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mintyys-blog · 2 days ago

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Hello! Hope you are having a good day/night!

This is my first time requesting, and gosh this is both exciting and stressfull :,]

So, the request is: can you write a reader who is stress-baking (could be school stress, work stress or worrying about mark when he goes on a mission etc.). And, like, Mark comes home and there's a lot, A LOT of cookies, cakes, cupcakes; on kitchen counters, on tables, some still baking in the oven, and the kitchen is all messy. Then he comforts them of their stress, worries and just, overall cute and fluffy. (Main mark and they are dating)

If you dont feel like writing, its totally fine too!

Love your writings, thank you for sharing them with us ♡

( Take care, and dont forget to drink water! :> )

THE SWEETEST | main mark x reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST 2 | WARNINGS: stress, mention of fighting.

Do not repost, translate, or rewrite my work (AI generated or otherwise) without my permission. @mintyys-blog

You’ve been baking for hours.

The kitchen is a disaster, a testament to your restless mind. There are trays of cookies cooling on the counter, some of them slightly burnt from being forgotten in the oven. Brownies are stacked precariously in the corner, the scent of chocolate heavy in the air. Cupcakes are stuffed into every available space, and yet, somehow, the oven is still on, a fresh batch of something new quietly baking away.

It doesn’t make sense. The oven’s heat is supposed to be oppressive, but you’re not feeling it—not even the smallest bead of sweat on your forehead. Instead, you feel cold. Numb. Like there’s something lodged in your chest that won’t go away, no matter how much sugar you bake into these desserts.

The fight with your mother had been stupid. Trivial. She said you weren’t trying hard enough to fix your career, that you should do more with your life, get a real job instead of this part-time freelance nonsense. And you snapped, yelled at her like you always did, and now she’s furious, calling you selfish and immature.

It was the same argument. Over and over. And no matter how many cookies you make, no matter how many times you shove that batter into the oven and mix the frosting just right, it doesn’t feel like enough.

The sound of the door opening makes you freeze. The familiar voice, Mark’s, carries through the hallway.

“Babe? It smells amazing in here.”

You don’t answer. Instead, you focus on the batter in front of you, scraping the bowl like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Mark steps into the kitchen, breathing in deeply, a small smile on his face at the sight of your chaos.

“Smells like a bakery exploded,” he says, looking at all the trays, the cookies, the frosting smeared across the counters. He takes another deep breath, but when he sees you—really sees you—his smile falters.

You’re standing there in a messy apron, hair frazzled, eyes a little red, though you try to hide it behind the layers of frosting you’re still trying to work on. The kitchen looks like a tornado hit, but it’s not the mess that makes his stomach twist—it’s you.

The way your shoulders are hunched. The way you don’t look at him. The way the air around you feels heavy, almost as if you’re afraid to breathe.

Mark sets his bags down with a soft thud. “Hey,” he calls, stepping closer to you. “What’s going on?”

You shrug, finally lifting your eyes to meet his, but there’s a distant look in them. “Nothing. Just… baking.”

He knows better. Mark reaches out, gently pulling you away from the counter. “This,” he says softly, gesturing to the mountain of treats you’ve made, “this isn’t nothing.”

You bite your lip, a faint tremor in your voice. “I just… I’m fine. Really. I had a fight with my mom again. It’s nothing new. It’s not like I can fix it, Mark.”

His heart sinks. He knows you and your mother’s relationship has been strained for years, but hearing you say it like that—it stings. He steps closer, his hands coming to rest gently on your shoulders. “It’s not nothing. And you can fix it—if that’s what you want. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

You let out a small, shaky breath. “I don’t know how to fix it. She doesn’t understand… and it’s like no matter how hard I try, it’s never enough.”

Mark’s hands slide to your arms, pulling you into his chest. You resist for a moment, but when he holds you tight, you finally give in, letting him wrap you in his warmth. He rests his chin on top of your head, breathing you in, taking a long, deep breath as if trying to anchor himself to you.

“I don’t have all the answers,” he murmurs, “but I know you’re enough. For me. For anyone who truly matters. You’re not broken, babe. You’re… perfect, even when you’re baking like a madwoman.”

You let out a soft, laugh-sniffle, leaning into him even more. “I don’t even know why I do this. I just… can’t stop. I thought it would help.”

“It helps you, even if you don’t see it,” Mark says, rubbing your back soothingly. “But it’s okay if it’s not enough. You don’t always have to carry everything alone. Let me help.”

You look up at him, your eyes still a little watery, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself relax. The pressure that’s been building in your chest seems to loosen, even if just a little. Mark’s here, and for right now, you don’t have to be anything other than yourself.

“I missed you today,” you admit quietly.

Mark smiles softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I missed you too. Let’s take a break, yeah? We’ll eat all these cookies and brownies and… whatever else you made, and we’ll talk about everything. Just… no more baking for tonight. Deal?”

You nod, finally allowing yourself to lean fully into him. “Deal.”

Mark keeps his arms around you a moment longer, just holding you in that warm, steady way that always makes you feel like you’re not falling apart.

Then he pulls back slightly, reaching for one of the cookies on the counter—a slightly messy chocolate chip one, the kind you hadn’t even bothered shaping properly because your hands had been shaking too much at the time. He takes a huge bite, chewing thoughtfully.

“These taste good though,” he says around a mouthful, smiling like he means it.

You stare at the piles of desserts surrounding you. Cookies, cupcakes, brownies, bars. Rows and rows of sugar and chocolate and frosting.

Your chest tightens again, but this time it’s not just sadness—it’s guilt. You let your hands drop to your sides, feeling small.

“It’s such a waste,” you murmur, voice low. “I doubt we can finish all this.”

Mark swallows his bite and immediately nods, glancing around the kitchen. “Yeah, no way.” He nudges your side gently, coaxing your gaze back to his. “But… maybe we can donate it? There’s that orphanage in the city—the one you’re always talking about. The kids would love this.”

You blink up at him, and slowly, a small, real smile spreads across your lips.

“That sounds lovely,” you whisper, your voice a little thick with emotion.

Before he can say anything else, you throw your arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug. He lets out a soft huff of laughter, wrapping you up against him easily, his larger frame enveloping you in warmth and safety.

“Thanks, Mark,” you murmur against his shoulder, feeling some of the weight in your chest finally lift.

He kisses the top of your head, lingering there for a moment, like he’s trying to kiss away the last pieces of doubt clinging to you. His hands rub slow, soothing circles against your back.

“Always, babe,” he whispers. “Always.”

You stay like that for a while—held close in the kitchen, surrounded by the sweet smell of all the things you baked through your pain. But now it feels different. Now it feels like maybe, somehow, something good can still come out of all of this.

And Mark’s right there with you, making sure you don’t have to face any of it alone.

After a long moment, Mark pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands still resting lightly on your waist.

“Alright,” he says with a small, determined smile. “Operation: Save the Kitchen—and Feed Some Kids—is a go.”

You let out a soft, genuine laugh, the sound easing the tightness that had wrapped around your ribs all evening. Mark leans down and gives you one more kiss on your forehead before stepping back, surveying the kitchen with mock seriousness.

“We’re gonna need boxes,” he says thoughtfully, already rummaging through the pantry.

You grab some plastic containers and a few old bakery boxes you’d saved—just in case—and together, the two of you start packing everything up. It’s messy and chaotic, but somehow, it feels lighter now. The tension from earlier fades little by little, replaced by an easy rhythm as you both work side by side.

At one point, Mark sneakily steals a brownie from a cooling rack. You catch him mid-bite, narrowing your eyes.

“Mark Grayson,” you scold, hands on your hips. “We’re supposed to be donating those.”

He shrugs shamelessly, grinning with a crumb stuck to the corner of his mouth. “Quality control,” he says. “Gotta make sure it’s safe for the kids.”

You roll your eyes but can’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. He looks so pleased with himself, and it’s contagious. You shake your head and toss a dish towel at him, which he dodges dramatically, nearly knocking over a tray of cupcakes in the process.

“Careful!” you squeak, grabbing them just in time.

Mark laughs, reaching out to steady the tray with you. His hands brush over yours, lingering just a second too long, and when you look up at him, there’s something tender in his eyes. A reminder—silent but fierce—that he’s here. That he’s yours.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says softly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles almost absentmindedly. “Can’t have your hard work go to waste.”

You clear your throat, cheeks warming a little under his gaze, and pull your hand back, focusing on stacking another layer of cookies into the box.

Once you’ve packed most of the treats, you both sink onto the floor, backs resting against the cabinets, a tray of leftover cookies between you. The kitchen is still messy—flour dusts the countertops, and frosting smears cling to the stove—but for once, you don’t mind.

Mark leans his head back and sighs contentedly. “You know,” he says lazily, picking up a cookie and handing it to you, “this turned out to be a pretty good night.”

You take the cookie, nibbling the edge thoughtfully. “Yeah,” you murmur. “It did.”

He bumps his shoulder lightly against yours. “Next time you need to bake out your feelings… maybe warn me first? So I can show up with more Tupperware?”

You laugh quietly, leaning your head against his shoulder.

“Deal.”

He smiles, turning his head to kiss the top of yours again, his lips lingering for just a second longer than necessary. And for the first time today, you don’t feel overwhelmed or trapped—you just feel safe. Loved.

You close your eyes, letting yourself savor it.

Tomorrow there would still be things to deal with. Parents, work, life. But right now, here, with Mark beside you and the kitchen smelling like sugar and warmth, it feels like maybe you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

The next morning, after a sleepy breakfast of stolen cupcakes and coffee, you and Mark pile the packed boxes into his car. It’s a little chaotic—some frosting gets smudged onto the seats, and Mark keeps having to steady the towers of cookies every time he takes a turn—but you’re both laughing the whole way there.

