beach much less eager to play. Both of you nod at the same time, fingers staying laced together even as you walk into Beach and past Kuina. She does a quadruple take and almost tackles Tatta, knowing that getting information from either of you would be like pulling teeth. As you pad up the steps to your room, neither of you miss the muffled screech of “Married?!” and the following thump of someone fainting. 

You shower together and fall asleep together, wrapped up in the other with hands pressed on pulse points and lips imprinting promises into the skin.

Sunlight streams in through the curtains and your eyes blink blearily, meeting Chishiyas focused ones where you lay curled up side by side. He looks borderline angelic, easily worth the devotion, in the morning light. Your eyes trail over the familiar lips of his face and curves of his torso, stopping where your arm is curled around that unfairly slim waist. You know you have bedhead and probably look as tired as you feel, but with the way his eyes stare so reverently, you could be convinced that you’re an angel worthy of devotion too. 

If a chair is kept under the door handle and a married pair stays in their room all day, that’s no one's business but your own. If vows are renewed after facing death, those promises will stay yours. If Kuina and Tatta spend that day gossiping with just about everyone…well that is everyone's business. Ann can only listen in mild amusement because she’s known - it was obvious when the only time she’s seen Chishiya truly smile was at you.

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

a/n: hi I'm alive and while I'm not really in the aib fandom anymore, I saw a picture of chishiya and immediately went back to being down bad! so! here you go!

[daniwrld]

Chishiya fluff hc's! :3

Where Chishiya is good, as always too reserved and serious, and his beloved girlfriend is a sunshine, quite intelligent, only she was very kind and gave him grace even a fly 🤦🏻‍♀️😸

𝙝𝙚𝙝𝙚, 𝙛𝙪𝙣 𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙩, 𝙞 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙪𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙣 𝙖 𝙛𝙡𝙪𝙛𝙛𝙮 𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙮𝙖 𝙝𝙘 𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩! (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞ 𝙝𝙚'𝙨 𝙨𝙤 𝙘𝙪𝙩𝙚, 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙝𝙝 𝙞 𝙡𝙪𝙫 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙨𝙢.. 𝙖𝙣𝙮𝙬𝙖𝙮, 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙞𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙗𝙘 𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙮𝙖 𝙞𝙨 𝙛𝙧 𝙩𝙡𝙤𝙢𝙡 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙣𝙤𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮 𝙚𝙡𝙨𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙢𝙚 𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙬𝙞𝙨𝙚 <3

𝙤𝙢𝙜 𝙖𝙡𝙨𝙤 𝙞 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙜𝙤�� 𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙞𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙬𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙨𝙝 𝙞𝙣 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙗𝙘 𝙞'𝙫𝙚 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙞𝙣 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚.. 𝙜𝙤𝙙 𝙞 𝙡𝙪𝙫 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙞𝙩'𝙨 𝙨𝙤 𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙁𝙇𝙐𝙁𝙁𝙔 𝙝𝙘'𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙙𝙞𝙙 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 3 𝙣𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙙𝙞𝙙𝙣𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙞𝙛𝙞𝙩 𝙝𝙞𝙢𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛.. (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞ 𝙣𝙤 𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙣𝙨𝙚 𝙢𝙡 𝙇𝙈𝘼𝙊. 𝙃𝙤𝙥𝙚𝙛𝙪𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨𝙣𝙩 𝙏𝙊𝙊 𝙤𝙤𝙘 𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙮𝙖, 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙙𝙪𝙙𝙚 𝙖𝙨 𝙞 𝙨𝙖𝙞𝙙, 𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙨𝙤 𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙬𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙨𝙤 𝙞'𝙢 𝙩𝙧𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞 𝙎𝙒𝙀𝘼𝙍

🅦︎🅐︎🅡︎🅝︎🅘︎🅝︎🅖︎🅢︎: ɴᴏɴᴇ

🅣︎🅨︎🅟︎🅔︎: ғʟᴜғғ <3

𝙬𝙚𝙗𝙨𝙞𝙩𝙚+𝙥𝙝𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙡𝙖𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙩, 𝙨𝙤 𝙨𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙮 𝙞𝙛 𝙞𝙩 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠𝙨 𝙗𝙖𝙙/𝙬𝙚𝙞𝙧𝙙.

PRE-BORDERLAND AU

𝖲𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌, 𝗂 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝖿 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖠𝖫𝖮𝖳 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗈𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖱𝖤𝖠𝖫𝖨𝖹𝖤 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝗀𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎?

𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌, 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻 𝗐𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖡𝖨𝖦 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝗎𝗀𝗌 𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗎𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾𝗌, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 :(

𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖿 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽. 𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾.. 𝗂 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝗎𝖻𝗅𝗂𝖼 (𝗂 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖯𝖣𝖠. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖼 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖻𝖼 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍.) (𝖻𝗍𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖫𝖬𝖥𝖠𝖮)

𝖡𝖴𝖳 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌,, 𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖺𝗉 𝗍𝗈 '𝗋𝖾-𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖾' 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝖺𝗒.

𝖯𝗅𝖺𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 (𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒??) 𝗂 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖿 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌, 𝖯𝖫𝖠𝖸 𝖶𝖨𝖳𝖧 𝖧𝖨𝖲 𝖧𝖠𝖨𝖱 𝖣𝖠𝖬𝖭𝖨𝖳!!(!)!

𝖫𝖨𝖦𝖧𝖳 𝖪𝖨𝖲𝖲𝖤𝖲. 𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒, 𝗂 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍? 𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 (𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒.)

𝗈𝖿𝗆𝗀𝗌𝗄𝖺𝗁𝖩𝗌𝖽 𝗂𝗆 𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖽𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝗆𝗀 𝗈𝗆𝗀 𝗈𝗆𝗀

𝖲𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒. 𝖮𝖬𝖦𝖦𝖦 𝖨 𝖢𝖠𝖭𝖳 𝖶𝖠𝖨𝖳 𝖨𝖬 𝖲𝖳𝖨𝖫𝖫 𝖡𝖫𝖴𝖣𝖣𝖨𝖭𝖦 𝖮𝖵𝖤𝖱 𝖳𝖧𝖠𝖳 𝖮𝖭𝖤 𝖲𝖤𝖢 𝖦𝖴𝖸𝖲?!?#^#6@$#

𝖠𝖼𝗍𝗌. 𝖮𝖿. 𝖲𝖾𝗋𝗏𝗂𝖼𝖾. 𝖭𝖮𝖶𝖶𝖶, 𝖻𝖼 𝗂 𝖽𝗈𝗎𝖻𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌.

𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗏 𝖿𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾 '𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎' 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾.

𝖱𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝖾𝗑𝗍𝗌 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄: '𝖽𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝖺𝗍?'

'𝗂 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎' 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍'𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗐 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 (𝗈𝗆𝗀 𝗂𝗆. (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞(ᗒᗣᗕ)՞(ᗒᗣᗕ)՞)

𝖲𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝗎𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖢𝖣 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗏 𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝗎𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖣𝖵𝖣 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗏 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖾 𝗌𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁/𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇, 𝗁𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗉𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾

??? 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝖿 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗐𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 (❍ᴥ❍ʋ)

𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖿𝖿, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗆𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗏 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖿𝖿 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗁, 𝖿𝖺𝗏 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗋.

𝖲𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝖺 𝖽𝗈𝖼𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾, 𝖺 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒? (𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍?? 𝖻𝗋𝗈 𝗂𝖽𝗄 𝖲𝖧𝖨𝖳 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖼𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗌 𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝖽.)

𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗂 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖡𝖴𝖸 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗀𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗌 (𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾-𝗌𝗈 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗉𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀)

𝗂 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖬𝖤𝖠𝖭𝖨𝖭𝖦𝖥𝖴𝖫 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌.

𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗏 𝖢𝖣/𝖣𝖵𝖣, 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗏 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗎𝗆𝖾, 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗀𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 (𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 '𝗂 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗒𝗉𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗈' 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍.)

𝖻𝗎𝗒𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗈𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗀𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗈 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖾 (𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗀 ( ͠° ͟ʖ ͡°))

𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝖼: 𝗁𝖾'𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝗒𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗋'𝗌, 𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗒𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇.

𝖨𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍

'𝖡𝖺𝖻𝖾.. 𝗇𝗈! 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌 :(' 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗉𝗂𝖽, 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗀, 𝖼𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗒 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇.

𝖳𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎, '𝗈𝗁, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝖻𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌.'

'𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌? 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝖻𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋-' + '𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎.. 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒?' 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗅𝗒... (𝖻𝗋𝗈 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗉𝗉𝗅, 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖶𝖠𝖫𝖫)

𝗂𝖽𝖼, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝗈 𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉. 𝖽𝗎𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝖺 𝖽𝗈𝖼𝗍𝗈𝗋, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗑𝗍. 𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗒𝗉𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾. 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖭𝖮. (𝖠𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝗂 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖼 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 '𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗁 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗁' 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗉𝖾, 𝗌𝗈 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄?)

𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖻𝖼 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝖺𝗒.

𝖳𝖾𝗑𝗍𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄 (𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌.)

'𝗈𝗆𝗐 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾', '𝖣𝗈𝗇𝖾'

𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗒, 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗍𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎?? (𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗂𝖽𝗄 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀.)

'𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇𝖾.' (𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝗎𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝗌𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗒)

(𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾) 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗇, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 (𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗎𝗆, 𝗂𝖽𝗄, 𝗍�� 𝖽𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖿𝖿 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒??)

𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗓𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝖺𝗐 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝗂.𝖽 '𝖼𝗈-𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝖾𝗋 #2'

𝖸𝖮𝖴 𝖨𝖭𝖲𝖳𝖠𝖭𝖳𝖫𝖸 𝖲𝖳𝖠𝖱𝖳𝖤𝖣 𝖢𝖱𝖸 𝖫𝖠𝖴𝖦𝖧𝖨𝖭𝖦 𝖣𝖮 𝖭𝖮𝖳 𝖤𝖵𝖤𝖭?@&#^#/

𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽, '𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒?' 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈-𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝖾𝗋𝗌 #1, #2, #3 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈 𝗈𝗇.

𝖭𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌, 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗅𝗒 '𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾', '𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒', 𝖬𝖠𝖸𝖡𝖤 '𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒/𝖻𝖺𝖻𝖾' 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝖽𝗄 𝗂 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍, 𝗅𝗈𝗅.

𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙗𝙘 𝙞𝙢 𝙑𝙀𝙍𝙔 𝙑𝙀𝙍𝙔 𝙑𝙀𝙍𝙔 𝙨𝙞𝙘𝙠 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙞 𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙬𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙮𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙭 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙦 𝙡𝙪𝙫𝙞𝙚, 𝙞 𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙞𝙩. ( ˘ ³˘)♥︎

𝙁𝙚𝙚𝙡 𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙖𝙨𝙠 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙖𝙨 𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙖𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩, 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙞𝙩 𝙢𝙖𝙮 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙢𝙚 𝙨 𝙗𝙞𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙩𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢!!! 𝙡𝙪𝙫 𝙪 𝙜𝙪𝙮𝙨 𝙨𝙢 :33 𝙩𝙮𝙨𝙢 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙪𝙥𝙥𝙤𝙧𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙪 𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙢𝙚 ♥︎♥︎

[mimimarvelingmarvel]

time bound part two

pairing: worst wolverine!logan howlett x f!mutant!reader

Part Two - Masterlist

summary: Y/n’s life takes a dramatic turn when the Time Variance Authority intervenes, pulling her from a critical moment in her timeline. The TVA sends her to the void where she eventually meets with Deadpool and a very familiar face. With Deadpool's universe in the balance, alongside his reluctant would-be pal, Wolverine, and the enigmatic time-bending mutant known as the Veil, the trio must complete the mission and save Deadpool’s world from an existential threat.

overall warnings: 18+, Fem!Reader, AFAB Reader, Use of Y/N, Her X-Men name is Veil, She/her pronouns, Swearing, Angst, Heavy Violence, Character Death, Deadpool (he’s his own warning), Hurt, Fluff, Angst, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, TVA

word count: 1.9k

Months have passed since Johnny and I first crossed paths in the bleak void of the multiverse. In that time, the Borderlands have evolved from a chaotic, unsettling expanse into a strange but surprisingly reliable haven. I've acclimated to its disjointed blend of makeshift settlements and the diverse, often eccentric band of misfits who call it home. One of them is Laura, a fierce warrior with a rough edge, but a surprising softness beneath her surface. She once tried to explain the nature of my variant in her universe, but when she mentioned Logan, it struck a nerve too deep for me to handle. 