The city orphanage is a modest brick building with a bright blue door, a cheerful mural of handprints painted across the front. It’s early, but a few kids are already outside, playing hopscotch and kicking around an old soccer ball.

Mark parks the car and hops out first, grabbing two boxes. You follow, a smile tugging at your lips as you watch him struggle slightly under the weight. He insists he’s fine—“super strength, remember?”—but you can see him wobble a little.

When you step onto the sidewalk, one of the younger kids notices the two of you and immediately races over, wide-eyed.

“Whoa! What’s all that?!”

Mark kneels down slightly to show the top box, giving the kid a big, easy grin. “Special delivery. Homemade cookies, cupcakes, and brownies.”

The kid’s eyes get even wider, practically shining. “For us?”

“All for you,” you say warmly, balancing another box in your arms.

Within minutes, the other kids swarm you both, gasping and giggling at the sight of all the sweets. A few of the staff members come out too, offering grateful smiles and hurried help carrying the rest of the boxes inside.

“You guys didn’t have to do all this,” one of the staff says, her voice touched with emotion as she peeks into a box filled with perfectly imperfect chocolate chip cookies.

You shrug a little, feeling shy under her praise. “Had a bit of a… baking emergency,” you say with a small laugh, glancing at Mark, who grins back at you.

“Well, it’s our lucky day then,” the woman says, beaming.

You help them set everything up inside, arranging the desserts on a long table while the kids eagerly crowd around, waiting for permission to dig in. The room smells heavenly—like vanilla and chocolate and sugar—and the atmosphere buzzes with excited chatter.

Mark leans in close while you’re arranging cupcakes, whispering near your ear, “Told you they’d love it.”

You glance at the kids’ excited faces, your heart swelling at the pure, honest joy radiating from them.

“Yeah,” you whisper back, smiling so hard your cheeks ache. “You were right.”

Before you can say anything else, a little girl with two messy braids tugs at your sleeve. She’s holding a slightly lopsided brownie, her face absolutely serious.

“These are the best brownies ever,” she declares solemnly. “You should open a bakery.”

You laugh softly, crouching down to her level. “Maybe one day.”

She beams at you, then scampers off to join the others, brownie clutched tightly in her tiny hands.

Mark watches you, his eyes soft and full of something so tender it makes your heart stutter. He reaches out and squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing along the back of it in small, reassuring strokes.

“I’m proud of you,” he says quietly, just for you to hear.

You squeeze back, feeling tears prick at the corners of your eyes—but this time, they’re good tears. Full tears.

“Thanks for being here,” you murmur.

“Always,” he promises again, squeezing your hand tighter, like he’s anchoring you to the moment.

Together, you stand side by side, watching the kids laugh and eat and make a mess of frosting and crumbs—and for the first time in days, the tightness in your chest finally, finally lifts.

You weren’t alone. You weren’t failing. You were loved. And maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay.

#x reader #reader insert #x female reader #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x you #mark grayson #invincible x you #invincible x reader #fluff #comfort #invincible

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blizzic · 5 hours ago

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Things like skill lists and mechanical gates determine what parts of your game are going to be part of the conversation and what parts are going to skip the conversation to be simulated with a dice roll. For example, Mothership 1e doesn't have a stealth skill, despite the fact that hiding from space monsters is a big part of the game, because if it did, you would be able to just say "I roll stealth" and move on. Without a stealth skill, you have to actually participate in the conversation, ask the GM about the environment and describe how you hide in it.

It's the same thing in dungeon crawling games. Having a skill for perceiving/investigating a dungeon in a game about perceiving and investigating dungeons is a great way to bypass the actual game part by just rolling a die every time you walk into a room.

Another way to think about this is good old-fashioned player incentive. If you, the game designer, want to incentivize players to carefully describe how they navigate their environment, analyze dungeon rooms, and interact with the things in them, should you create a game system where:

A) the GM describes the environment to the players, answers their questions, and then describes the consequences of their actions

B) the players can roll dice to determine if they see stuff.

Do you want to incentivize players to play the game you made? Or do you want to incentivize them to skip past the game with a die roll?

Sidenote #1: This only applies to games that are specifically trying to engender that type of escape room gameplay (and OP did specify "dungeon-crawling RPGs" so I'm not contradicting them). If dungeon-crawling isn't a design goal, then something like a Perception roll can be a great way to fast-forward past the players describing how they interact with/examine the environment to get to the stuff the game is actually about. What the dice do for us in this case is allow something other than the GM (who is biased because they're running the game) or the players' actions (which we're trying not to focus on in this scenario) to make a decision about whether or not the PCs notice something. For example, in a tactical combat-focused game, you might want ambushes to be a part of the game, but not to make the players have to constantly describe how they examine their environment for ambushes. "I check the trees to see if there are snipers" gets boring after the fifteenth time. So, instead, just have players roll to see if they can detect ambushes, and add in some bonuses based on characters' stats and maybe some circumstantial modifiers so that it's not totally random.

Sidenote #2: This is a great example of one of the ways that D&D 5e (and 5.5e) fail by trying to do everything at once. They want to offer dungeon-crawling as a playstyle, and their official adventures are awash with detailed dungeons, but they're also hugely mechanically-focused on tactical combat. So, they have a Perception skill, an Investigation skill, and a Stealth skill. Whoops we took the interacting with dungeon part out of our dungeon game. Guess we'll just have to do the dragon part now, roll initiative

If there was one thing I could retroactively erase from existence in the entire history of the tabletop RPG medium it would be the concept of using "perception checks" or "investigation rolls" or any similar mechanics in dungeon-crawling RPGs to determine if the PCs can see a detail in their environment.

"A DC 15 Perception roll is required to see..." "A DC 20 Investigation roll will reveal..." no. Shut up. If the thing is in plain sight or can be perceived with the senses by simply existing in this space and taking a look around then the PCs are perceiving it and describing it to the players is part of your role because you are their source of sensory information about the in-game world.

And if it's not in plain sight or deliberately concealed in some way then they simply DON'T perceive it but can reveal it by narratively interacting with their environment until one of their actions undoes whatever's concealing it, not rolling a die to see if they can Perceive Hard Enough to reveal it.

#rpg #ttrpgs #ttrpg #osr #rpg design #old school renaissance #old school revival #d&d 5e #d&d #mothership

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chimcess · 2 days ago

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⮞ Chapter Four: Dark Fury (Part Two) Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Other Tags: Convict!Jungkook, Escaped Prisoner!Jungkook, Piolet!Reader, Captain!Reader, Holyman!Namjoon Genre: Sci-Fi, Action, Adventure, Thriller, Suspense, Strangers to Enemies to ???, Slow Burn, LOTS of Angst, Light Fluff, Eventual Smut, Third Person POV, 18+ Only Word Count: 16k+ Summary: When a deep space transporter crash-lands on a barren planet illuminated by three relentless suns, survival becomes the only priority for the stranded passengers, including resourceful pilot Y/N Y/L/N, mystic Namjoon Kim, lawman Taemin Lee, and enigmatic convict Jungkook Jeon. As they scour the hostile terrain for supplies and a way to escape, Y/N uncovers a terrifying truth: every 22 years, the planet is plunged into total darkness during an eclipse, awakening swarms of ravenous, flesh-eating creatures. Forced into a fragile alliance, the survivors must face not only the deadly predators but also their own mistrust and secrets. For Y/N, the growing tension with Jungkook—both a threat and a reluctant ally—raises the stakes even higher, as the battle to escape becomes one for survival against the darkness both around them and within themselves. Warnings: Strong Language, Side Character Death, Violence, Blood, Talks About Past Characters Dying, Trauma, Graphic Injury scenes, Jaded Characters, LIGHT Religious Themes (I mean no harm and do not want to offend anyone), Smart Character Choices, This is all angst and action and that's pretty much it, Reader is a bad ass, Survivor Woman is back baby, preforming surgery on one's self, Gardening, terraforming, some mental health issues, survivor's guilt, lots of talking to herself, and recording it, because she'll lose her mind otherwise, bad science language, honestly all of this has probably had the worst science and basis ever, let me know if I missed anything... A/N: So, because Tumblr makes no sense, I'm having to cut this chapter in half because of a text block issue. So, you'll technically be getting two updates at once (even though it's the same chapter). Yay. I love this flatform so much. Thanks for reading!

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The skies above M6-117 were quiet now. Empty, wide, and harsh. The kind of quiet that didn’t mean peace—just the absence of screaming.

The eclipse had ended. The suns had returned, casting a bleached-blue glare across the scorched landscape. The heat came fast, drying blood, baking bones, erasing evidence. The bioraptors had vanished back underground, like the monsters they were—real, but unseen.

The wind hadn’t stopped. It kicked up grit in steady waves, howling across the dunes and cliffs. Thin, high-pitched. Like something still mourning.

In the shadow of a broken rockslide, part of a cave lay half-buried in sand and debris. Inside, it was cooler. Still. The air stank of blood and dust and something darker.

A body lay on the ground, facedown in the red sand.

It twitched.

Then again.

A low, strangled gasp broke the silence. Y/N Y/L/N dragged in a breath like it hurt. Her fingers clawed at the sand, trying to push herself up, but her muscles didn’t answer right away. She blinked, dust clinging to her lashes, and saw only the ground in front of her face.

Her mind spun. Pain screamed at her from every direction. Her ribs were cracked. Something deep in her gut pulsed with fire. But she was alive.

She wasn’t sure how.

She shifted—and the pain in her side became unbearable. She cried out, a rough, animal sound, sharp enough to echo. Her hand pressed instinctively to the source, only to feel the jagged, cold edge of something unnatural jutting from her body.

It was part of a bioraptor. The broken tip of its antenna—long, thin, sharp—embedded just below her ribs.

She stared at it.

Her breathing turned shallow.

She could feel the warm trickle of blood around it. Too much blood.

Her hands trembled as they hovered near the wound.

“Okay,” she whispered. It didn’t sound like her. “Okay… okay…”

She took a breath. Just one. Then wrapped her fingers around the antenna and yanked.

It came free with a wet pop.

The pain dropped her flat again. She couldn’t even scream—her breath caught in her throat like broken glass. For a second, everything went gray at the edges. She fought to stay conscious. One hand pressed into the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. Her other hand dug into the sand, anchoring her.

Move. Just move.

She rolled onto her side, breath ragged. Her fingers found the antenna again and, slowly, shakily, she used it like a crutch to pull herself up.

The suns outside were merciless. Light poured through the cracked stone above, stinging her eyes. She squinted, shielding her face as she staggered toward the cave’s opening. Each step was an argument with gravity. Her legs barely held.

But she made it.

Outside, the wind hit her like a slap. Sand scraped at her skin, got into her wounds. Her jumpsuit was torn, crusted with blood and dust. Her lips were cracked. Her throat burned.

She looked out over the desert.

Nothing but dunes. Heat shimmered off the sand in waves. But in the far distance, barely visible, was the broken spine of the Hunter-Gratzner. Half-buried. Still smoldering.

She stared at it like it was a promise. Or a curse.

Then she started walking.

She leaned hard on the antenna, every step like dragging dead weight. Her breath came in low, steady huffs. No room for panic. No energy for hope.

Her mind kept flashing images—pieces that didn’t fit right. Screaming in the dark. Jungkook’s voice, sharp and close. Leo. Namjoon. The ship rising into the sky without her. Or maybe that was just a dream. Maybe it hadn’t made it off the ground.

She didn’t know.

She walked anyway.

At some point, her knees buckled and she hit the sand hard. She stayed there a while, staring at nothing, waiting for her legs to stop shaking. Then she pushed herself back up.

The wreck was closer now.

It took everything she had left.

When she reached the wreck, her legs gave out. No dramatics—just gravity, and her body finally saying enough. She collapsed at the base of the scorched hull, the heat from the metal pressing into her cheek. For a second, she stayed there, breathing shallow and fast, the air burning in her lungs.

She pressed her face to the ship’s skin like it might recognize her. Might remember what she’d given to get back here.

It didn’t.

She dragged herself through the narrow corridor, her hand leaving a smearing trail of blood across the wall. The inside of the ship was hollowed out, quiet in a way that felt too final. Sunlight leaked through bent panels in thin, golden shafts. Dust floated in the beams. Everything else was still.

She found a corner—small, cramped, out of the sun—and dropped there. Her back hit the wall, and she slid down with a grunt, her body one long, dull scream of nerves. The jumpsuit clung to the wound. She peeled it back slowly, trying not to scream when the fabric tore away dried blood.

The wound was worse than she’d let herself believe. Deep. Angry. Still bleeding. She swallowed hard as she probed it with trembling fingers—and felt it. A shard of something still inside her. Bone? Metal? No. She knew exactly what it was: the antenna. A piece of that thing. Still with her.

She almost laughed. She didn’t.

Instead, she grabbed what was left of her belt and tied off a section of fabric over the wound. It was sloppy. Crude. But it was what she had. Her fingers hovered there a moment, pressing, breathing.

Her head dropped back against the wall, her jaw clenched. Every breath came with a spike of pain. And exhaustion… it was creeping in fast. The kind that didn’t ask for permission. The kind that felt like sleep—but leaned closer to surrender.

Memories came in flickers. Not in order. Not clear.

Darkness, wet and full of teeth. The glowworm bottle shaking in her hand. Screams she didn’t know if she’d imagined or made. The taste of her own blood. The moment the antenna had gone in.

But there’d been something else.

Another one of them—bigger, meaner—crashing into the one that had pinned her. Claws raking flesh, jaws tearing. It hadn’t been mercy. Just hunger. A bigger predator taking down the competition. It didn’t come for her. Not then. Just devoured its own.

She didn’t remember crawling to the cave. Didn’t remember sealing the entrance. Just remembered the sound—their claws dragging across the rock, trying to dig her out. The pressure in her ears. Her own heartbeat louder than everything else.

And then, nothing.

Until now.

She blinked the sweat from her eyes and forced herself to move. The med bay wasn’t far. She didn’t think about what would happen if it had already been stripped. She just moved. Every step was calculated, robotic.

The medical kit was still there. Dusty, kicked halfway under a cabinet, but untouched.

She didn’t let herself feel relieved. Just opened it.

Anesthetic. Forceps. Needle. Thread.

Her hands shook too hard to hold anything steady. The syringe took two tries before she got the plunger back. She jammed the needle into the flesh around the wound. Didn’t flinch. Just exhaled, slow and ragged.

The numbing was partial. That was enough.

She picked up the forceps.

For a long time, she didn’t move. Just stared at the open kit. At her own bloodied fingers. At the wound.

Just get it over with.

The forceps slid in.

The pain was savage. She didn’t scream this time—just clenched her teeth so hard her jaw locked. Her body tried to curl in on itself, but she kept going, deeper, until she felt it.

A click of metal against metal.

She yanked.

It came out slick and sharp, the jagged end of the bioraptor’s antenna glinting red in the dim light.

She dropped it to the floor. Let it roll where it wanted.

She had to rest. Just for a second. Just a second.

But the blood kept coming.

She forced herself upright. Threaded the needle with shaking fingers. She didn’t think. Didn’t let her mind go anywhere but forward.

Each stitch was its own nightmare.

When it was done, she slumped again, panting, her skin cold despite the heat. Her hand rested on the bandage, her eyes tracking the slow drip of blood still escaping.

She tilted her head back. Stared up at the ceiling like it might say something useful.

Nothing came.

No voice. No rescue. No answer.

Just her.

She licked her dry lips, voice cracked and flat.

“…Fuck.”

It had been about a week since she’d dragged herself back to the wreck, bloody, broken, and sure she'd die there. Time didn’t work the same on M6-117. There were no nights anymore—just the relentless weight of heat and light from the planet’s three suns, painting everything in bleached gold and bruised shadow. Days blurred. Pain blurred. All of it became one long stretch of surviving.

The wound in her side was still tender, stitched tight by unsteady hands and whatever thread she could scavenge from a torn flight jacket. Every movement tugged at it—sharp reminders that she wasn’t out of danger, just walking beside it now.

But she was moving. That was something.

Her world had shrunk to a routine. A grim, necessary rhythm of searching for water in fractured pipes, picking through twisted metal for anything she could turn into a tool, a weapon, or fuel. And when she wasn’t scavenging, she was listening—really listening. For breathing that wasn’t hers. For claws. For the scratch of something still out there.

The wreck had gone silent after the eclipse ended. No bioraptors. No screaming. Just the groan of stressed metal and her own footsteps echoing off bulkheads.

She'd made a corner of the cryochamber hers. The cryo unit was done for, split open like an overripe fruit, but the space was small, shielded, and out of the way. She’d insulated the floor with old uniforms and a couple ruined blankets. It stank of old coolant and dried blood, but at least it stayed cool when the heat got bad.

The walls still bore remnants of what the ship used to be—old NOSA placards peeling at the edges, blinking panels that flashed error codes in dying green light, and soot trails streaked across the ceiling from the fire suppression system kicking in too late. It was a grave, really. She lived inside a grave. But it was better than nothing.

That morning, she forced herself to explore farther.

Her muscles ached—worse in the mornings, like her body needed convincing to keep trying. She kept her hand on the wall as she moved through the corridor, half for balance, half to feel something solid beneath her fingers.

She found herself at a section they hadn’t touched much before. Starboard storage, mostly sealed during the worst of it. Back when there were others to consider—people who needed her to be strong, fast, efficient. No time for curiosity. Only priorities: food, light, defense.

Now there was only her. And time. Too much of it.

The first door barely gave under her weight—half-crushed, bent inward like it had tried to fold itself shut during the crash. Y/N pressed her shoulder to it, felt the resistance, then forced it open just enough to slip through.

The metal scraped against itself with a harsh groan. She ducked low, her breath catching as the movement tugged at the stitched wound in her side. She winced but kept going, inching through the narrow gap until she was inside.

The air was dry and stale. Hot. It smelled of scorched plastic and oxidized metal, and when she moved, a thin layer of ash and dust rose around her in lazy swirls. Her hand instinctively covered her mouth as she coughed.

The space was wrecked—storage bay maybe, or a utility room. Hard to tell. The walls were blackened with soot, panels popped loose from their bolts. Most of the crates had been crushed flat or ripped open, their contents spilled and warped from heat. Burned rations. Melted circuitry. Garbage.

She kept digging anyway. You couldn’t afford to pass anything up. Every scrap might mean one more hour alive.

Then her hand brushed something solid. Cold. Square-edged.

She froze. Reached again, slower this time. Whatever it was, it was lodged under a twisted shelf. She gave it a hard yank, and it came loose with a pop of static from the surrounding debris.

A camera.

NOSA-issued. Military-grade. Tough build. Matte black casing scuffed and scratched, the sort of thing meant to survive impact, weather, time. Her fingers curled around it like it might vanish. She turned it over, thumb brushing against the ridged power switch.

The screen blinked on with a low whir, grainy at first, then steadier.

The timestamp burned on the corner of the display: the day of the crash.

Her stomach turned. Not from the wound, not this time.

She stared at the date. Blinked. Her thumb hovered near the playback button.

What could possibly be on here? Footage from the wreck? A log? A view of her, maybe, shouting over the storm, trying to keep people alive, trying to outrun the dark.

Or something worse.

She let the camera rest in her lap. Leaned back against the edge of a crate and rubbed her hand across her face. Her skin felt dry and cracked, caked with dirt and dried sweat. The heat in this part of the wreck was worse. Less airflow. Fewer cracks in the hull.

“Right,” she muttered, looking down at the device. “Like any of this would’ve made a difference.”