Today, Johnny and I are on a reconnaissance mission near the heart of the void, tasked with scouting for any unusual movements. We trudge through the arid expanse, our boots crunching softly over the dry, sandy terrain. The sky is a turbulent mix of colors, the horizon a jagged line of shifting shadows and light. Alioth.

The constant strain of maintaining control over my powers in this inhospitable space is wearing me thin. I can’t afford to let my guard down. We push through a small sandstorm that sweeps across the landscape, its gritty particles stinging my skin. I keep my eyes sharp and my hand resting on the hilt of my blade—a gift from Electra, a gesture of trust and camaraderie.

The oppressive quiet is almost a physical presence, the weight of isolation pressing down on me. We are about to turn back when a sudden disturbance breaks through the stillness. My heart skips a beat as the faint sounds of a skirmish reach my ears. Johnny’s hand clamps firmly on my arm, his grip conveying urgency.

“Did you hear that?” he growls, his voice low and taut with focus.

“Yeah,” I reply, straining to discern the sounds amidst the howling wind. The unmistakable clang of metal and the harsh grunts of a fight grow louder. “Let’s check it out.”

We advance cautiously, our footsteps muffled by the shifting sands, moving toward the source of the commotion. As we approach a tall, metal structure, I begin to climb it, Johnny following to gain a better vantage point. The structure, a rusted remnant of some long-forgotten machinery, creaks under our weight. From the top, the view unfolds before me, and what I see makes my breath catch in my throat.

Two figures are locked in combat below us, their movements a blur of speed and violence. The first is a Deadpool variant, clad in a distinctive black-and-red suit. He’s wielding a pair of katanas with an expert’s precision, slicing through the air with practiced ease. His opponent is unmistakably Wolverine, his adamantium claws extended and gleaming with a deadly sheen. Logan moves with a predator's grace, slashing and dodging with equal skill.

At first, I can hardly believe my eyes. A Wolverine—how could one of his variants be here? My mind races, struggling to reconcile this unexpected sight with everything I know. The scene is almost surreal, like a twisted mirror reflecting a reality I can barely grasp. I glance at Johnny, whose expression has turned serious, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

“Is that…?” I start, my voice trailing off, unable to articulate the confusion swirling in my mind.

“Yeah,” Johnny confirms, his tone grim. “Looks like we’ve got some serious anomalies here. We need to find out what’s going on.”

I watch as Deadpool and Wolverine continue their fierce exchange, their movements a violent dance. Deadpool’s agile maneuvers and rapid strikes are met with Logan’s relentless aggression. Despite the chaos, there’s a strange familiarity in their fighting styles—both driven by an intensity that makes them almost mirror images of each other.

“What the hell is going on?” I mutter under my breath, my mind reeling from the disorienting sight.

Johnny’s eyes remain sharp as he observes the conflict below. “We need to intervene. This could spiral out of control, and Cassandra could notice.”

Before I can respond, Johnny is already moving, his voice ringing out with authority as he shouts to the combatants. “Hey! We fight each other, we lose.”

The two fighters momentarily pause, their heads turning toward Johnny as he approaches. Deadpool’s head tilts, his mask concealing any visible expression, but his posture suggests surprise. “Dear god, it’s him.” His voice carries a mix of awe and disbelief. I watch cautiously from above, hesitant to step in, my heart pounding at the sight of Wolverine. He looks so much like my own Logan that the resemblance is almost painful.

Deadpool’s voice rings out with an irreverent edge. “Fair warning, gorgeous. You’re going to encounter some indelicate language. A smidge of ass play, but we’ve been prohibited from using cocaine on camera.”

Johnny, unfazed, urges me to move. “Veil, let’s go.” He turns to address me directly, his tone focused and commanding.

Logan’s head whips up, his eyes locking onto me with a mixture of suspicion and recognition. “Y/N?”

I jump down cautiously, my heart in my throat as I watch Logan tense, his claws extending in readiness. I land, a knee on the ground.

“Now that’s a superhero landing!”

“Who the fuck are you?” Logan demands, his voice a harsh growl, the tension palpable.

Deadpool’s eyes widen in realization. “Buddy, I think that’s—”

“Shut the fuck up. I didn’t ask you.”

In that moment, I see it—the familiar huff of his breath, the furrow of his brows, and the flare of his nostrils. I’d recognize my Logan anywhere. His eyes flicker with something unspoken, a mixture of relief and anguish, and his claws slowly retract.

I step closer, my breath catching in my throat. I can barely hold back the tears as I take another step and break into a small run. Logan meets me halfway, his arms enveloping me in a tight embrace. “I thought you died,” he says, his voice choked with emotion as he buries his face into my neck. I squeeze him tightly, my tears mingling with his.

“The TVA, they sent me away. I tried to find you.” I pause, my voice faltering with the weight of unspoken pain. “The others?” I ask, my eyes searching his for answers. He shakes his head, and my face crumples in grief. I had feared this would happen.

Johnny’s voice cuts through the moment, sharp with urgency. “They’re coming.”

I pull away from Logan at Johnny’s warning, my heart pounding as I steel myself. Logan’s face is a mask of pain, and I feel the crushing weight of my failure. I could have saved them all.

Deadpool’s voice interjects with a mix of confusion and curiosity. “Who’s they?”

The answer comes in the form of an onslaught of vehicles, their jumbled piles of mechanics and scrap metal creating a menacing approach. Toad, Pyro, and Sabertooth are among those heading our way, their presence a foreboding sign of trouble.

Deadpool sidles up beside me, his tone laced with a twisted humor. “Oh, they’re driving angry. Can we pick this reunion up later, pumpkin?” He glances at me, then at Logan, who mirrors my confusion.

Johnny steps forward, his posture exuding determination. “I got this.”

I steady myself, preparing for the impending fight. “Stay close,” Johnny warns, and I move closer to him, readying myself for whatever comes next. Behind me, I hear Logan release his claws, the familiar sound providing a strange comfort amidst the chaos.

The cars circle us, forming a tight encirclement. “Cassandra is going to be giddy when she sees what we caught. You can’t run. Everybody knows that.” Pyro’s voice drips with malice as their vehicles come to a halt.

“You see anyone running, dick for brains? You’re not gonna love what happens next,” Johnny retorts.

Deadpool’s voice breaks in with manic excitement. “Oh, oh my God. Oh my God, he’s going to say it. Ha! Oh my God, he’s gonna say it!”

Johnny grins, preparing for his signature move. “Avengers—”

“—Flame on!” 

“What?”

I look at Deadpool with a mix of bewilderment and exasperation as Johnny ignites in a ball of fire. Pyro watches, amused and relaxed. I create a temporal clone in the sky, urging it to engage as I manipulate time, freezing the action momentarily. As I resume time, Pyro defeats Johnny’s clone with a burst of flames. The real Johnny lands beside me.

“I know you,” growls a voice from ahead, and I turn to see Sabertooth approaching with a predatory glare.

Deadpool’s voice is a mix of awe and irreverence. “Holy shit… Sabertooth… your brother.”

I snap at him. “Deadpool, can it.”

Sabertooth snarls, his voice a deep rumble. “Ready to die!”

Logan prepares to fight, his stance resolute. Deadpool adds with exaggerated seriousness, “Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait! Time! People have waited decades for this fight. It’s not gonna be easy. Maybe not. Shoot the double and take him down. Side control, then full mount and you ground and pound, until he makes no sound because he’s dead.” He’s gripping Logan’s shoulders.

Wolverine’s expression hardens. “Shut the fuck up.”

Deadpool responds with a mix of arousal and admiration. “Oh my God. Okay, good luck. I’m a huge fan.”

The battle erupts with a ferocity that is almost immediate. Logan’s claws flash with deadly precision, and he swiftly decapitates Sabertooth. The severed head skids to a stop in front of Deadpool, who remarks with a grim humor, “What is it, girl? Is there trouble at the well?” It stops at his feet. “Oh, big trouble.” As Deadpool leans down and picks up Sabertooth’s severed head, I can’t help but grimace at the gory mess. Blood drips onto the sand, and Deadpool’s voice rings out with a bizarre sense of theatricality. 

“Behold! The head of your precious queen, Furiosa!” Deadpool announces dramatically, holding the head aloft like a trophy. “I have the Wolverine. I alone control her. You come for me! You come for her!” He points accusingly at Logan. I furrow my brows in confusion. “I’m so sorry. I know it’s pronounced ‘him.’ I’m gender blind. It’s my cross to bear,” he adds with a wink, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Logan, breathing heavily from the intense battle, turns to me. “Who’s next?”

“Toad! You’re up!” Pyro’s voice cuts through the chaos, and I can’t help but let out a mischievous giggle. I watch with amusement as Toad sticks out his grotesque, warty tongue. I pull out my blade, my eyes narrowed in focus. With a quick, precise motion, I slice through the air, severing the tongue cleanly. It falls to the ground with a wet, squishy plop.

“Fucking nasty,” I mutter as the severed tongue writhes like a headless worm. The sight is both disgusting and oddly fascinating. Toad lets out a high-pitched scream of anguish, and as the chaos escalates, someone flips a switch. I turn just in time to see Logan hurtling towards me, and I brace myself. 

Before I can react, Deadpool appears behind me, and the next thing I know, we’re all smashed together against a massive magnet. The force of the impact slams us into a heap, and I feel myself being crushed between Deadpool and Logan.

“Uh-oh. Holy shi—” Deadpool starts to exclaim before the sound is abruptly cut off. 

The giant magnet presses down hard, and I feel a wave of darkness engulf me. The last thing I hear is Johnny’s distant shout, filled with frustration and concern.

Next Part

A/N: Let me know what you think! I’m sort of loving and hating my writing, next part will be Logan’s POV (maybe)

[chishiyasdearjacket]

The Game Of Shadows

Description: Where Chishiya & Y/n decided to play a different game together in a world where everyone doesn't have a choice but to betray, threat, and manipulate everyone in order to survive.

Warning: none

The sun beat down on the deserted beach, baking the sand until it shimmered like molten gold. I scanned the crowd, my eyes sharp, my senses alert. This wasn't a vacation, not anymore. This was survival.

The air crackled with tension, a palpable energy that hung heavy in the air. It was almost tangible, a constant reminder of the deadly game we were all forced to play. My partner, Niragi, was a shadow by my side, his gaze constantly scanning the horizon, a perpetual frown etched on his face.

We were tasked with keeping the beach safe, a task that felt like a cruel joke. Safety was a luxury we could no longer afford, not in this twisted world.

Then, I saw him.

He stood by the water's edge, his back to the sun, his platinum blonde hair glowing like a beacon in the midday heat. A faint smile played on his lips, a hint of amusement in his eyes, as if he were privy to some secret joke.

Shuntaro Chishiya. His reputation preceded him. A master strategist, a player who moved through the games with calculated detachment, a man whose calm demeanor was as unnerving as it was alluring.

The way he observed the scene, his gaze sweeping over the crowd like a hawk searching for prey, sent shivers down my spine. His calmness was a facade, I knew, a carefully crafted mask that hid a mind as sharp as a razor.

"Don't even think about it," Niragi warned, his voice a low growl. "He's not someone you want to tangle with."

I glanced at him, a flicker of defiance in my eyes. "I can handle myself, Niragi."

He scoffed, his gaze returning to the crowd. "I wouldn't be so sure. He plays a different game, Y/N. A game where nothing is as it seems."

His words stung, but there was a grain of truth in them. I knew Chishiya was a player, but unlike the others, he didn't rely on brute force. He relied on intellect, on manipulating situations to his advantage. He was a puppet master, pulling the strings of the game from the shadows.

As the day wore on, I found myself drawn to him. He was a puzzle, a mystery I wanted to unravel. I saw him watching me, his eyes a window to a world I couldn't comprehend.