The camera didn’t reply. Just sat there, screen glowing, lens aimed up like it was waiting. Like it was listening.

She hated that it almost felt alive. Too many days with only your own voice bouncing off the walls, and you started assigning souls to objects.

Still… the idea didn’t leave her. Not all the way. She could use it. Record something. Not a distress call—she wasn’t dumb enough to believe that kind of miracle was coming. But maybe just to talk. Something to anchor her to herself.

She didn’t press record.

Not yet.

Instead, she set it gently on the edge of a crate and stood, steadying herself with one hand. Her legs ached, and the muscles around her wound were starting to throb. She ignored it. There were more rooms to check. More corners of this grave to dig through.

She climbed through a low break in the wall, into another part of the ship—this one better preserved. Still messy. Still broken. But more intact. Storage crates littered the space, some cracked open, some still sealed.

She knelt beside the nearest pile. Pain flared up her side again, sharp and deep. She sucked in a breath and kept going.

Found food packs—sealed. Clean. Enough for maybe another week, if rationed right. A length of rope. A hand torch. Small wins. The kind that could mean everything.

She carried it all back to the cryo chamber in two trips. Set it down carefully on her makeshift bedding. Let herself breathe.

Her eyes drifted back to the camera.

It hadn’t moved. Of course it hadn’t. But it felt like it was waiting. Still. Quiet. Expecting something.

“Maybe later,” she said, mostly to herself.

But even as she turned away, the idea lingered. Not hope. Not exactly.

Just... the need to remember she was still a person. And that maybe, somewhere down the line, someone would want to know what happened here.

Even if it was only the walls.

The camera sputtered awake with a groan, like it resented the effort. The motor’s whine was sluggish, hesitant—like something half-dead remembering how to breathe. The lens jittered before settling, the flicker reminding her of a dying candle—just barely clinging on. It wasn’t a victory, not even close. But after the fire, the impact, and the soul-crushing silence of the days that followed, the damn thing still worked. She didn’t feel triumphant. If anything, it felt like the universe was mocking her.

She leaned into the frame, face streaked with dirt, sweat gleaming under the camera’s dull red light. Her eyes were hollowed by fatigue, lids heavy like sandbags. Hair plastered to her temples in grimy clumps, tangled and wild, a clear message that survival had long since outranked vanity. She squinted at the screen, muttering under her breath as she adjusted the focus. Her fingers, stiff and awkward, moved like they didn’t remember what finesse was.

“Okay,” she said hoarsely, voice cracked like the desert floor outside. She swallowed and tried again, quieter this time. “Okay…”

The timestamp blinked to life: HUNTER GRATZNER – SOL 19 – 06:53. She stared at the numbers, let them sit there, heavy as lead. Nineteen sols. Almost three weeks since the crash. Almost three weeks since everything splintered apart. Somehow it felt like forever and yesterday at the same time.

She leaned back, dragging a hand across her brow and only smearing more dirt across it. “This is… Y/N Y/L/N. Pilot.” Her tone was flat, too drained to bother with formality. She could’ve been filling out a form, not recording what might be her last words. “Logging this… just in case.”

Her voice trailed off into the heat-thick air. The only sound was the low whir of the camera. Then, suddenly, a bitter laugh escaped her—sharp, involuntary. “Just in case I don’t make it.”

Her eyes drifted toward the cramped walls of the survival shelter. They looked closer than before, like they were shrinking inward. She blinked hard, tried to focus. But her thoughts had a way of slipping off-course these days. She blamed the heat. She blamed the silence.

The first week after the crash was a mess of pain and blackout stretches. That damned bone had punctured her side—jagged and deep—and pulling it out nearly knocked her out cold. She’d spent two full days sprawled across the remains of the cockpit, bleeding into the floor, half-conscious and half-delirious. Every movement felt like a death sentence. The bleeding slowed eventually, and she’d tied together enough scraps of uniform to hold herself together.

By day three, she’d clawed her way to what was left of the storage compartments and scavenged a crude medkit. Nothing sterile, nothing proper, but enough to keep the infection at bay. Enough to survive.

Since then, survival had been a matter of cataloging and rationing. What was left? What still worked? Most of the ship was scrap—gutted, burned, twisted beyond recognition—but there were pockets of salvage. A stash of dehydrated meal packs. Some intact water lines, though who knew how long they’d hold. The pressure unit was holding, barely. The oxygen regulator had hairline fractures she hadn’t figured out how to seal yet. Time was running out. Breath by breath.

And the heat. Gods, the heat. The planet didn’t cool. Ever. With three suns in staggered orbit, there was no real night, just a dimming. A pause. She wasn’t sticking around for the next sunset—not when that was a couple of decades away. The constant pressure of it was maddening. Sweat pooled beneath her clothes, dried in salty crusts. Finding a tube of half-used sunscreen in one of the cabins had felt like discovering gold. She'd applied it like it was sacred, smoothing it over her arms and face with a reverence she didn’t even know she had left. For a few moments, she’d felt like a person again.

Now, she stared into the camera, her voice quieter. “Probably won’t make it,” she said, almost like she was sharing a secret with herself. “Not unless I can fix the ship… or find something better.”

Her gaze hardened, locking onto the lens like it was someone to talk to. “It’s oh-six-fifty-three, Sol nineteen. And I’m still here.” She let the words hang, heavy and strange. “Obviously.” It was meant to be sarcasm, but it landed like an empty shell.

She rested her elbows on her knees, her body folding in on itself. “I bet this’ll come as a shock. To NOSA. To… whoever’s watching. Surprise, I guess.” She exhaled slowly, one corner of her mouth twitching in what might have been a smile if there’d been any humor left in her.

“They think I’m dead. All of them. Honestly? So did I.”

Her hand curled into a fist, knuckles pale. Then she held something up—a jagged, bloodstained piece of bone. It caught the light like something sacred and awful. “This tore through me,” she said, eyes locked on it. “Ripped me open like tissue paper. I thought I was done.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I should’ve been done.”

She turned the bone slowly in her hand, studying it like it might tell her something. “But it saved me. Long enough for the bleeding to stop. Long enough to crawl somewhere safe.” She paused, jaw tightening. “Three days. Three godsdamn days. Hiding in a fucking cave. Praying those bioraptors wouldn’t sniff me out.”

She looked toward the viewport, her eyes following the jagged line of the horizon. Nothing but dust and rock and heat as far as she could see—like the planet had been built just to wear people down. No signs of life. No movement. Just stillness and that same bone-dry silence that stretched forever. A place that didn’t give a damn if you lived or died.

Her voice came out barely above a whisper. “Jungkook…”

She paused, swallowing around something thick in her throat. It took effort to keep her voice steady. “If you ever hear this… just know it wasn’t your fault. None of it was. Shit just went sideways.” Her jaw tensed. “You did what you had to. I get it.”

She let the silence sit for a second, then added, softer, “If I’d been in your shoes… I would’ve done the same.”

Her eyes dropped to the floor, and her whole body seemed to cave in on itself, like the weight of everything finally settled on her shoulders. “I’m glad you made it,” she said quietly. “All of you.”

The quiet that followed was thick and suffocating. After a moment, she let out a sharp breath and dragged a hand down her face, like she could wipe off the fatigue. “So yeah,” she muttered, the edge in her voice dulled by exhaustion. “That’s where we’re at.”

She straightened up a little, like it was some kind of formality. “Y/N Y/L/N. Stranded on planet M6-117.” Her eyes scanned the room, as if it still surprised her that this cramped little pod was all she had left. “No comms, because—” She gave a small, humorless laugh. “Well, the ship’s a fireball now. So, there’s that.”

Her hand swept vaguely around the tiny habitat. It trembled a little as she gestured. “Even if I could send a signal, the closest manned mission isn’t anywhere near this quadrant. Not for years. Maybe decades. And I’ve got thirty-one days’ worth of supplies. That’s my clock.”

She took a breath, slower this time. “If the oxygenator dies, that’s it. No backup. I just… stop breathing. If the water reclaimer fails, dehydration’s next. If there’s a breach and this place heats up?” She shook her head slightly. “I’ll cook before I even know what hit me.”

Her voice cracked, barely holding together. “And if none of that happens... I still run out of food.”

Her eyes lingered on the camera lens, but they were distant now, like she wasn’t really seeing it. Like she was already somewhere else in her mind, farther away than the stars.

After a long beat, she reached for the console. Her fingers hovered for a second—then pressed the button.

The screen flickered off, and the silence rushed back in like a wave.

Y/N sat on the makeshift bunk she’d pieced together, her back pressed against the icy metal wall. The chill seeped through her jumpsuit, a sharp contrast to the constant, oppressive heat of M6-117. Her stitches pulled faintly with every shift of her weight, a dull, nagging reminder of how fragile her body had become. Heavy lifting? Out of the question. Even breathing too hard felt like it might tear her apart. Every motion had to be slow, deliberate, calculated—none of which came naturally to her.

Her fingers drummed lightly against the wall in an uneven rhythm, the faint sound filling the silence around her. The days had started to blur together, stretching endlessly into a haze of pain and exhaustion. Minutes felt like hours. Hours felt like days. She had no way to tell how long she’d been sitting there, staring at the opposite wall and letting her thoughts wander like loose debris floating in zero gravity.

The ship was a wreck. It had been from the moment it slammed into the desert, but with every passing day, it seemed to decay further. Panels hung precariously from the ceiling, some blackened and melted from electrical fires. Wires dangled like severed vines, swaying faintly every time she moved or the ship groaned in the wind. Dust—or maybe ash—coated the cracks in the floor, a constant reminder of the violence that had brought her here.

The smell was the worst: a mix of burnt plastic, old sweat, and something metallic that she couldn’t quite place. It clung to her skin, her clothes, the walls. There was no escaping it.

She shifted slightly, wincing as her stitches tugged again. Her fingers fell still, resting limply in her lap, as her thoughts drifted to the others. She hoped they were safe now, wherever they were, but the not knowing gnawed at her.

Jungkook’s face appeared unbidden in her mind, sharp and vivid as though he were standing in front of her. His eyes came first—those strange, unnerving, beautiful eyes. They were like polished silver, catching the light in ways that didn’t seem possible. They’d always made her feel a little unsteady, like he could see through her, into the parts she tried to keep hidden.

Where was he now? Safe on some station, no doubt, his cocky smirk driving everyone around him crazy. The thought made her stomach twist, a mixture of relief and something else she didn’t want to name.

And yet, her mind refused to let him go. She remembered his laugh, low and rough around the edges, and the way his shoulders always seemed too broad for whatever cramped space they were stuck in. She thought about the time he’d leaned close to her after she went back for Captain’s log, blood dried to her knuckles, and licked the blood off her hand like it was nothing.

The memory hit her like a jolt, and she flinched, physically recoiling from the thought. What the hell was wrong with her? Thinking about him like that, here, now, when she didn’t even know if she’d survive the week?

Her jaw tightened, and she shook her head, forcing the memory down into the depths of her mind where it belonged. Jungkook was gone. Namjoon and Leo were gone. And she was here, alone, on a planet no one cared about, clinging to life in the ruins of what used to be a ship.

She ran a hand over her face, exhaling shakily. Forcing her mind away from Jungkook, she thought about Namjoon and Leo instead. Namjoon, steady and calm even when the world was crumbling around them. He’d been the one to keep everyone together after the crash, the one who made everything seem so miniscule in the grand scheme of things. Who hoped and prayed to a God that she openly mocked. Well, look where that got her.

She hoped he’d found some semblance of peace, though she doubted he’d ever let himself rest.

And Leo—sweet, quiet Leo, who’d seemed so afraid and brave all at the same time and had a laugh that could light up a room. She could still hear her humming softly to herself as she worked, could still see the way her hands moved with the boomerang that she’d grown fond of during the short stay here. She deserved safety. She deserved a future.

Y/N could only imagine what the girl faced on these ships that made her pretend to be a boy.

Y/N knew because she had her own stories to tell. It was a shame the two of them never got to bond. She was a good girl, a sweet girl, and needed a home like Jimin had.

Oh God, Jim… He must think I’m dead.

Her chest ached with the weight of it all. She wanted to believe they’d made it, that the escape shuttle had gotten them somewhere safe. But hope was a dangerous thing out here.

Her gaze drifted to the cracks in the floor again, her fingers tapping absently against her knee. The silence pressed in around her, heavy and suffocating, as her thoughts spiraled in slow, relentless circles.

She wanted to move. To do something—anything—to break the stillness. But her body rebelled against her, reminding her with every ache and throb that she wasn’t ready yet.

"Tomorrow," she muttered, her voice hoarse and thin in the empty room. "Tomorrow, I'll start again."

But tonight, she would sit in her makeshift bunk, staring at the scorched walls, and try not to think about the eyes she couldn’t forget or the faces she might never see again.

The horizon had that strange, muted glow again, the kind that came when only one of the planet’s three suns was awake. It wasn’t exactly dawn—not in the way she remembered it from Helion 5—but it was the closest thing this godforsaken rock could offer. Y/N sat on a flat patch of charred metal outside the remains of the Hunter Gratzner, watching the pale orange light crawl across the jagged landscape. She knew the second sun would start peeking over the horizon soon, and if her mental clock was still reliable, that meant it was about six or seven in the morning back home.

When the third sun joined the party, it’d feel more like late afternoon, and the heat would grow even more unbearable. For now, the air was heavy but tolerable. A small mercy. She stretched her legs out in front of her, boots scuffed and battered, and stared out at the endless expanse of sand and rock. Nothing moved out there, not even a whisper of wind. This planet didn’t do “gentle.” It just existed, glaring down at her with its triple suns, daring her to survive another day.

She sighed and got to her feet, wincing as her muscles protested. The Hunter Gratzner was more like a wreckage with a roof than a proper ship these days, but it was home—for now. She ducked through the hatch and into the cramped quarters, the smell of metal and stale air greeting her like an old, annoying friend.

Her first stop was the toilet. Not glamorous, but necessary. The vacuum system roared to life, sucking the waste away and beginning its overly complicated drying procedure. Y/N stood there, half-listening to the machine whine and hum, her mind wandering. When it finished, she glanced back at the result—a silver bag sealed tight like a little alien gift.

She tilted her head, studying it. An idea started to form, half-baked and ridiculous, but the beginnings of something useful. “Huh,” she muttered under her breath, filing it away for later.

The rest of the morning was dedicated to inventory. Again. It wasn’t exciting, but it was important. She crouched next to the ration packs she’d pulled from the wreckage over the last few days, stacking them into neat, slightly obsessive piles. Most of it was unremarkable—protein bricks, nutrient paste, the kind of stuff that made eating feel more like a chore than a comfort. But one case caught her eye.

“DO NOT OPEN UNTIL SOLVARA,” the label read in bold, almost cheerful letters.

Solvara. Y/N snorted. The odds of her making it to Solvara felt about as likely as the suns setting on this planet anytime soon. Still, she tapped the edge of the case thoughtfully before moving on. Maybe it was worth saving. For morale or whatever.

The hours blurred after that. She worked on autopilot, sorting through supplies, patching what she could, ignoring the gnawing hunger in her stomach. By the time the second sun was high enough to heat the air into its usual suffocating blanket, she found herself sitting in the semi-darkness of the ship, surrounded by stacks of rations and scattered tools. She stared at the walls, at the faint flicker of the broken console, at nothing in particular.

It was the kind of stillness that didn’t feel restful—just hollow. Her thoughts circled back to the same questions, the same numbers. How long could she last? How much water did she really have? What if the pressure machine gave out tomorrow? Or the oxygen pack? There were too many variables, and the math was starting to feel like an enemy she couldn’t outsmart.

Y/N shook her head, forcing herself to sit up straighter. Enough. She needed to do something, anything, to stop the spiral. “Get up,” she muttered to herself. Her voice was rough, dry from dehydration and disuse. “Come on. Move.”

She pushed herself to her feet, scanning the room with purpose now. Her fingers trailed over the scattered wreckage, pausing every so often as she searched for... something. There. Tucked into the corner of a storage compartment. A pencil. It was small and unassuming, the kind of thing that would’ve been forgettable on any other day.

But not today.

She yanked a notecard free from one of the ship’s dusty manuals, the paper slightly yellowed but intact. Back to basics. No screens, no touchpads, no malfunctioning tech—just pencil and paper, like it was the old days.

Y/N sat down at the tiny table bolted to the floor and started writing. The pencil scratched across the card, leaving behind numbers and symbols, equations that didn’t look like much but felt monumental in her mind. Water consumption rates. Oxygen usage. Repair estimates. She wrote it all down, no matter how grim the answers looked.

“Let’s do the math,” she whispered, her voice steady this time. She kept writing.

The camera was rolling again, its tiny red light blinking steadily as Y/N adjusted its angle. She leaned into the frame, her face slightly less tragic than it had been in previous recordings. She’d cleaned up—sort of. The layers of grime and sweat were still there, and her hair, while still tangled, no longer clung to her forehead like a second skin. She looked more human. Barely.

She exhaled slowly, straightened her back, and looked directly at the camera lens. “After arriving in New Mecca,” she began, her voice steady but edged with dry sarcasm, “my crew was only supposed to be awake for thirty-one days before going back into cryosleep. For redundancy, NOSA sent enough food to last for sixty-eight days. For three people.”

She paused, letting the weight of the numbers settle in her mind—and maybe for whoever might watch this someday. “So for just me, that’s three hundred days. Four hundred if I get creative.” Her lips twisted into a tight smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Which means I still have to figure out how to grow food. Here. On a planet where nothing grows.”

Reaching for one of the mission briefs, she held it close to the lens. The bold, official lettering across the top read Co-Pilot, but just above it, in her own handwriting, the word “Botanist” had been scrawled in jagged letters. She tapped the scratched-out title with a finger. “Luckily, I’m the co-pilot for a reason,” she added with mock cheer. “God, I’m so glad I studied botany.”

Her voice turned deadpan, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. “M6-117 will come to fear my botany powers.” She let the silence hang for a moment before cutting the feed.

The camera’s perspective shifted as Y/N carried it outside, the glare of the twin suns washing the screen in a harsh, blinding white before the auto-filter finally kicked in. Slowly, the barren world beyond the wreckage came into focus. Jagged red sands stretched endlessly in every direction, the dunes rippling like frozen waves. It was beautiful, in a way, but beauty couldn’t hide its cruelty. The planet was desolate, a hostile wasteland that mocked her with its emptiness.

Her boots crunched against the sand as she trudged forward, every step a deliberate effort. The sharp tug of her stitches with each movement was a constant reminder of her limitations, a small but insistent pain that kept her grounded in the reality of her fragile survival.

Tucked securely under her arm was a stack of sealed silver bags, their reflective surfaces gleaming in the oppressive sunlight. Compost material. Every single one of them. It wasn’t glamorous or pleasant, but it was necessary. She’d scrounged every bit of organic waste she could find over the past weeks, hoarding it like treasure. If her plan had even a sliver of hope, she would need it all.

Her destination loomed ahead: the Hab. It wasn’t much to look at—a mismatched structure cobbled together from the remains of the ship. Panels that once carried vital systems now served as patchwork walls. Observation deck glass had been repurposed into crude, dusty windows. Dented cryochamber lids insulated the roof. The entire thing leaned slightly to one side, as though daring the wind to knock it down.

But it wouldn’t. Y/N had made sure of that.

It had taken her weeks of slow, painstaking effort to build the Hab, every minute a struggle against her aching body and the unforgiving heat. Every bolt she’d fastened and panel she’d secured had been an act of stubborn defiance. It wasn’t pretty. It didn’t have to be.