The game started at sunset. The rules were simple: survive. But the stakes were high, the consequences deadly. I watched as Chishiya, his face impassive, moved through the chaotic throng, his eyes calculating, his steps measured. He was a predator, stalking his prey with a silent, deadly grace.

I found myself drawn into his orbit, his presence a beacon in the chaos.

The game, as usual, was a brutal affair. People were injured, some even lost their lives. The air was thick with fear and desperation.

As the night deepened, I found myself standing beside Chishiya, our bodies almost touching. He looked at me, his gaze penetrating, a flicker of something in his eyes that I couldn't identify.

"You're not like the others," he said, his voice a low rumble.

"And what does that mean?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

He studied my face, his eyes holding mine in a silent battle of wills. "You see the game for what it is. You're not afraid of the darkness."

His words resonated deep inside me. He was right. I wasn't afraid of the darkness. I had faced it, embraced it, even danced with it. The Borderlands had stripped away the facade of my life, leaving me exposed, raw.

He smiled, a faint curve of his lips that barely touched his eyes. "That's why I'm watching you, Y/N. You're interesting."

I shivered, a strange mixture of fear and anticipation coursing through me. His words were a compliment, but they felt like a warning. I knew he saw something in me, something that could be used against me.

We spent the night playing the game, our minds locked in a silent duel. He was a master of observation, able to read my every move, anticipate my every reaction. But I was no pushover. I had honed my instincts on the streets, learned to survive in the chaos.

As the night wore on, we found ourselves drawn closer, our bodies a tangle of shadows in the darkness. He was a danger, I knew, a predator lurking in the shadows. But there was something about him, something that pulled me towards him like a moth to a flame. His calm demeanor, the way he moved with an almost supernatural grace, the flicker of something in his eyes that suggested a world beyond the cruel reality of the Borderlands.

The game unfolded like a slow-burning fuse, tension rising with each passing moment. I felt his gaze on me, constant, unwavering. He was watching me, studying me, assessing me. I found myself mirroring his gaze, my own eyes locked on him, a silent challenge passing between us.

We were more than just players, more than just survivors. We were adversaries, locked in a silent battle of wills, our minds locked in a deadly game of chess.

The night culminated in a final confrontation, a climactic test of skill and nerve. It was a test of trust, a game of deception. He played his role with masterful precision, a chess grandmaster orchestrating a carefully calculated trap. I played mine with the instincts of a street fighter, relying on my wit and agility to navigate the treacherous terrain of the game.

As the tension reached its peak, we found ourselves alone, the shadows of the night pressing in around us. The air crackled with anticipation, the silence broken only by the rhythmic crashing of the waves.

"You're good, Y/N," he said, his voice a low rumble, his eyes holding mine in their depths. "Very good."

I met his gaze, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "And you're dangerous," I replied, my voice barely a whisper. "More dangerous than you think."

He smiled, a slow, sensual curve of his lips, a gesture that felt almost predatory. "We understand each other, don't we?"

I nodded, feeling a surge of adrenaline course through me. The air between us crackled with a potent mix of danger and desire. I knew I was playing with fire, but I was drawn to the heat.

The game ended in a stalemate, a carefully calculated draw. Neither of us won, but both of us emerged from the experience changed. The encounter had exposed something raw and primal, a spark of connection that flickered beneath the surface of our shared survival.

We walked away from the beach, our paths diverging into the shadows of the night. The tension hung heavy between us, a silent acknowledgement of what had transpired. I couldn't deny it. I was drawn to him, despite the danger, despite the chaos.

The days that followed were filled with a strange mix of anticipation and fear. The game had left its mark on me, leaving me with a sense of unease, a constant awareness of his presence.

He would appear in the most unexpected places, his eyes always watching, his gaze a tangible presence in the crowded streets. He would offer a fleeting smile, a silent acknowledgement of our shared experience. And in those moments, I would feel a shiver of something I couldn't quite place.

He was a mystery, a puzzle I felt compelled to solve. His cunning intellect, his cool demeanor, the way he moved through the world with an almost supernatural grace. He was a challenge, a puzzle that called to my deepest instincts.

One night, I found myself drawn to the same beach where we had met. The moon was a sliver of silver in the dark sky, casting an ethereal glow on the deserted shore. The air was cool and crisp, the sound of the waves a rhythmic heartbeat against the silence.

He was there, waiting for me, as if he had known I would come. He stood by the water's edge, his platinum blonde hair catching the moonlight, his eyes glowing with a strange intensity.

"You came," he said, his voice a low murmur. "I knew you would."

I walked toward him, drawn to him by an invisible force. The sand crunched beneath my feet, the silence of the night punctuated by the crashing of the waves.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

He smiled, a faint curve of his lips that seemed to whisper a secret. "I'm playing a game, Y/N. A game that's only for two."

He took a step closer, his eyes holding mine, a flicker of something in them—a spark of challenge, a hint of something more. The distance between us closed, the air thickening with unspoken tension.

“A game that’s only for two,” he repeated, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the silence.

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. I was playing with fire, I knew that. He was a predator, a master manipulator, and I was falling for his game. Yet, I couldn't help but feel a strange sense of exhilaration, a thrill of danger that pulsed through my veins.

“And what’s the game?” I asked, my voice a breathy whisper.

He smiled, a slow, predatory curve of his lips that seemed to promise both pleasure and pain. “This game, Y/N, is about survival.” He gestured towards the moonlit expanse of the beach. “It’s about understanding each other, about trusting each other, about playing the game... together.”

His words were a double-edged sword, a tempting invitation and a chilling threat. He was offering me a partnership, but it came at a price. He was asking me to trust him, to surrender to his game.

I looked into his eyes, the moonlight reflecting in their depths, illuminating a complex mixture of emotions I couldn’t quite decipher. There was an unsettling calmness, a calculated detachment, but also a flicker of something else – a spark of raw vulnerability, a hint of something he was trying to keep hidden.

“And what if I don’t want to play?” I asked, my voice challenging, my heart pounding in my chest.

He leaned closer, his gaze intense, his breath warm against my cheek. “You already are playing, Y/N. You’ve been playing from the moment we met.”

His words were a truth bomb, shattering my carefully constructed facade. He was right. I had been drawn to him, captivated by his enigmatic persona, intrigued by his mind. I had been playing his game without even realizing it.

“So, what’s the next move?” I asked, my voice wavering despite my attempts at defiance.

He smiled, a knowing glimmer in his eyes. “The next move, Y/N, is yours to make.”

He stepped back, leaving me standing alone on the edge of the moonlit beach, a chessboard of possibilities stretching out before me. I looked around, taking in the beauty of the night, the crashing waves, the vast expanse of the ocean. But I knew that the real game was not out there, not in the physical world. It was inside me, in the battle of wills raging within my own mind.

He was right. I had been playing his game from the start. And now, I had a choice to make. I could walk away, retreat into the shadows, and try to survive on my own. Or I could take a chance, step into the unknown, and play the game with him.

As the moon cast its silvery light on the waves, I knew what I had to do.

I walked toward him, the sand crunching beneath my feet, the night air filled with the sound of the crashing waves.

“I’m in,” I said, my voice firm, my heart thrumming with a wild mixture of fear and excitement.

He smiled, a slow, sensual curve of his lips that sent a shiver down my spine. “I knew you would,” he said, his voice low and smooth, a promise whispered in the darkness.

And as the night deepened, we played our game, the rules unwritten, the stakes ever-rising. We were shadows dancing in the moonlight, two players in a deadly game of hearts.

We played the game for days, weeks, months. We survived together, fought together, and sometimes, we even laughed together. The line between game and reality blurred, the boundaries between player and pawn dissolving. He had taught me to see the world through his eyes, to think strategically, to anticipate, to exploit. He had shown me the power of observation, the art of manipulation, the thrill of winning.

But he had also shown me the darkness, the shadows that lurked beneath the surface. He had shown me the vulnerability beneath his cool facade, the raw emotions that he tried so hard to hide.

And in those moments of vulnerability, I saw a flicker of something else – a spark of hope, a glimmer of humanity that refused to be extinguished. He was a complex puzzle, a man of contradictions, a predator with a heart.

And in that moment, I knew that the game had changed. It was no longer just about survival. It was about something more. It was about understanding. It was about connection. It was about love.

Love, in this twisted, chaotic world, felt like a dangerous gamble. It was a risk I wasn't sure I was ready to take. But the truth was, I couldn't deny it anymore. I was falling for him. Falling hard.

He was a contradiction, a paradox. Cunning and kind, ruthless and tender. He was a shadow, yet he held a fire within him. His gaze, when it rested on me, was a mixture of amusement, fascination, and something that felt almost… yearning.

One night, as we sat on the edge of the beach, watching the moon rise above the ocean, I finally confessed my feelings. "I don't want to play this game anymore," I said, my voice a mere whisper in the vast expanse of the night.

He turned to me, his expression unreadable. "What do you mean, Y/N?"

"This… this constant need to survive, to outsmart, to win. It's exhausting. And it’s not real. We’re not just players, Chishiya. We’re people.”

He studied me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine. "And what do you want, Y/N?"

"I want to… to feel something real. To be myself, not just a pawn in a game. To find a connection, a bond, something more than just survival."

He didn't speak for a long time, his silence stretching out like an endless night. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice low and husky. "You know, Y/N, I've been playing this game for a long time. Too long. I’ve lost myself in the shadows, in the strategies, in the need to control. You’ve shown me that there’s something more. And I… I want to see it. I want to feel it.”

His words were a confession, a revelation. It was the most vulnerable thing I had ever heard him say.

“So,” he continued, taking my hand in his, his touch warm and reassuring. “Let’s start a new game. A game where the stakes are higher, where the risks are greater, but where the reward is something worth fighting for. Let’s start a game called love.”

He pulled me close, his lips finding mine in a soft, tentative kiss. It was a different kind of game, one that didn’t require cunning or strategy. It was a game of trust, of surrender, of vulnerability.

As his lips moved against mine, I felt a sense of peace, a sense of rightness. I had been playing his game, but he was now playing mine. He was falling for me, just as I had fallen for him.

We were both taking a chance, a leap of faith. We were both playing a dangerous game, but it was a game we were both willing to play.

We continued to play this new game, this game called love, for as long as the Borderlands allowed. We found solace in each other’s arms, strength in each other’s minds, and joy in each other’s company. We learned to navigate the complexities of our feelings, to trust each other despite the constant threat of danger.

We were survivors, yes, but we were also lovers. We were two souls, entangled in a deadly game, finding solace in each other's arms. And in this twisted world, where everything else seemed uncertain, our love was a beacon of hope, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit.

The Borderlands had tried to break us, to turn us against each other. But instead, it had brought us together. It had forged a bond, a connection that transcended the boundaries of fear, of pain, of survival.

And as we faced the unknown together, hand in hand, we knew that even in this twisted world, there was still room for love. Even in the darkest of times, there was still room for a chance.

The Game of Shadows had become a game of hearts, a game of love, a game that we would continue to play, as long as we could. And in this game, we would always be each other's best players.

The Borderlands had a way of testing everything, pushing people to their limits, revealing their deepest fears and desires. It had tried to tear us apart, to pit us against each other, to force us to choose survival over connection.

But it had failed. We had found a way to survive, not just as individuals, but as a team, as partners, as lovers.

We had learned to play a different game, a game where the stakes were higher, but the rewards were greater. We had learned to trust each other, to be vulnerable, to let go of the need to control.

And as we stood on the edge of the beach, the sun setting behind us, painting the sky in a riot of colors, I knew that we had found something real, something powerful, something that could withstand even the most treacherous of games.

We were not just survivors, we were not just players. We were lovers.

The Borderlands may have been a cruel and twisted game, but we had found a way to play it our way. We had found a way to win.

We had found a way to love.