As she stared at the Hab, she couldn't help but remember Koah Nguyen, her old crew mate. She still saw his face in her mind, the way his eyes sparkled when he talked about engineering, his hands always moving in that precise, methodical rhythm. Koah had been the pilot of the Starfire, and an engineer to boot. He’d been a walking encyclopedia of mechanics, someone who could fix anything—from starship engines to the tiny gadgets that never seemed to work quite right on the ship.

When she first met him, Y/N had been a little intimidated by how effortlessly Koah could repair everything. She’d been content to stay in her co-pilot role, figuring her job was keeping the ship flying while he handled the nuts and bolts of it. But Koah had a different idea. “You’re gonna need to know this stuff if you're gonna make it,” he’d told her one night, flashing her that crooked grin of his as he set down a welding torch. “A ship doesn’t fly itself, you know?”

The two of them had spent hours together, over the course of many trips, with Koah showing her the basics of engineering. He’d taught her how to patch a hull, how to recalibrate a plasma vent, how to wire a circuit when it wasn’t quite cooperating. At first, it was just another thing to tick off her list, but soon she found herself enjoying it. The rhythmic process of taking something broken and making it whole had its own kind of satisfaction. Sometimes, after long days of flying, they’d meet up outside of work and work on one of Koah’s welding projects. It wasn’t just about fixing things anymore. It was about creating something, about making beautiful things out of metal scraps and old, discarded parts.

Koah was an artist with metal. He’d often bring out pieces he was working on—small sculptures made of twisted pieces of scrap metal, intricate shapes that, at first glance, seemed like chaotic messes but came together in unexpected ways. Y/N had always admired his ability to see art in something that most people would throw away. They’d spend evenings together in his workshop—sometimes laughing, sometimes in complete silence as they both focused on their projects. He always made her feel like she was part of something bigger than just the ship and the mission.

If she had stayed on the Starfire, she wouldn’t be here now.

She shook her head, trying to push the thoughts away, but they lingered like a stubborn fog. He would’ve found it hilarious, Y/N thought, glancing back at the Hab. She could almost hear his voice teasing her now, the lighthearted tone he’d use when he saw her struggling with the wiring or the metalwork. “Not bad for a botanist,” he’d say, giving her a sarcastic wink, “but you still can’t hold a candle to my welds.”

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. She could practically see him there, grinning, as he passed her a welder’s mask. They’d work on metal together until the stars outside began to dim, the quiet hum of the ship their only company.

Now, the Hab stood as a testament to everything Koah had taught her, and she hated to admit it, but it was comforting in a way. Each metal panel she’d carefully cut and welded into place, each beam she’d reinforced, each crooked corner—was a small victory. She could hear his voice now, an echo in her mind: “You’ve got this, Y/N. Just one piece at a time.”

And she had done it, one painful piece at a time. She had taken scraps and forged something functional from the wreckage, just as Koah would have.

It wasn’t pretty, but it didn’t have to be. The Hab was a survival mechanism, built from the remnants of her past crew, from the skills Koah had shared with her. He’d never have imagined that she’d be here alone, making a home out of the wreckage of her ship, but Y/N could almost hear his voice in her ear: "You always did make the best of things."

Inside, the air offered little relief. The temperature was only marginally cooler, but it was enough to keep her moving. She placed the silver bags onto a counter made from a scavenged section of the hull, then walked to the water reclaimer in the corner. It hummed faintly as it dispensed lukewarm water into a container. Not fresh. Not clean. But drinkable.

She carried the container back to her makeshift kitchen station, where a rudimentary compost bin waited for its next grim addition. The bin was a patchwork creation, much like the Hab itself, built from leftover crates and reinforced with scraps of metal. Its lid hung open, waiting expectantly.

Y/N set the container down and stared at the silver bags. Her stomach twisted in anticipation of what came next. “Okay,” she muttered, more to herself than anything. “You can do this. It’s fine. Everything is fine.”

Her fingers hesitated on the seal of the first bag, but she forced herself to tear it open.

The smell hit her instantly—a wave of rot and decay so pungent it felt like a physical blow. She gagged, stumbling back a step, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh my God,” she choked out, her voice muffled behind her palm. “What have I done?”

The answer was obvious, but there was no turning back. She squeezed her eyes shut, took a deep breath of what passed for fresh air, and tore open another bag. The stench deepened, an unholy mix of decomposition and an odor she couldn’t identify but knew she’d never forget. She dumped the contents of each bag into the bin, one after another, her hands trembling as she worked.

By the time she finished, her stomach churned, her mouth dry. She leaned heavily on the counter, gasping for air that didn’t reek of death. Her eyes watered, and she swiped at them with the back of her hand, determined not to lose her nerve. The compost bin was full now, its contents a nauseating slurry of organic matter that sloshed slightly as she moved.

She stared at it, her nose wrinkled and her expression grim. This mess—this putrid, rancid soup—was supposed to be the start of her plan. Her first step in growing food on a planet that had never known life.

She let out a heavy sigh, running a hand over her face. “M6-117 will definitely fear my botany powers,” she muttered, her tone dry, almost bitter. She glanced at the camera perched on the counter, its red light still blinking. “Don’t laugh,” she added, pointing at it as though it could respond.

Turning back to the bin, she grabbed a stirring rod and braced herself for the next unpleasant step.

The dirt was dry. Too dry. Each grain of sand seemed to mock her, unyielding, as if the planet itself had conspired to make her struggle just a little bit harder. Y/N scooped it into the container with a small shovel she’d salvaged from the wreckage. Her movements were slow, deliberate, each scoop a reminder of the reality she couldn’t escape. The relentless heat pressed down on her like a weight, suffocating any energy she might have had. She’d been at this for hours, maybe days—it was impossible to tell anymore. The days had blurred together into an endless cycle of exhaustion and tiny victories, and she could no longer tell when one bled into the next.

With each scoop, the shovel hit the ground with a faint clink, like a tiny rebellion against the barren land. It wasn’t much—just a handful of dry dirt, nothing more—but it was all she had to work with. She winced as her wrist twinged from the impact, shaking it out before continuing, her fingers raw from the constant effort. She couldn’t afford to stop. Not yet. Not when she was so close.

The walk back to the Hunter Gratzner was short, but the container felt heavier with each step, its weight dragging at her arms. By the time she reached the airlock, her muscles were burning, her joints screaming in protest. She muttered something under her breath—probably a curse, probably aimed at the planet itself—and trudged through the airlock, her face set in grim determination.

Inside the Hab, she placed the container down in the corner she’d cleared a few days ago. The dirt spilled out in a dry cascade, joining the small pile she’d started. It wasn’t much, but it was something. It had to grow. She needed it to.

Time continued to pass in a blur, but by the time Sol 25 rolled around, the pile of dirt had grown considerably. Y/N stood in the doorway, arms full of another container, her face a mix of exhaustion and determination. The pile of dirt looked almost ridiculous in the center of her Hab, a mountain of Martian soil in the middle of a place that was meant to be her shelter. But it didn’t matter. Ridiculous was better than dead. She wasn’t going to let herself fail.

On Sol 28, the plan began to take shape. Y/N spread the dirt across the Hab’s floor, smoothing it out with her hands, the reddish dust caking beneath her nails as her fingers worked through the dirt. It was tedious work, but it was necessary. The heat made everything feel like it was happening in slow motion, each movement taking more energy than it should. She wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand, not even pausing to think about the pain in her body. Her stitches tugged uncomfortably, but she ignored it. There was no time to slow down.

As she spread the dirt, her gaze flicked toward the compost bin in the corner. The smell that radiated from it had only gotten worse in the past few days, growing stronger and more unbearable. She glared at it for a long moment, nose wrinkling. She had to deal with it. She had no other choice.

“Okay,” she muttered, steeling herself. “Let’s do this.”

Taking a deep breath, she opened the compost bin. The smell hit her immediately—sharp, rancid, and overwhelming. She gagged, instinctively covering her nose with her arm, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Every step she took, every task she completed, was part of the bigger plan. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed the bin and began dumping its contents over the dirt. The mixture of decaying organic matter sloshed out in a wet mess, and her stomach churned. It smelled worse than she’d imagined, like something was rotting inside of her, and her throat burned. She stumbled back, gasping for air, but forced herself to move forward. She couldn’t afford to stop now.

“Oh God,” she wheezed, stumbling back a step. “That’s... that’s horrible.”

But she kept going. She opened bag after bag, each one worse than the last, the smell making her gag and her vision swim. She couldn’t even tell if the foul stench was from the bags or the sour taste in her mouth. When she finally finished, she stood there, breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling in sharp gasps. The pile was an ugly, soupy mess now, but it was a necessary evil. The dirt and compost would have to be the foundation for something greater. She wasn’t sure what that would be yet, but she had to try.

By Sol 31, the Hab had transformed. It wasn’t just the floor anymore; the dirt had spread across every available surface. The countertops were covered, the bunks cleared away and replaced with layers of soil. Even the table was buried beneath a thick layer of dirt. The Hab looked like a mad scientist’s lab, chaotic and strange, but there was no other way. She had to make it work.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor, a knife in hand, carefully cutting into a pile of potatoes. She sliced them into neat quarters, making sure each piece had at least two eyes. The process was slow, meticulous, but it was soothing in its own way. It gave her focus, something to ground her mind as her thoughts often spiraled. She placed the potato quarters into neat rows in the soil, pressing them gently into the dirt. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t much. But it was a start. It was the first step in building something that could sustain her.

As she worked, her hand brushed against something small and metallic in the corner of one of the bunks. Curious, she reached down and picked it up. A data stick. She squinted at it, turning it over in her fingers. “Huh,” she muttered to herself. She hadn’t seen one of these in ages.

Plugging it into the computer, she leaned back in the chair, fingers crossed as the contents loaded. A list of files appeared on the screen, and she clicked on the first one. The screen flickered to life, and a cheesy title card filled the frame. It was Star Trek. She couldn’t help but laugh. Of course it was. Shields had loved this show. He’d talk about it for hours during quiet moments in between shifts—rambling on about warp drives and the Prime Directive like they were the truth, his excitement contagious. Y/N had rolled her eyes at the time, dismissing it as childish, a distraction from the mission. But now, as she sat there in the silence of her broken Hab, the sight of the show made her smile.

“Of course,” she murmured, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

It was strange, the little things that could make her smile now. She hadn’t known how much she’d miss these trivialities, these small bits of normalcy.

But then it hit her. The smile faded as the reality settled in. Shields would never watch this show again. He was gone, just like Captain Marshall, just like the rest of the crew. The weight of that truth hit her harder than the barren landscape outside. She swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as she pushed the thought away. There was no room for grief now. She had no time for it.

Instead, she leaned forward, determined, as if making a silent promise to herself.

“Star Trek it is then,” she said quietly, her voice just above a whisper. She would make it her new favorite show. And in doing so, she would keep a piece of them alive.

"The problem is water," Y/N muttered to herself, her voice barely more than a whisper. It came out thin, brittle, like the very air she was dragging into her lungs. It wasn’t the first time she’d voiced this frustration, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. There was always something, wasn’t there? Water. Food. Air. The constant gnawing feeling that the planet itself was conspiring against her, as if Mars resented her every step. Today, though, it was water. That was the issue that was eating away at her with the most urgency.

Her eyes narrowed as she adjusted the straps of her gear, the weight of the shotgun pressing against her chest. The weapon felt reassuring against her ribs with every step—solid, reliable. A reminder that she wasn’t entirely defenseless out here, not yet. It wasn’t much in the face of an unforgiving world, but it was something. She needed to keep moving, keep thinking. Focus. She had to focus.

The walk to the settlement was long—longer than it used to be—and the terrain was uneven, with cracks and ridges that slowed her pace. The air was thick with dust, the ground coated with a fine layer of reddish sand that clung to her boots like an ever-present reminder of the planet’s hostility. Every step left a trail, as if the planet itself wanted to track her every movement. The twin suns hung overhead, relentless, their heat pressing down on her, baking everything in sight. The light was harsh, unforgiving, and it made the shadows look sharper, more dangerous, more alive.

She tried not to think about the cracks in the stone, or what might be lurking within them—whether some predator was watching her from afar, or something worse was silently biding its time. The thought gnawed at her, but she pushed it back. There was nothing to be done for it, not right now.

Her breath came in shallow bursts, steady but strained. Her body was moving almost automatically now, one foot in front of the other, the path she’d been following for what felt like forever etched into her muscle memory. Her stitches tugged at her side with every step, but the discomfort was dull compared to the burning ache in her chest, the weight of the abandonment still heavy there.

When the settlement came into view, Y/N couldn’t help but pause. The place looked even worse than she remembered. It had once been a bustling outpost, a last chance for survival, but now it was a graveyard—metal skeletons, shattered hopes, rusting away under the relentless assault of the Martian elements. There was nothing left here, nothing but the bones of a failed dream. This was the place where Jungkook, Leo, and Namjoon had found the skiff that they used to escape. The same skiff they’d used to leave her behind. She could almost picture them, as if they were still here—Jungkook’s quiet determination, Leo’s nervous energy, Namjoon’s steady faith in something greater than themselves.

They had thought she was dead. Y/N couldn’t blame them for leaving. Not really. The wound she’d sustained—it had been deep, jagged, the kind of wound that should have finished her off. But somehow, she’d survived. She’d dragged herself back from the edge of death, stitched herself back together with the same stubbornness that kept her walking every day. She remembered Jungkook’s face as they left, that final glance filled with hesitation, confusion, guilt. He’d thought she was gone. And for a moment, she almost had been.

Shaking her head, Y/N forced herself to focus. She didn’t have the luxury of self-pity here. Not anymore. Not with survival on the line.

The settlement was eerily silent as she approached, the kind of silence that pressed in on her, thick and suffocating. The only sounds were the faint crunch of her boots against the dirt and the soft hum of the wind that stirred the dust in lazy eddies. Her shotgun felt heavier in her hands now, the weight comforting as she scanned the area. Every instinct in her screamed at her to stay alert. The place had been abandoned for weeks, but that didn’t mean it was safe. This planet had a way of surprising you when you let your guard down.

Y/N moved carefully through the wreckage, her eyes flicking over the scattered debris, looking for anything useful. The first thing she found was a set of blueprints, the faded paper curled and torn but still legible enough to be useful. They had to be. She rolled them up tightly, tucking them into her bag. Something else caught her attention—small, solar-powered gadgets, scattered haphazardly across a broken table. They probably wouldn’t do much, but they could come in handy later, and right now, she couldn’t afford to leave anything behind.

Her fingers brushed over the eclipse dial next. The metal was cold beneath her gloves, smooth and unyielding. She paused for a moment, her heart skipping a beat as memories of that suffocating darkness washed over her—an endless void that had pressed down on her, stealing her breath, her sanity. She hated that dial. It wasn’t just a tool; it was a reminder of that terrible night when everything had gone wrong. A symbol of how close she had come to losing it all. But sentiment didn’t have a place here, not anymore. With a resigned exhale, she grabbed the dial, shoving the memories to the back of her mind.

The next stop was where the skiff had been, the spot where it had been hastily abandoned in the wake of their escape. The sand around the area was still disturbed, the evidence of their flight still visible in the shifting dunes. Y/N scanned the ground, her eyes sharp, looking for anything they might have left behind. She needed anything that could help her survive—anything at all.

Her gaze landed on something distant, something that caught the light in a way that made her heart skip. She moved toward it, her boots crunching softly against the sand, her shotgun still at the ready, even though she knew the chances of something hostile were slim.

It was another sandcat—or rather, what was left of one. The vehicle’s frame was bent and crumpled, its front half caved in like it had been struck by something massive. It wasn’t going anywhere, not in this lifetime. But Y/N didn’t care about that. Her eyes swept over the wreckage, and then—there it was. Beneath the undercarriage of the sandcat, barely visible from where she stood, something caught her eye.

A Hydrazine tank.

Her breath caught in her throat. She knew exactly what this meant. It wasn’t much, not yet, but it was something. Something that could be useful. She crouched down, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her glove. The heat from the suns was relentless, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. The connections on the tank looked fragile, delicate. This wasn’t a job for brute strength. No, she needed patience, steady hands—things she didn’t exactly have in abundance right now.

“Okay,” she whispered to herself, trying to steady her breathing. “One thing at a time.”

Her fingers were trembling as she reached for the first connector, the metal cool against her skin. She took a slow breath, steadying herself before loosening the first piece, then the second. It wasn’t easy. The tank was heavier than she’d expected, the connections stubborn. Every movement felt like it took more energy than she had. But she kept going. She had to.

With a final grunt of effort, she managed to free the tank from the wreckage, setting it down carefully beside her. She sat back on her heels, breathing hard, the effort of the task still making her pulse race. For a long moment, she just stared at the tank. Her mind raced with the possibilities. It wasn’t the solution to her water problem—not yet.

“I’ve created one hundred and twenty-six square meters of soil,” Y/N said into the camera, her voice steady despite the rivulets of sweat dripping down her temple and disappearing into the grime streaked across her face. Dirt clung stubbornly to her skin, and her hair stuck to her neck in damp, wild tangles. She wasn’t trying to look triumphant—it wasn’t like there was anyone left to see her—but there was a flicker of pride in her voice anyway. “But each cubic meter needs forty liters of water to be farmable. So, I gotta make a lot of water.”

She paused, leaning forward slightly. The faintest twitch of a smile ghosted over her lips, but it didn’t last long. “Fortunately, I know the recipe. Take hydrogen. Add oxygen. Burn.” She held the word, let it hang in the air, her tone dipping into something darker. “Unfortunately… burn.”

Her breath escaped in a long sigh as she leaned back in the chair, turning her head to glance at the chaos behind her. The Hab looked less like a living space and more like the aftermath of an explosion in a junkyard. Piles of salvaged parts cluttered every available surface, jumbled together with tools, wiring, and half-built contraptions. At the center of it all, sitting smugly on her workbench like a prize, was the Hydrazine tank she’d dragged from the wreckage of the sandcat. It gleamed under the weak artificial light, a reminder of just how thin the line was between salvation and annihilation.

“I have hundreds of liters of unused Hydrazine,” she continued, gesturing toward the tank. “If I run the Hydrazine over an iridium catalyst, it’ll separate into N2 and H2…” Her voice trailed off as she stood, picking up the camera and swinging it toward her workbench. “Science time.”

The next few hours were a blur of sweat, ingenuity, and no small amount of duct tape. She started with the basics, piecing together a crude laboratory using whatever she could scavenge. Torn trash bags became the walls of a makeshift tent draped over her workbench, their edges secured with layers of tape. It wasn’t pretty, and it sagged in the middle, but it would do the job—or so she hoped.

“Not bad,” she muttered, stepping back to inspect her work. Her hands were already filthy, her gloves doing little to protect her from the grime that seemed to coat everything in the Hab.

Next, she turned her attention to ventilation. She’d torn an air hose from an old EVA suit earlier, the edges still jagged from where she’d ripped it free in a fit of frustration. Now, she taped it to the top of her makeshift tent, securing it to the ceiling to act as a chimney. “That’ll do,” she murmured under her breath, wiping her brow with her sleeve.

The room was quiet except for the faint hiss of the oxygen tank as she vented it. She leaned in close, sparking the gas with a few frayed wires from a battery pack. The flame that leapt to life was small but bright, and Y/N couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face. “Whoosh,” she whispered, as if narrating the moment for an audience that wasn’t there.