[slowd1ving]

✦ V. HE IS THE MOST PITIFUL OF MEN

'The stagnancy was broken once more. Lips pursed in displeasure, and the face shrouded by the shadows of the night disappeared back into the darkness. He who remained asleep was none the wiser—caught in the throes of surgeless rest.  In the morning, the sculptor would stumble into the chilly studio—waking up with strangely light shoulders and an unclouded mind—only to find his magnum opus gone. Within the chalky base remained the imprints of footsteps, as though the statue had merely walked away. The cold glass skin of juice shattered against the flagstones: seeping a bleeding red into a pristine pathway. Just like in his restless dreams, that figure left him far behind once again.' • . * cursed prince ratio + alchemist m reader rough design for minoan fashion ratio here warnings: video game violence, death? kind of? tyranny (are we surprised), male-coded reader (or at least the in-game avatar is) wc: 11.4k

LAMENT OF OUROBOROS MASTERLIST

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Night fell over the Borderlands: still and cold and silent. It crept in with the blank grace of an assassin, slated only with the condensed breath of the sculptor who quietly shut his book and swilled the last dregs of tepid tea into his mouth. Tapping against the worn, leather cover was the blunt—almost sleepy—thump of the pen, while a lazy hand mindlessly traced formulae into the soft material of the couch. 

The final line of a sonnet seeped into his mind. 

The spectre of lavender ghosted his mouth. 

In the end, the evening consumed him once more. It was a night like any other—the bound poems collapsed against the tranquil rise and fall of his chest, and his eyes fluttered closed. The clatter of a pen against floorboards broke the hush, but slumber already cradled him. Like hands dragging souls to the underworld, the descent into unconsciousness was as easy as it was natural: something he was unaccustomed to. 

Something had shifted. 

There was no herald leading him to the cliff sides in the pitch of night. The dreams no longer featured his muse wandering the lonely fields under an equally lonely moon: a crescent smile lighting the deep jet curtain of the sky. Scenes that used to be coherent had fragmented: the smooth coils of a scaled behemoth flashed past in his mind; the scent of a laboratory and teaching a certain apprentice the fundamental tenets of chemistry; and finally, the few good memories of a life left long behind. Cigarettes on a misty afternoon. Rich coffee, and a stack of books. Relaxed conversations with people he’d never see again. 

Something had changed. 

Those hands, once so eager to sculpt and sketch, to rid himself of the incessant being who plagued his thoughts, had become placid and unmoving. The chain of cognition that shackled him to the pursuit of creation had shattered; Atlas passed on the burden of the sky to somebody else. No longer did his fingers stretch after the flashes of damson locks, and neither did he picture the frigid stare of a man who barely ever glanced behind himself. 

Who altered the tapestry of his mind?

It was a question he could not answer; at least, not while he slept peacefully. Only his steady breathing stirred the otherwise silent space, and even the clumsy pad of footsteps failed to break the serenity of the scene. 

A hand reached out, tentatively. In the waning moonlight, it was illuminated like the palest of jades—just as cold too, for when a thumb brushed past the sculptor’s cheek, the sleeping man shivered minutely but ultimately did not wake. The hand retreated, startled—as skittish as a foal, as if it hadn’t quite adjusted to this world. 

“Mmh, Aventurine, always make sure to take at least three trials.” The stagnancy was broken once more. Lips pursed in displeasure, and the face shrouded by the shadows of the night disappeared back into the darkness. He who remained asleep was none the wiser—caught in the throes of surgeless rest. 

In the morning, the sculptor would stumble into the chilly studio—waking up with strangely light shoulders and an unclouded mind—only to find his magnum opus gone. Within the chalky base remained the imprints of footsteps, as though the statue had merely walked away. The cold glass skin of juice shattered against the flagstones: seeping a bleeding red into a pristine pathway.

Just like in his restless dreams, that figure left him far behind once again. 

. 　⁺ ✦

Senator Anastasia loves playing with guns—shot his wife and two kids dead he did,

Senator Anastasia loves his guns. 

Senator Demetrios secretly funded drug trafficking—against all pursuit of amoral alchemy he is,

Senator Demetrios loves his drugs.

Senator Leander has rather sticky fingers—-rigged the vote he did,

Senator Leander loves his dirty tricks. 

—Excerpt from a street ditty sung in the 1435 Second Amber Age, modern New Metis, a month before the elections

(Origins uncertain. Appears to have been spread, either intentionally or unintentionally, following the mass exposé released by anonymous whistleblower writing piece after piece on high profile politicians who run the nation.)

. 　⁺ ✦

‘New Metis is on the verge of irreversible decay: the last vestiges of an empire that should’ve been reforged a whole Amber Age ago.  

The apt metaphor often used to describe the Metis of old is the fable of the rotten seed—that which is spoiled shall too bloom spoiled. Old Metis was addled with corruption, bribery, and a gross misuse of power which was supposed to be carefully checked and balanced by its governmental system. Poor considerations of its citizens led to a desperate fight for rights that had gone wholly ignored—the famed, retold and dramatised Scholar’s March of 786 of the Attican Calendar that forged a new path for Metis to travel on, free from the despair of the past. 

Or so the plan was written as. 

New Metis has attempted fruitlessly to distance itself from its brutal past. 

It forgets that its reins never changed hands. 

Who makes the legislation? Who debates on the fate of our scholars sent to study in the capital of learning? Who dictates the politics, thus the future, of this city-state? 

It is not the people who marched who forge our path. It is the people who lingered in the shadow of a scapegoat to seize power once more.

Never forget this truth, Metis, for the drums are starting to beat once more.’

— Inana, P. (1435 2AA). Rotten Seeds of Metis: Witnesses of the Fall. Realpolitik Magazine, Issue 307.  

. 　⁺ ✦

“Must feel liberating,” the matron commented. For once, the gleaming measuring rod rested on HER lap as SHE rested a chin on HER marked palm. “He no longer feels the burden of two fates.”

“He lost art he poured his soul into,” the maiden snipped. For once, HER face lacked its youthful cheer, but rather contained a twisted sense of rue. It was out of character, but neither older nor the oldest commented on it, for THEY too felt the same strange regretfulness. “I don’t think he’s feeling any of that lightness right now.”

“It’s better than the prince’s fate,” the matron muttered, though HER voice wavered slightly. “Now he has taken on the path of setting right the sins of his forefathers.”

“Lack of closure is damning too,” the hag interjected. “Look where it led him.”

“They aren’t the same,” SHE argued back. “The sculptor can finally focus on himself.”

“Both had their lives forever rerouted,” the youth snapped. “Don’t attempt to assuage your guilt over it. It was fair, but the chance they’ve been allotted is tough—no sophistry will change that.”

The space was silent: a lull in the tapestry. 

“There are new winds in the learnéd city,” the crone finally spoke up. “At long last the change the prince hoped for will be catalysed by none other than himself. That’s all we could ask for—he’s no longer stuck in limbo, and Metis can have its age of heroes.”

THEY were silent again; for when had the three started caring about how humans felt? 

“That foolish boy,” SHE murmured. “It’s finally been set right, but he won’t be happy for a long time.”

. 　⁺ ✦

Time moved on. The sand in the hourglass marked the bittersweet end of summer: a tumultuous thing, filled with both the elation of creating art and the tragedy of losing it. You were incredulous at first, filled with a denial of reality as you sank to the floor of your studio. Only the base of the sculpture remained; oh so lonely without its muse upon it. Kakavasha couldn’t have touched it, no matter how much he glared and gritted his teeth. It was unyielding to all but you, after all.  

It simply… walked away. Trod a path far from the tranquil garden it was situated in, on the road of absurdity in this stupid game. You found it hard to suppress the anger; nay, it was more like stewing irritation. Calloused fingers spent months—night and day, morning and evening—hungering for something other than food, absorbed wholly to your craft. All that time, gone. For naught. You sat in the empty studio, surrounded only by fluttering pages upon pages of sketches: charcoal lines that seemed to mock you, to remind you this was in fact reality and not some twisted dream. 

You bargained. Pleaded with the lines on your body to cooperate, wishing for you to figure out what exactly happened to your hard work. Nothing—not a whisper, nor any hint, emerged from the crime scene, still flaked with the residual stone. There was no thread tying the two of you, nor a map that could possibly show you the sculpture’s location. Only a single conclusion emerged from a murky cesspit of confusion: something was blocking you, something even more powerful than yourself.

It was easy to fall into despair. You couldn’t bring yourself to rid the space of the stone, but piece by piece you swept the shards into a box—then finally worked up the courage to muster a spell to move the plinth to the attic. It hurt slightly less when you could no longer see it: carefully filing away the leagues of sketches into a cabinet, 

Acceptance betrayed you when you woke up one morning and realised the itch in your hands to carve was gone. Vanished, like it never existed. As if you were a marionette with its strings cut, you’d never quite felt so light before—and it made you wonder: why did I make this in the first place? Were you finally in possession of your senses? Were you free from the fog in your mind?

True to his character, Aventurine didn’t question you (you wouldn’t exactly know how to explain it even if he did ask). He eyed you as you spent an hour sewing on the couch, he shot you a glance when you came back after re-renovating the studio, and he only coughed once or twice in surprise as you hauled in boxes of fragile equipment. He seemed more relieved than not, at how short-lived his sculpting apprenticeship had been: staring down at the spot where your art had been with a strange, vindictive sort of look on his face. Though, his brows wore a look of confused, yet pleasant surprise—for him, it seemed to be an unexpected, though not unwelcome, boon. 

You ignored it, just like he ignored the dust settling on your chisels as you picked up your goggles once more. 

It seemed you couldn’t quite deny your roots. 

The lab coat fit like a second skin, stitched by hands made deft from a decade or so of odd work. It was pristine; thick white synthetic material developed by the scholars in Metis, embroidered with your name: bright against the blank coat, and a reminder of the life you left behind. Your hands stopped smelling of clay and began trailing behind caustic acid while you worked, mixed with arenes and the artificial scent of organic molecules. 

Within the forest, you took apart plants—systematically disassembling them and breaking them down on a molecular level as you tried to unravel this world. Shipments after shipments of textbooks came and went, and you pored over each one with a fervour unseen since you sculpted: jotting information, culminating in writing paper after paper on materials, molecules, quantum phenomena and everything in between. 

Kakavasha seemed to appreciate the change—dutifully assisting you in your analyses as a shadow would—and soon he too began leaving a trail of chemicals behind. 

A late night turned into two, two turned into weeks of restless evenings as you worked in the laboratory to collate the work into a journal on concepts you’d already mastered on Earth, but hadn’t been explored in Ouroboros. If Aventurine saw the dark circles marring your face, then he sure as hell didn’t say anything. 

A burden had been swapped for another, but this one felt lighter than air. 

Over in the mainland, things too were changing—at an unprecedented rate. 

. 　⁺ ✦

In the shadows of an alleyway—pristine despite the darkness lurking in the city—a figure leaned against a wall, tracing graceful fingers across his bracers as he examined the people milling about. His eyes grazed the way they dressed, the way they carried themselves—some furtive, some bright and cheerful, but all with the intrinsic quality of wanting to move on from the broadly lit street. 

It was the same as it had been a millennium ago.

Strike one.

He gazed at the law enforcer coldly as the man forced him into the sweltering sun—only harsh utterances escaped his mouth. Shady characters like you deserve arrest, he heard; words tangling in his ears like cobwebs, just as fragile as whatever the officer was compensating for. The silence seemed to only irritate the man more, who sharply marched—paraded—him straight to an office where a stern supervisor lectured him on laws he had seen his own brother write. 

Strike two. 

And still, the officer—though trigger happy as he was—had that odd look in his eyes. He wanted to punish the long-deposed prince, he wanted to keep him in the Metis city gaol for the night for loitering, but couldn’t— that would be drawing attention to the officer’s existence. 

Strike three. 

The newspapers and books had all been carefully monitored. Entry to the library was free, and he chose an alcove near a slightly dilapidated section, pressing the crystal-powered tablet on the table—after curiously examining the mechanisms with a cursory enchantment that was far more ancient than the very building he sat in. 

Scholar’s March, uprising against the corrupt royal family, power to the government and noble archontes. He scrolled through the device with apprehension—the database containing all available texts in this place—and concluded there was no information here worth his time.

It took him approximately three hours, combing meticulously through each shelf while steadily building almost imperceptible tendrils of enchantments to aid him in his search. Not a student spared an eye, while the machines built to combat magic that surrounded the place didn’t so much as jolt. He almost sneered. 

A revolution had been encoded in his simulations of the future. It had been inevitable. Yet, nothing had changed. The quality of magic had degraded, education was still not allowed to develop and flourish naturally, and in the end, nothing had really changed. 

Strike four. 

He left in a pensive sort of silence. The wiretap he’d set around the city told him all he needed to say. 

Changing how Metis worked was long overdue. 

. 　⁺ ✦

“I think you’ll finally be able to present your papers in person,” Aventurine waved a thick sheaf of papers in front of you while you carefully decanted an aldehyde into a boiling tube; you could only stare at him through the warped glass as he spoke whatever information he’d gleaned. “Metis has officially begun the repeal of its heresy laws and censorship policy—this is the first issue of a brand new Metisian newspaper, over here is another one, there’s a few administrative letters from the index of banned books and texts, one of which was your own.”

The studies and articles you’d written, on material sciences, quantitative chemistry, and everything in between, had been receiving attention everywhere but Metis—for the sole reason of their references to alchemy in chemistry. It had been a year since you switched focus to your specialty once more, a year since your magnum opus had disappeared, and a year since you vowed to contribute to the world you were put in. 

The scientist based in the treacherous Borderlands. A mind far undervalued by Metis. The brain behind the legendary element discoveries of mirthium and erdium. What new theories will he propose now?

It wasn’t front page news, though, certainly, on the scientific papers it had been. You glanced at the wads of soggy newsprint, then at the neat folders containing medical proposals behind him, then gave a faint smile. “You think they’ll accept me as a Sophos?”

“Yes.” His words left no room for argument—a firm, resolute tone that belied none of his honeyed tongue. “They’ve been fools far too long, masquerading as geniuses.”

“I suppose,” you conceded, adjusting the temperature dial on the heater. “Though the limitations on their study have produced some incredibly advanced specialisation in science, I’m glad the scholars are free from the shackles that bound them.”

“So who’s going to teach them what they previously couldn’t learn?” His neon gaze was firmly locked onto yours. There was a deeper question hidden within his relentless stare: are you going to step foot in the place you’ve avoided? Will you leave the memories of this place behind?

“Those who have relevant expertise,” you answered neutrally. Diplomatically. You’d considered the idea, toyed around with it in your brain. Tasted it, even —rolling it in your mouth this way and that as you contemplated exactly what to say if you were ever asked this. In the end, your words came out grey and foggy—totally impersonal. You frowned, and Aventurine caught the slight furrow between your brows. “I won’t live there, ever. If I get invited as a lecturer or student, I’ll remain here. It’s high time they upgraded their transport between there and the Borderlands regardless.”

And if worse comes to worse, I could finally finish working on those high-grade teleportation rings, you added silently, though Kakavasha had known you long enough by now to recognise the wanderlust in your eyes that indicated a new project was brewing in your mind. There were several formulae decorating your legs that indicated flight, or at least travel, and you simply hadn’t the opportunity to decrypt the letters. 

“Right. You’ve already received degrees of knowing from several other universities, and then some awards,” he murmured. “If anyone’s qualified to speak on these groundbreaking concepts…”

The revolution had been bloodless and quick. It suited the scholastic city, based on the fast dissemination of information and logs that had forced those in charge to abruptly resign. In fact, it had been so rapid that the ripples barely had time to reach you—the ink on your manuscripts had only just dried—when news of the fall of the government and the implementation of an almost mechanical, algorithmic government had been brought to you by Aventurine. New officials were elected almost instantaneously, driven by masses of students that had crammed into booths that had long fallen to disuse, over disillusionment with politics. The youth and elders alike had voted for each member of a temporary Council that seemed to be watched over by the benevolent whistleblower who’d first triggered the first falls of grace. 

You hadn’t quite seen anything like it—waiting with baited breath for either the tempering or the brutal collapse of the rejuvenated city. And surprisingly, it held. There was no external influence, no devastation as Metis erupted in civil war. This was not Earth, you reminded yourself, and it truly wasn’t. 

A heavy envelope came only a week later into your locker that you reserved at the small post office in Metis. It was cream-coloured, and faintly fragranced of vermouth and atrament. You sliced it open with the bone-sword that hung by the mantle, ignoring Kakavasha’s wide-eyed stare as you did so. The contents inside were typed in neat print, and all but one line stood out to you.

We invite you freely to earn your distinction as Sophos in an abbreviated period, and cordially wish you stay on to teach integrated enchantment through alchemico-chemistry. 

You smiled, but it was a strange, hollow thing. 

“You… got it? You got the job?” he murmured, a selcouth blend of apprehension and a little, manic grin. 

“It’s likely, though…” you trailed off as a second letter caught your eye, tucked in between the thick stack of a contract and a printed copy of one of your works—which you swore hadn’t been there before. On the mauve paper, there was no return address, though on the front there was ‘doctor’ printed. You frowned, and it faded from view—so fast you might’ve imagined it. Doctor had no equivalent in this world, after all. There was Sophos, there was Tibel, there was Speaker, but there were no doctors. 

The contract forgotten, you set the remainders down on the workbench and quickly slid the purple envelope open. This one didn't smell like the faint traces of alcohol, but rather something abandoned. Slightly dusty. Like a lost terrace, or even an old, hidden path. Mildly entranced, you slipped the small card out from the inside and read the elegant script. 

Your theses were captivating to read through. 

Nothing more. You turned the card, yet the blank side taunted you. Quickly, your eyes darted back to the bound pages of your work, and upon opening it, it seemed the sender had left you something else to mull over. 

Each page had bloomed with flowering, delicate script.

 . 　⁺ ✦

No mauve letters came again. 

You didn’t anticipate them, nor did you feel any particular pang of regret that you didn’t see that elegant curl of font again. In fact, you forgot about it: laying in a drawer, slowly gathering dust. It was only a month or so later—after publishing a riveting piece on capturing sunlight from the two suns to mass convert to energy, rather than relying on finite crystals, and then perhaps a paper or two on reusing consumed crystals for crystallography using various waveforms—that you finally remembered the letter, as well as the invitation from Metis. 

Acclaim was good, but there was something about seeing Sp. in front of a name: a weight that was comforting, like the solid thud of a footstep rather than the burden of a sky on your shoulders. 

One particularly foggy evening, when the moon and stars were hidden from view and the only thing that remained was a grey, motionless sky, you stared at the letter for a long while. The drawer had only been opened to shove another newspaper—A Look Into The Mind of the Crystal Scientist—inside. Situated alongside the edges was a pamphlet: Real Estate in the Borderlands, as though it was some inspiring location. Frowning, you tossed both rags aside, picking up the card once more. 

As the faint flavour of stone still emanated from it, you thoughtfully gazed out of the window West-ward towards Metis. The great city loomed, invisible through the distance and fog and in your scattered mind. 

You thought about your garden. A small little haven, where you enjoyed tea only with one other soul in your company. Even the monsters here had long learnt to tread carefully after you’d left the carcass of the giant snake deep by the river—other than the steady chirp of birds, the fauna didn’t bother you. 

It was tranquil, but the sudden emphasis of your base in the Borderlands irked you. The more you mulled over it, the faster your pace quickened upstairs: where bound volumes of your works now sprawled over most of your bookshelves, where you wove a bag into existence complete with space-warping. 

“Aventurine,” you announced, and the man startled from where he was busy polishing a conical flask. “I’m going to Metis.”

“Excuse me?”

 . 　⁺ ✦

Excuse me?

Despite his incredulity, Aventurine dutifully put the flask away and packed himself a bag too, rather than offering to stay behind. Despite him glaring in the direction of the city-state, as though it was stealing you away from him, he only wore a cheerful smile whenever you glanced in his direction. And despite the occasional, colourful imprecations he muttered under his breath as he boarded the train (first class, courtesy of the heavy gold hidden within the jade pendant), he only had good things to say about your search for distinction. In all honesty, you found his disguised pettiness extremely amusing.

His eyes searched you, like he was making sure you were truly on board with the sudden change. You didn’t comment, electing to watch the countryside flash past—interspersed only with surreptitious glances at your winding tattoos. 

He noticed. Of course he did.

“Are you worried?”

He’d muttered the words as though he was afraid the great planet and two suns would hear him. You shook your head, though you still wondered silently if this would go like the last time you visited Metis. Getting stared at as the tattoos branded you as something other: an easily identifiable trademark you weren’t quite ready to sport. At least, not until you reviewed the situation in the city. 

“I can hide them for you, for a bit,” he offered, and it was then that you finally met his eyes. He was squinting them, almost—lids low against the spheres, while a smile crested upside down in the fold beneath them.

“How?” Curiosity piqued your expression when you felt an almost-familiar wisp of something curl in the air. Almost-familiar, because the faintest idea of it seemed to be something you’d witnessed only once. With a start, you realised you could see the smoky substance as it coiled and interacted with the medium that surrounded it. In fact, the intangible matter that accompanied the strange power this world had given you, too, was batting and toying with the plumes, entranced. 

Kakavasha flinched, though only slightly. “You can see it?”

“Slightly,” you murmured, and the alchemy that bound you in this plane accepted the gift he brought, dulling the vibrance of the lines on your skin until they melded into flesh and dermis. The patterns thrummed, invisible and inconceivable to all but you—a merge between his glamour arts and your unique ability. “It’s pretty.”

A smattering of pink cast his face into a rosy hue as he watched you watch your own hand—clearly fascinated by the change. “It’s a glamour.”

He whispered the words in the tongue of honey: dissipating into the light rays like dust motes, and cascading into your mind as you wondered at the implications behind each syllable. 

A secret, the root of the word conveyed.  Deceit. 

. 　⁺ ✦

The tiles paving the roads seemed off. Different. People walking by had a cheer in their step they didn’t have previously. You said hello to nobody, yet three vendors shoved mountains of fruits, spices, and sheer, silky cloth into your hands that felt far too exquisite to touch this casually. Dumbfounded, you glanced around, only to see others going through the same predicament too—wares being passed freely—as if the fall of the corrupt government was something to be celebrated weekly. Understandable. 

It almost distracted you from the very thing you first noticed when you stepped foot on land. Stone. Not any sort of stone, but one that still lingered in your memory—waking or otherwise—and one you could almost taste, gritty and chalky and everything tangible. You swallowed, suddenly, storing the gifts in your bead (though not before heaping money into the protesting vendors’ hands). 

“What?” Kakavasha, who’d previously been snickering at your troubled expression, sobered as your eyes meandered the roads. Your focus settled on the distance, and you could feel something shift. Along the city skyline, you thought your alchemy finally gave you the answer to your long-asked question—where did my statue go?—though it was vague and incoherent. 

You returned to reality after a long pause, glancing back at the golden-haired man beside you. In that split second, you decided to keep your peace and wait for night to fall. 

“Nothing.” 

He didn’t reply, staring long and hard at you instead. 

. 　⁺ ✦

Metis doesn’t sleep. Anyone who came to the fabled scholars’ city knew this: returning to their homelands with tales of the whirring urban centre, like a massive brain that simply didn’t rest. The artificer’s lamps quietly burning in each home and study centre had long since replaced the stars in the sky: lit up with the aspirations and dreams of students who desperately longed to etch their names on the lengthy annals of history. 

It was—and would always be—the perfect time to sneak out. Under the cover of darkness, scrutiny was lax as ever; nobody spared the scholar meandering through the streets a second glance, especially as the rules had been completely abolished and rewritten by the new Council and Adviser. Your steps carried urgency despite your outward languor, and you half-wondered if Kakavasha had noticed you’d slipped out of the hotel room. 

The source of the signal was weak. It pulsed feebly, like a dying heart feverishly (and foolishly) clinging to a life that was sliding quickly out of reach. 

On the paved white tiles, your feet left behind firm, resolute footsteps as you headed to the ring of buildings directly behind the sprawling university. Upon observation during the day, it had been where the faculty allegedly worked. Where you’d work in a few months, if your extensive research qualified you for an early Sophos distinction. Mixed feelings shot through you at the thought: bittersweetness at the sudden change, anticipation at having greater resources, and finally fear that you’d be found out as an alchemist. 

The sector hummed with activity, though it was subdued by the setting of the two suns. You could still vaguely feel the traces of the statue through the extra noise, and the purpose in each step dissuaded anyone who didn’t recognise your face from asking you what exactly you were doing there. Remnants of the glamour still hid your tattoos, but silently, you reshaped the veil to be extra unnoticeable—and those looks thrown your way suddenly disappeared, as though you were never there in the first place. 

You observed. In the second building, where the modest exterior belied not the opulent marble in the interior, you watched the researchers and professors tap crystals to pass through the locked gates and beyond, where the real work began. With a jolt, you realised this was part of the product of your research—using crystals to detect specific magic waveforms through crystallography—and your shoulders relaxed. A magic footprint resembled a fingerprint, but this sensor could be bypassed with the right formula—something something activation energy something something. A beam of neutrality, and the master key that only the creator could devise. 

Waiting for the foyer to empty to only one or two people milling around by the chairs in the front, you quickly murmured the string of thought under your breath, feeling your palm heat with some wasted energy (though what you had sufficed). The moment your fingers grazed the sensor, the gate swung open with extra gusto—and you could only blink, feeling that this was perhaps too easy. 

The job was supposed to be simple, after all. Go in, make a preliminary observation as to what could possibly be triggering the gut feeling of familiarity you had, and get out. That was it. The independent variable was your location changing, the dependent was measuring the intensity of your gut feeling, and your control variable was remaining in this half-impermeable state in which you essentially became a wallflower, and hoped by some miracle that your statue wasn’t being transported. 

Just your typical experiment. 

It did, in fact, start off simply. Past two in the morning, even the mighty brain that the city was began to quietly shut down to its most basic functions—nary a ghost, let alone a person, passed you by as you walked purposefully through the winding corridors. The presence did nothing as you slipped into the first office, glancing briefly in the storage room behind it. You scanned the messy piles of documents on a polished desk, resisting the urge to methodically sort them out into neater sections. 

No results, and it appeared it hadn’t registered your presence on the waveform detection crystal at all. Perfect. 

The next room, too, as well as the next, bore little fruit. You didn’t expect significant results. You’d been hunting a spectre, after all: a piece of stone that, inexplicably and improbably, had vanished into thin air. It was ghostbusting at its finest, without the special effects. 

You frowned. 

It became a wild goose chase, peeking into empty halls and lecture theatres and everything in between—yet your yield only came with a stronger gut feeling that elsewhere you’d find something. Anything, if not to make this night worth sneaking out for. Sighing, you trod on the carpet to find the very last door tucked away in the shadows of a flickering artificer’s lamp. A golden hue was cast on the handle; it gleamed bright as you reached for it, only to find…

Nothing. Not in the literal sense, for the floors to ceilings were packed with bookshelves, and a desk in the middle of the room heaved with weighty papers, journals, and all sorts of tools. Scrutinising the parchments and texts, you picked out a couple of titles: Alchemy and the Suppression of Magic, How to find an Alchemist, The Discoverie of the Witch-Alchemist, Myths Debunked: Alchemists and Wizards, How to Know if an Alchemist has Bewitched You. Your eyes flew to the journal on the desk of some Sophos Hopkins, mouth suddenly dry. The placard, too, was embedded with the same name. That name had been printed on an article from a trashy magazine you’d seen just a few weeks ago, where he was interviewed as a citizen who still supported the old regime staunchly. 

Another paper caught your eye, and now with a mouth that felt like sandpaper, you read your alias at the top. It had been circled with bright red ink, and scrawled as a label was the words ‘possible subversive, affiliated with alchemists or potentially one himself—investigate’. You laughed, but it was dry and humourless. Had this been the true motive of the university for inviting you, or was he just a deep supporter of the past?

You wanted nothing more than to leave this accursed room behind. You wanted it, by all the fates and gods you wanted it, but there was something that seemed to be anchoring you to the luxurious carpet. Taking a deep breath, you waited for the feeling to subside—but it wouldn’t. Trying to be inconspicuous, you carefully riffled through your paper as if it could possibly provide you with an answer instead: it had been highlighted copiously—not with the scrupulous commentary that the sender of the purple letter used, but with a harsh treatise underlining exactly where you were a danger to the scholars of Metis. Your eyes flung from one adjective to another, each more critical than the last. 

Gingerly, you placed the paper exactly where you’d found it and opened the journal instead—locked with a waveform-registering crystal that you easily cast aside (how dare he use your research to benefit himself, after all). You smiled, but it emanated the behaviour of a scowl. Reading the lines, you were easily hooked in with disgust as you thumbed through each page—detailing his hatred for the new government, the ‘woke’ scholars who were slowly ‘taking over’ the ‘pure’ brain of the academia. It was… laughable, in every sense of the word. It made things clear: he was a minority amongst the scholars who’d yearned for change these past millenia. 

You scoffed, turning to the last page. It was left blank, and with a frown, you held it up to the artificer’s lamp to check if it had been hidden from view.

“Ah—got it!” Lines had been heat activated, and were slowly spreading when—

Something sharp pricked your throat. You froze, unable to breathe. 

You’d already died once. Was this how you’d die again—at the hands of a man who so clearly hated you?

A silver knife gleamed at your throat. The hand holding it was steady, and you could feel the calm breathing of the one behind it. In, out, in, out, as if the heartbeat accompanying it was tranquil: unlike yours, which seemed to beat not only in the gaping cavity of your chest, but your mouth, your stomach, and your clenched hand. 

“Who are you?” A voice reverberated, brushing past your ears along with the fluttering material of a veil that seemed to be covering the face of whoever threatened you. “Why are you here?”

Silently, you thought of a formula you knew by heart—one you’d recited countless times as you hauled bags of stone and heavy ornaments, one you’d relied on when hunting the game that roamed the forest, and one you’d whispered when killing that basilisk. A prayer of strength. Kinetic energy, coupled with a heightened Young’s Modulus for your human muscles to manage the expulsion of force. The air, used to your ways, began thrumming: ozonic in its smell, tainting the faint soap and sandalwood scent that exuded from the stranger behind you. 

But before you could finish, your body was whirled through the air and slammed into the plush carpet. It was red, just like blood that would inevitably spill from you as you gasped for oxygen—but you couldn’t focus on that as he finally saw your face, and you saw his. The first thing you noticed was the thin veil covering his nose and mouth, though not his eyes: a striking pair of amber ones that seemed familiar, but were now widened in disbelief as they searched your face. 

He was straddling you with his razor-sharp weapon still pressed to your throat; not a single drop of sanguine had been drawn yet, belying his impeccable control of the weapon. You breathed rapidly, feeling the heavy warmth of his body press against yours—wondering if you’d still feel the same cold you did the last time you died. 

Purple locks were pulled back sharply in a long braid that swung past his shoulders, and your own brows furrowed as you felt an indescribable familiarity well up in your chest. That’s nonsense, you scoffed. Can’t be. Instead of thinking the impossible, your eyes scanned his clothes: dark robes that belied low-level scholars, yet they were immaculately cut, stitched and embroidered. 

He was still gazing at you with intensity, but then those same eyes hardened, almost imperceptibly. “So it’s not him…” It was a murmur under his breath. The clay smell he had been so used to was long gone, replaced by the faint astringency of chemicals, smoke, and the wispy scent of oranges right beneath it. The tattoos, too, he had memorised in their shifting patterns, weren’t there—dermis unmarked by the variegated, chromatic lines. “You’re not Hopkins. Who the hell are you?”

“I could ask you the same question,” you scowled, mentally drawing up the same formulae again, though adjusted this time. You’re not Hopkins. As though he himself wasn’t either. 

So who was he?

You stared, as his concentration shifted to the journal, which had been cracked open with no alarm to betray entry of anyone but its owner. Incredulously, he plucked it up; it was… open. With all of Sophos Hopkin’s transgressions written plain as day, for him to see. Between you and the journal, his gaze darted—roving across you while his knife remained firmly about to stab into your carotid artery. 

“Are you secretly Hopkins?” he questioned, though it seemed more of a musing thought to himself rather than an inquiry towards you. You coughed, violently, shaking with suppressed rage. That’s it. You weren’t about to die to this deranged pretty-boy.

You added a third and forth formula to the long chain in your brain, reciting and enunciating each silently in the tongue of thought. 

“What do you think?” you retorted, biding time for the formulae to come to fruition. Velocity, strengthening the body, heat, summon. You could feel your heart beat slightly more sluggishly, which, ironically, made you far more lucid. The voice speaking to the man was rough and cold, nothing like the eclectic murmurings his sculptor had left behind for him. Yes, the intruder beneath him couldn’t possibly be his maker. 

The two beings who’d once been entwined for the span of a year no longer recognised who the other had become. 

He glared at you, and the frigid set of his eyes sent another death-chill through your body. “I’m the one asking the questions here. Don’t forget who’s holding the knife.” 

“How could I possibly…” you murmured, and there was something in that soft croon that caused him to stiffen and the grasp on the dagger to slip. “…forget that’s all that matters.”

“What do you—” 

His lips parted beneath the veil, and the material fluttered gently as you completed each formula. Bizarrely, the weapon he was just holding—that thin, engraved blade—inexplicably began to melt. He floundered, clearly caught off guard, but you were ready for that variable. The melted weapon dripped onto flesh and burned, burned so badly, but you had already died once. You could take it. 

With inhuman speed and strength, you slammed the man into the floor below you and plunged your arm into the subspace next to you to draw the basilisk-bone sword you’d etched all those months ago. Stabbing the sword into the blood-red carpet you admired just minutes ago, it was now his turn to have his neck right next to a razor-edge, while your weight easily enveloped his own. 

It was gracefully that you leaned your head towards his, and his eyes flicked desperately between your irritated gaze and the deep burns on your shoulders that still weren’t closing. Who are you? Who are you? Who are you?

Despite him extending all his senses, he couldn’t feel a shred of anything being used—magic, alchemy, anything. Had the gods sent you here to taunt him? Ratio’s fingers flexed against the ground, and for the first time in a year, he swallowed nervously. It couldn’t end like this, with an unidentified person killing him. That sword didn’t help with your identification, and he wondered if you were as powerful as his sculptor. No, impossible. He gritted his teeth. 

Who are you?

The words died on his lips as you drew close, and beneath his veil his lips stammered. After all these years, this millennium, and this is all he amounted to? Being bested by a greenhorn, someone who was far beneath his maker? Ludicrous.

“My turn to ask the questions,” you said softly. Quietly. “Are you Hopkins?” 

“No,” he spat out, angry at himself, you, and the stupid Sophos who had landed him in this situation in the first place. “You didn’t realise?”

After a millennium, your temper has not yet been quenched, the voice of Nous rang out in his mind. He dug his nails into the crimson, where the loathsome Hopkins had doubtlessly stood, and grinded his teeth. 

“Do you wish to take Hopkins down?” your voice rang out even softer, betraying no signs of pain even as the metal began cooling into the silver it was originally, leaving behind the charred smell of flesh behind. He fought the bile rising in his throat. 

“I can work alone on that,” he muttered, already agitated by the influx of variables he hadn’t predicted—taking Hopkins out was supposed to be his easiest target amongst the faculty. You, similarly, were experiencing a strange turmoil as your gut feeling simmered alongside the deep anger you felt. He was a variable you hadn’t accounted for either—one that looked vaguely like the figure in your dreams, but the cognitive dissonance upon trying to see them as the same person was startling, so you couldn’t even begin to attempt that rationalisation. This was what your gut feeling had been banking upon? “Don’t involve yourself.”

You sneered, looking down at the man whose eyes still contained that arrogant gaze. You hadn’t planned on anything at all on this reconnaissance mission, but this guy was severely testing your patience. No matter how much he looked like the person in your dreams, they clearly were two different people. 

“Magus, taking him out hastily will only result in the escape of his accomplices,” the man muttered, cowed by the sword still held at his neck and in the face of overwhelming power. Magus. A title reserved for the highest of magicians, which he was on the cusp of achieving. He could be deferential—Nous was wrong, he had to be. He met your gaze, and regained the cool impassiveness in the hardened amber. This man, who’d interfered with your gut feeling and who’d burned you to the bone, had made a good point. 

“I wasn’t planning to,” you laughed, but it was a mirthless thing. “My business is elsewhere, little assassin—”

The sound of firm footsteps down the corridor froze the two of you, and swiftly, you pulled the basilisk bone back into the subspace: poised with a long-crafted incantation already on your lips. It was a modification of the gravitational attraction one, anchored to a specific location you’d be immediately drawn towards—undulating into particles of matter then coiling back into a human body. This time, it was to a certain golden-haired man who declared himself your apprentice. You took a deep breath, and began reciting it mentally even as the man’s features turned ashen beneath you. 

He stared at the closed door, mentally working out three different escape roots he could use, as well as a hiding place in which he could easily eavesdrop. But you, on the other hand, looked nonplussed as you stared at the door with a certain look in your eye.

“You need to get out before you ruin both our chances,” he hissed, hastily gazing back at the door, then towards you again. 

But there was no use in that.

You’d already disappeared, leaving behind an opened journal and the faint scent of chemicals behind. 

For the first time in a millennium, Veritas swore: a colourful word he’d heard his sculptor use enough to gauge the meaning behind; with a reeling mind, he sat up. 

“Shit.”

. 　⁺ ✦

Gasping, you tumbled into the hotel bathroom—desperately trying to keep your guts from hurling. Fuck, what a disgusting mode of transport. Being disassembled so meticulously and put back together again had been a revolting experience, though at least, from what you gathered with your shoulder regaining its feeling again, it had assembled you imperfectly—into the state you were in before you burned your shoulder to shit. Or at least, partially. Glancing nervously at the flesh, it wasn’t the same charred mess it had been moments prior: only a furiously shiny thing, free from metal and seeping blood sporadically. You couldn’t always be a winner, it seemed. 

Hurts like a bitch, you thought grimly. Peeling off your shirt, you compartmentalised what you knew about the man who interfered with your objective. Not on Hopkins’ side, planning to get rid of him. Hopkins isn’t alone in wanting to rid alchemists. Disguised himself as a low-level scholar. Skilled in magic. 

Now that the adrenaline had worn off, your hands seemed to remember something else as you pressed a palm against his sternum to steady yourself. Something, though you didn’t know what. 

With a scowl, you flung the shirt to the waste bin in the corner and buried your face in a hand. The other rummaged in the hotel cabinet for a first aid kit—and you dug your nails into your face to reprimand your fumbling fingers while you struggled taking out the ointment neatly labelled as ‘for burns’. 

Behind you, the larger light suddenly flooded the bathroom, and you froze. 

“Kakavasha,” you murmured quietly, locking eyes with him in the mirror. He looked… furious, glaring hard at you from where he stood. His fingers were tightly curled into shaking fists, and his mouth was a compressed line, as though he didn’t even know when to begin with his beratement. He was silent as he strode up to you, silent when he snatched the ointment from your hand, and silent as you lowered your hand from your face to gaze at his own properly in the reflection. 

His eyes flicked to meet yours for a mere second, before he harshly uncapped the bottle and poured the sticky ointment onto his hand. It was only when he looked back at your shoulder that his face began developing a strange sort of conflict, and he finally spoke, or rather, snapped. “Stop staring.” 

Sheepishly, you turned your head the other way: missing how his face grew slightly more red as he slathered the liquid where the metal had dripped onto your shoulder and chest. Wherever his hand spread it, the cooling began almost immediately—leaving behind nothing but a tingle. You heard a firm clink as he set the bottle down, then a rustle as he picked up a cloth and dampened it. 

“Your neck, as well?” he laughed bitterly. The cold water seeping into your skin forced your face downwards to turn to his, and you held your breath at his sudden proximity. 

He took his time, running the bloodstained cloth against the cut against your neck (that bastard really had nicked you, after all!) and standing on his toes to reach the side. You couldn’t bring yourself to comment, even when he turned away to pick two bandages out to wrap the wounds in. 

“Was it worth it?” 

You let out a sudden exhale as he forced you to sit on the edge of the bathtub: watching his furrowed brows, his hands as he carefully rolled the bandages onto your flesh, and the trembling of his mouth. You didn’t miss the irony of how almost two years ago, it had been him you were patching up.

“Kakavasha, I’m sorry,” you tried, gazing up at him with eyes filled with sincerity. How could you even begin to explain it? 

“For what?” He didn’t waver as he hooked his finger under the cloth to tuck the end in, lingering unnecessarily long against your too-warm skin. He turned around, and you stood up, staring at his frame as he binned the bloodied cloths and wrappers. “Leaving me without a single word? Getting hurt? Smelling like someone else while I was worrying the hell away here?” 

The last part was muttered under his breath, and you couldn’t properly make it out from where you stood. “I was gathering information to check just how safe the university would be, and for clues related to a gut feeling I had. I’m sorry, Aventurine.”

“A gut feeling? You beat a basilisk single-handedly, and didn’t care to defend yourself from another person? How expendable do you think you are?” he uttered coldly, but you could see the slow cracks starting to show in his expression. 

You froze. Expendable? Had you thought yourself expendable? The more you thought about it, the more you realised just how much you’d let your death stagnate in your head when that knife was at your throat. “I…”

He strode out past you, but just a few steps away from the door, you saw him pause in the mirror and square his shoulders. Turning, he finally met your conflicted stare, but before you could even begin to guess what he’d say, he rushed up to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and despairingly burying his face in the planes of your back. You lurched forward in surprise, grasping the sides of the sink, but he didn’t budge. 

He’s warm, you thought, unlike the death that had enveloped you in its cool embrace. Something blurred in your vision. 

“Please, stay alive,” he whispered, and his lips were directly on your exposed spine as he spoke. Each syllable travelled along the nerves and went directly to your brain, in an earnest plea. With each syllable, the veil of his glamour strengthened, until only he could see the vibrant patterns that seemed to integrate with your very soul. “You can’t die.”

You swallowed. 

I already have. 

. 　⁺ ✦

That night, the warm coastal winds blew over the city of Metis, enveloping a chemist and his student in a cradle far gentler than the harsh winds of the Borderlands. Though the injured man succumbed to sleep easily, the same could not be said for his apprentice, who sat quietly under the lonely light of the moon: watching the restless rise and fall of the slumbering man’s chest. 

Kakavasha knitted his hands together with a lump in his throat, burning the sight into his bright eyes as though the man before him would slip away at any moment. Please, he murmured. Don’t leave me behind in this world. It was perhaps this urgent prayer that determined the flavour of the scientist’s dream. 

For the first time in many moons you dreamt of the pitch-dark canvas of the sky. Like curtains over the vast stage, they stretched over a familiar scene: grass that was washed in grey, a lone pathway which your feet mechanically trod on, and finally, the lonesome moon hung bright in the distance. 

But there was nobody in the distance.

Nobody for you to reach, nor to run after. No one. 

It seemed the phantasm haunting you had disappeared into the sepulchral depths of the night. 

In that dream you were trapped in, you walked many miles. The landscape didn’t change, remaining the same endless loop of change, as though you were in some video game or simulation. The exact same rock formation you must’ve passed at least eleven times, while you’d stopped counting the small shrubs with the same startled bird sitting within them. 

You supposed this was a video game, after all, but even with that acknowledgement there were still no signs of the man you’d so painstakingly brought to life. 

Though, after an inconceivable length of time, something began to change. The path’s winding trajectory began to differ, and you finally saw the cliff’s edge for the first time ever. There was a calm wind that blew across from the sea, and you felt yourself at ease—a selcouth experience in any sort of dream of yours, let alone this one. 

It was then that you felt the familiar sensation of coldness at your neck that you whirled around—and those piercing amber eyes flashed at you.

“You—” The man with damson locks held the same engraved dagger to your vulnerable throat, sneering at your stupidity. “Stop behaving the same way as that fool!”

“Fool?” He spoke for the first time, and his rich voice was piqued with amusement. The familiarity chilled you to your very bones. 

“But we’re the same person, are we not?”

. 　⁺ ✦

What the hell? You awoke with a gasp: chest heaving rapidly while your clothes stuck to your skin with sweat. There was the pungent taste of bile in your dry mouth, but the cup offered to you smelled only of the most fragrant of orange blossoms—wafting into the air as if dispelling your nightmare. Kakavasha’s hand outstretched with the ceramic; you recognised the vibrant patterns from a mug he’d painstakingly shaped and glazed himself. The etchings on the face seemed familiar, and with a start you realised he’d transcribed blurry remnants of your formulae onto it. You took the drink and blew on it, watching him watch your face for any further discomfort. 

“Must’ve been some dream,” he murmured, eyes flickering with concern and quiet contemplation. “You’ve got your appointment with the Adviser later today—do you still feel up for it?”

Pointedly, his fingers trailed over the bandages over your neck and shoulder, and you swallowed—citrus and florals seeping down your throat. You might’ve coughed up a petal in surprise, in some parallel universe. 

“I’ll be fine,” you replied, albeit somewhat awkwardly. “This is just a meeting for them to discuss re-release of my papers into Metis, and the distinction process. Are you coming as my assistant?”

“They don’t quite know my face yet,” he stood up and stretched, pulling several garments out of the armoire speculatively. “I’ll continue where you left off with your… recon.”

The jab was poignant. You almost laughed. 

“Noted,” you stood up too, shucking off the thin shirt you wore and selecting a high-necked, long sleeved robe you could drape more cloth around. Carefully, slowly, you washed up and dressed, making sure not to aggravate your burns any further. It was disorienting to keep your tattoos hidden away, but you didn’t want to become a bigger target than you already were. Nobody knew the scientist’s face, after all, and you weren’t about to make yourself even more identifiable. 

The facade you put on was convincing, if you said so yourself. Subconsciously, you’d picked out similar clothes to the ones you wore when you first came here—jewel-tones richly embroidered, yet arranged to form a modest silhouette. It was a loose style, perfect for the scorching heat that blazed in Metis year-round. 

“How is it?” 

He took you in, scrutinising every fold, every chain of jewelry, and every layer of your scent. There was a brief pause, then he took out a half-veil from the large cabinet by his bed, and gently attached it with a chain that coldly passed behind your ears and jingled on the way down. 

“This is in style nowadays—” his hands lingered, sweeping another layer of the glamour on you for good measure. “—so don’t captivate them too much.”

His words left you at a loss. 

“See you,” he added, and the door closed firmly with a click. 

You touched your face. 

“Huh?”

. 　⁺ ✦

The sitting room you were led to felt far too opulent for this sort of ruckus that followed. Rubbing your temples, you glanced briefly at the various trinkets and statues that decorated the packed shelves of books and manuscripts (noting with faint amusement that some of those said statues were the early prototypes you’d sold in the market all those months ago). Various paintings and gadgets, too, decorated this space; but despite how grand it was, you could still tell this space was lived in. 

You’d taken a seat on the soft couch, eyeing the refreshments set on the low table yet not touching them, and waited for the minutes to tick by towards your appointed meeting time. None of the newspapers had ever shown the Adviser, and you were surprised they even deigned to meet personally with wronged authors and scientists. 

It was strange, but you did suppose Metis was taking the steps to right its wrongs. 

Your musings were interrupted with the indignant voice of a student who wore an owl insignia on their robes. “Show respect to the most esteemed Sophos Ratio—”

Ratio? Your gaze swivelled to the door, but only the student remained—a herald, of sorts, to lay the petals for the Adviser to walk on. You almost scoffed. Behind them, you heard the firm, purposeful steps of someone you assumed was this Sophos Ratio, a name that had not been circulated quite yet in the papers, but a name whose works you’d read before. 

“He is the assistant to the Adviser, please show respect!” they repeated, and this time their brows drew together imperiously. You remained sitting. So he won't show himself after all.

“At ease, Aten,” Ratio spoke, muffled by an elegant mask that covered his face—all but his eyes, which seemed to widen imperceptibly upon seeing you still lounging on that couch of his. “I have asked him here as part of acknowledging the transgressions this city has done against scholars, and to offer a proposal. We are equals in this.”

“But, Arkho-Sophos, sir—” Aten, unable to accept this, opened their mouth and was interrupted yet again.

“Please leave us, Aten,” he repeated, and the student practically wilted like an aged cabbage at the rebuke. You remained sitting. 

Shutting the door behind him, he slowly stepped into the light. Behind the mask, the rays caught his irises and lit them into a fiery amber, and something stirred within you. His hair, too, transfigured from that rich black in the shadows to the damson shade that struck you in its familiarity.

What are the odds?

You stood then, extending your hand to his, and his gaze flickered between your own, neutral expression, and the outstretched palm you offered. Though your mind wasn’t from here, your body remembered the motions as he hesitantly placed his hand in yours, and you pressed your lips through the veil to the back of it as a respectful greeting. He watched you with sharp eyes, trying to discern just where he saw you, when you finally looked up with that stare of yours and he almost flinched. Almost. 

You still hadn’t spoken, and the practised boredom in each gesture suggested you didn’t quite recognise him. Ratio breathed a sigh of relief, then wondered at the absurdity of it all. The scientist whose papers he’d pored over was you? It was inconceivable. He could not say anything about it either, lest his own cover be blown.

He'd worn long white robes today, the symbol of a high-ranking scholar—the very opposite of yesterday. 

You sat down, still silent. 

“Arkho-Sophos, the chief,” you translated. Your fingers traced the rim of your shallow cup, not yet filled with the steeped tea waiting on the table. It would grow cold soon. “The assistant to the Adviser is rather qualified, are you not?”

Frigid as ever. 

The implications behind your words were many. He took a seat, replying neutrally as he poured from the teapot an azure tea into his cup and yours. “The position requires such.” 

“I’ve read your works. Biology, natural medicine, natural theology, philosophy, engineering, physics…” You took a sip of the flavoured tea, tasting the astringent layers of fruit you did not recognise. It might’ve perhaps been a kiwi, back on earth, blended alongside slightly unripe strawberries. “...Mathematics. In less than a year, you’ve enthralled academia with how blended your disciplines are with passion. Your understanding of how knowledge should be distributed to everyone, too, fits in with the new model of wisdom the city hopes to integrate after millennia of repression.”

“Spare the platitudes,” he replied mildly. The less you scrutinise me, the better. There was no sycophantic look in your eyes as you recited an empty analysis of him, but one that held a silent intensity. “I could say the same about your articles. Discussions about our work can wait for a time outside this meeting.”

He hoped you wouldn’t actually take him up on that. This meeting was simply a formality for you to either accept or reject the contract, and he sincerely prayed it would remain as such. 

“Oh? This is yours, then?” The mauve letter you slid across the table sent an unpleasant flicker of recognition across him, but his mask didn’t betray his expression. 

Your theses were captivating. 

Unfortunately. 

“Ah, yes,” he murmured, clearing his throat. “They were good papers. Could we move on to the objective of this meeting?”

“I’ve accepted. One year of research continuing crystallography and medical applications, and further alchemico-chemistry integration into chemical reactions,” you replied matter-of-factly. “I’ve already notarised the contract and forwarded a copy to the university’s current dean. That’ll earn me the Sophos distinction, correct?”

“Yes. I’m glad you’ve taken the offer from the university.” (He wasn’t.) “If there are no more questions…”

“I do have a question,” you interjected with practised ease. “Several, actually.”

“Oh?” Ratio leaned back, appearing perfectly intrigued. “Pray tell.”

“You’re fond of mystery, aren’t you?” It was a roundabout question.

“I’m not quite sure what you mean, sir.” You received a roundabout answer. “Keep the questions relevant. I don’t have all day for this.”

His voice was even, you’d give his acting that. “Sophos Ratio, don’t play stupid. Your work values honesty, therefore I’d prefer you to be honest as well. Did we not see each other yesterday?”

He was silent, carefully weighing his options before him. You, too, debated whether to pull your sword out against him. 

“I have a personal stake in this.” You took another sip of the fragrant tea, mulling over your next words. In fact, you pulled your sleeve aside briefly to show him the clear dressing you applied, where his dagger had melted into flesh. “Sure, you may argue that there’s no empirical evidence to suggest you crossed my path yesterday, but I think we both know how it’ll go if I pull out my sword again.”

Honesty is always the best policy. 

He looked at you for a long while, trying to deduce what you were machinating. There was a sudden release of tension in his shoulders—he was caught now, after all, but you weren’t drawing your sword out again like yesterday. Yet. “What exactly do you want?” 

“Like I said, you’ve just learned I have a personal stake in this—” you plucked a dried fig off the table and placed it on your plate, drizzling honey onto it. His gaze became particularly intense as you did so, and you couldn’t help but wonder why. “—and as of yesterday that’s given me incentive for involvement.”

“I disagree,” he interjected, picking up his own honeyed fig (and you wondered if he’d take off his mask). “In fact, it just means you don’t truly know what you’re dealing with. It is not simply an ill intentioned individual, but a complex political web far too easy to upset. I understand you learned you were a target yesterday, but there’s a reason others who have been targeted haven’t been told yet.”

“Some knowledge is better off being left unknown for the time being,” he added, and his words were faintly laced with regret. 

It was a good point. However…

“You’re working alone.” You bit into the fruit, letting the caramel taste wash over your tongue. The mellifluous notes contrasted with the blunt words drawn out of your mouth. 

“You don’t know that,” Ratio leaned back in his seat, but his faintly widened eyes betrayed his surprise. 

“I can’t prove it, but anyone in my shoes could deduce it.” You licked your fingers clean, etiquette be damned. All those presentations in front of your superiors had moulded your social anxiety-ridden self into being able to think on the spot when in a panic. “You’re currently acting in at least three roles, suggesting you’re the one doing all the work. The assistant to the Adviser…” You lifted your index finger in the air—one. “...a second-rate assassin…” You lifted your middle finger to join the first, and you sensed the scowl behind the mask—two. “…and the Adviser.” You lifted your ring finger, but quickly added your pinky—three, four. “Actually, scholar, too.”

“So, you can play detective, too,” he muttered with a particular boreal chill. He didn’t seem particularly defeated; rather, he gazed through you as though determining your worth to him. “How did you conclude the third?”

“A whistleblower who has reshaped the government,” you replied, resting your chin on your hand. “And a vigilante slowly weeding out the university faculty, the second power in Metis. You’ve already proved you prefer your own agency by shifting into a—ah—side character, and you just implicitly confirmed it now.”

“Impressive,” he commented, and nothing else to confirm or deny what you said. It was clear he was still assessing you, therefore you ventured further. 

“You’re good at magic, but contingency plans like however you escaped from Hopkins yesterday—” here, a poignant glare was shot at you. “—make your life more difficult.”

“Yes, it’s a complex political situation, and there’s always a risk in trusting someone else, but I’m probably the most serendipitous partner you have ever met,” you added. You could feel the disgust at your chosen adjective emanating from his mask. “Besides, I’m working on a subject which correlates to one of your fields. We might have to work somewhat closely regardless.”

He stared at you with mild incredulity. You were so obnoxious, so why the hell was he being swayed by your callous words? He didn’t think he’d ever been this irked by someone before, but you were holding your hand out and he was leaning towards it for some reason unbeknownst to him.

No one can shoulder the whole world, Sophos Nous had once told him.

“Don’t mess this up,” he said, finally. Against his own, your palm felt painfully familiar, and he froze. Couldn’t be him. 

“I’m glad you made this easy,” you shrugged. “I don’t think you could’ve realistically stopped me.” 

His face soured. Definitely not him. 

As you left the room with a ditty being hummed under your breath (one he recognised, ironically, as the one he’d started all those months back), he finally slipped the mask off his face and downed his tea and the fig that had grown unfortunately cloying on his plate. Chewing with an incensed expression, he finally spoke with a clear voice:

“What an egregious man.”

. 　⁺ ✦

[empyreansentinel]

Hiiii I remember u sawtooth posting a bit ago and I got so excited <- Sawtooth canyon fan number 1

You saying Brick was a bad bandit leader and asking why the Sawtooths dont just overthrow the Slabs is so fucking real honestly. I've been thinking abt that ever since I first beat this game a year or two back, and thought "Why doesn't Brick care about the bandits he's leading, that's basically his workforce..... Is he stupid", but it does make sense in a way ? Cuz Brick isn't a bandit from Pandora specifically, he's (a vault hunter) from Menoetius, so he doesn't actually know shit Bout crap when it comes to actual bandit hierarchy or grouping. Say what you will abt the moralities of Flanksteak,or the Flynts or any other bandit loed, but they at least care enough about their groups to know they need to keep their numbers up. But I think the other slabs just stick around to him and tolerate his inability to lead because they know the Sawtooths would completely crush them if they didn't. And there's a really important reason for that also:

Brick is not only built like if a muscle came to life and started talking, but he's also (or used to be) a vault hunter. A vault hunter that, Very Specifically, is allied with the crimson raiders, which is built from a bunch of members from the Lance + other vault hunters. They're not trying to start a fight with the maniacs who massacre entire towns worth of bandit camps for one reason or another. They have acquired enough territory to be considered a super-power in comparison to say, Nine toes' group from the first game, whose group was very small and contained to being near Fyrestone. My theory is they're willing to put up with whatever the Slabs do on their side of the territory so long as it's contained There, because they know if they did anything their leader would get a whole other array of problems involved. Which is literally what happens in-game because Brick calls the vault hunter group the second they even remind him of their existence, and they in turn kill a whole bunch of people about it.

Im rambling atp but Bandit politics is interesting and I love how you go about ittttttt

BRICK IS JUST....hes a very frustrating character to me. he’s written as this big dumb himbo character who loves his friends but a lot of the choices he makes in 2 paint him as just being reckless with the lives of his men. hes stationed the slabs directly in the middle of hyperion territory. their entire point of being is to put a wall of bodies between handsome jack and the rest of pandora, and its been that way for years. and it is not a fight they are winning, the best they’ve managed is a stalemate, which could be quickly overturned if jack used more than 3% of his brain power and razed the place like he did lynchwood and new haven. but that for some reason isn’t enough to occupy him. he also instigates fights with the sawteeth and lynchwood as well. lynchwood is on the defensive, its not going to go out of its way to start shit with the slabs because its primary purpose is being a source of eridium, not a military base. the whole deal with the sawtooth clan is even worse, because Brick is still the one picking a fight, with the excuse that the sawtooth have been selling out VHs to jack for money. which 1) WOMP WOMP and 2) further proof he still considers himself a VH and not a bandit. he sends you to cut through sawtooth cauldron and kill dozens of people for explosives. to uh. clear a bridge, if i recall. that can be crossed by buzzard. which the slabs have in abundance. whatever. all of this to say: yeah, you’re right. he SUCKS as a bandit leader and I think a lot of the slabs are with him out of necessity. because even after being ousted by the rest of the crimson raiders and mostly cutting contact with the BL1 VHs, he still values them as people above the slabs. hell he values the BL2 VHs, total strangers, above the slabs and that was before he even knew they were with the raiders. the biggest sell for me is his dialogue after you kill mortar. he questions why the sawteeth are still fighting, and calls them stupid for doing so. like he doesnt understand at all.

[angeltannis]

Sometimes I like a musician or song casually and it’s like Ok Cool Whatever 👍 but then it turns out it’s a surprise tool whose hidden true potential only unlocks once you’ve found the right Character to apply it to. And I go crazy