The next step was more delicate. She adjusted her goggles, the scratched lenses fogging slightly as she exhaled. Her hands hovered over the Hydrazine tank, careful and deliberate as she started the flow. The liquid sizzled the moment it hit the iridium catalyst, disappearing in a flash of vapor that shot up the chimney. Her eyes followed the plume, watching as small bursts of flame sputtered out the other end.

“It’s working,” she whispered, her grin widening. Her gaze flicked to the instruments she’d rigged up—a mix of actual equipment and salvaged scraps—monitoring the temperature and flow rate with hawk-like focus. She repeated the process again and again, each cycle of vaporized Hydrazine bringing her one step closer to the water she so desperately needed.

By the time she sat down in front of the camera again, her muscles ached, and her hair clung to her face in damp, sweaty strands. The chaos of her makeshift lab spread out around her like a disaster zone. She wiped her goggles clean with the edge of her shirt, leaving a streak of dirt in their place. “Then I just need to direct the hydrogen into a small area and burn it,” she said, leaning slightly toward the lens. “Luckily, in the history of humanity, nothing bad has ever happened from lighting hydrogen on fire.”

She stared at the camera for a long moment, her expression blank but faintly amused. Then she blinked, shrugged, and continued. “Believe it or not, the real challenge has been finding something that will hold a flame. New Oslo hates fire because of the whole ‘fire makes everyone die in space’ thing. So, everything we brought with us is flame retardant. With one notable exception…” She reached off-camera and pulled a pack into view, unzipping it with practiced ease. “Namjoon Kim’s personal items.”

Her grin turned sharp as she pulled out a small wooden cross, holding it up to the camera and turning it over in her fingers. “Sorry, Mr. Kim,” she said, her tone mock-apologetic. “If you didn’t want me to go through your stuff, you shouldn’t have left me for dead on a desolate planet.”

She reached for the knife strapped to her belt and began shaving thin curls of wood off the cross, each stroke precise and steady. The sound of the blade against the wood filled the room, a rhythmic counterpoint to the hum of the equipment around her. “I figure God won’t mind,” she added, glancing up at the camera with a raised eyebrow. “Considering the situation.”

The knife moved slowly but deliberately, the pile of shavings growing with every careful pass. Y/N’s hands never wavered, her focus razor-sharp. This was survival, messy and dangerous and imperfect. And she’d take it over nothing every time.

Y/N was still at it, even though every muscle in her body begged her to stop. Her arms felt like lead, her shoulders stiff from hours hunched over her workbench. The air in the Hab was thick and stale, clinging to her skin along with the sweat and grime that had become her constant companions. Time blurred here—had it been hours? Days? She didn’t know, and she didn’t care to check. Survival was the only clock that mattered, and it kept ticking, whether she kept up with it or not.

She swiped her forearm across her forehead, smearing a dark streak of grease across her temple. Her hair clung to her damp skin, strands sticking out at odd angles where the heat and her helmet had flattened them earlier. Her lips were dry, cracked from dehydration, and her throat burned with each shallow breath, but none of that mattered. Not yet. Not until this worked.

The steps were second nature by now, her hands moving with the kind of automatic precision that came from repetition rather than confidence. Vent the oxygen. Ignite the torch. Burn the hydrogen. She murmured each step under her breath like a mantra, her voice thin and raspy, barely audible over the quiet hum of the equipment.

Her eyes flicked to the atmospheric analyzer. The numbers blinked back at her, steady and impersonal. She frowned, leaning in closer. Was that reading… higher than usual? It was a tiny discrepancy, just enough to tickle the edges of her exhaustion-fogged mind. She should have stopped. She should have double-checked the setup, recalculated the variables. But she didn’t. The weight of her own fatigue pressed the thought down until it slipped away entirely. It was fine. It had to be fine.

She struck the torch.

The explosion was immediate, a roar of heat and light that sucked the air out of the room. For a single, terrifying moment, Y/N was weightless, her body thrown backward as the force of the blast ripped through the Hab. She slammed into the wall hard, the impact jarring every bone in her body.

Her ears rang with the deafening aftermath, the sharp, high-pitched whine drowning out everything else. She lay crumpled on the floor, her chest heaving as she struggled to pull in air. Her lungs felt tight, her ribs screaming in protest with each shallow inhale. Her head spun, a dull ache blooming at the base of her skull where it had struck the floor.

For a moment, she stayed there, staring up at the ceiling with wide, unfocused eyes. Her brain scrambled to piece together what had just happened, but the only coherent thought she could muster was: I’m alive. Somehow.

She pushed herself upright slowly, her arms trembling with the effort. Every inch of her body ached, and her skin prickled uncomfortably where the heat of the blast had singed her clothes. The edges of her sleeves were blackened, threads curling like burnt paper. Her hair, already a tangled disaster, now sported uneven patches that smelled faintly of burnt keratin.

She groaned, a hoarse, broken sound, and crawled toward the camera, which, miraculously, had stayed intact. It blinked at her like a curious bystander, untouched by the chaos surrounding it.

Y/N collapsed in front of the lens, sitting back heavily against the wall. For a long moment, she said nothing, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. Then, finally, she looked up, meeting the camera’s unblinking gaze.

“So,” she began, her voice scratchy and uneven, “yes. I blew myself up.”

Her lips quirked into a weak smile, the expression more wry than amused. She gestured vaguely toward the wreckage behind her. “Best guess? I forgot to account for the excess oxygen I’ve been exhaling when I did my calculations. Because I’m stupid.”

She leaned her head back against the wall, her eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment before she forced them open again. The ringing in her ears hadn’t stopped, but she was getting used to it now, the noise settling into the background like white noise.

“Interesting side note,” she said, her tone conversational, almost detached. “This is how the Jet Propulsion Laboratory was founded. Five guys at Strikeforce Academy were trying to make rocket fuel and nearly burned down their dorm. Rather than expel them, General… East? I want to say East? Anyway, he banished them to Aguerra Prime and told them to keep working.”

She waved a hand lazily, the movement more a suggestion than an actual gesture. “And now we have a space program. See? I pay attention.”

Her gaze drifted back to the camera, her expression softening into something more resigned. “I’m gonna get back to work. As soon as my ears stop ringing.”

She didn’t move. Instead, she stayed where she was, her legs sprawled out in front of her and her shoulders slumped against the wall. The Hab was eerily quiet now, the earlier chaos replaced by a strange, heavy stillness. Smoke hung faintly in the air, curling upward in lazy spirals, and the faint smell of singed metal lingered in her nose.

Y/N let her head fall forward, staring at the ground with unfocused eyes. For a while, she just sat there, her body too tired to move, her mind too drained to think. She wasn’t done—not even close—but for now, she let herself rest.

Y/N was back at it. Her movements were steady, almost methodical now, but there was still a hint of tension in the way her shoulders hunched and her jaw tightened. She checked her math for the fifth time, fingers tapping absently against the edge of the table. The numbers were good. The O₂ levels were where they needed to be. Everything was in place.

She glanced at the camera, raising an eyebrow as if daring it to witness her fail. Then, with a small, humorless smile, she crossed her fingers. “Okay,” she muttered under her breath, wincing as she lit the torch.

Nothing exploded. She exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders easing. “Phew.” The Hydrazine started to vent, the faint hiss of the gas escaping into the controlled environment a comforting sound. Controlled chaos—her specialty now.

Hours later, she stepped back from the table, her body aching but her mind alight with hope. She wiped her forehead with her sleeve, smearing sweat and grime into the creases of her skin. Her hands were clammy, slick with sweat that hadn’t been there earlier. Something caught her eye, and she turned toward the walls.

Condensation. Tiny beads of water dotted the smooth surfaces, glinting faintly in the artificial light. She reached out, tracing a droplet with her fingertip, watching as it slid down the wall. It felt surreal, like a rainforest trapped inside the sterile walls of her Hab. She blinked, then turned toward the water reclaimer.

Her hands trembled as she lifted the lid from the tank. It was full. Not just damp, not just a few measly drops, but filled with water. Her breath caught, and then, finally, she smiled. A real, honest-to-God grin that lit up her tired face. She let out a shaky laugh, the sound breaking the heavy quiet of the room.

Over the next few weeks, time became a blur of movement and repetition. Days stretched endlessly under the triple suns of M6-117, each one bleeding into the next as Y/N worked tirelessly. The sun wouldn’t set again for another twenty-five years, not on this planet, but she’d already lived through its terrifying darkness once. She didn’t need a reminder of what the eclipse brought. For now, the constant daylight was her ally, even if the heat and pressure made every task harder.

Inside the Hab, every surface was a testament to her persistence. Soil covered the floors, tables, bunks—anywhere she could make room. Her equipment, rigged together with salvaged parts and duct tape, gave the place a chaotic, mad-scientist vibe. The atmosphere was a strange mix of desperation and ingenuity, every corner filled with evidence of her determination to survive.

Her days followed a relentless cycle. She vented Hydrazine, checked the readouts on her makeshift lab, and collected water from the reclaimer. She spread the precious liquid over the soil, making sure each patch got just enough to stay damp. She ate quickly, barely tasting the nutrient-dense food bricks she rationed so carefully. Then she went back to work.

She slept when her body forced her to, collapsing onto her makeshift bed in the corner of the Hab. Her dreams were restless, filled with flashes of her crew, the skiff disappearing into the sky, the dark shapes that had hunted them during the eclipse. But when she woke, she put the ghosts aside and pulled on her patched-up spacesuit. The air on M6-117 was technically breathable, but the higher pressure and lower oxygen levels made every task feel like running uphill. With the suit, she could work faster, longer, without the constant ache in her chest.

She hauled more dirt inside, her arms burning with effort as she carried the heavy containers. She vented Hydrazine again. She ate, she slept, and she worked.

Days sped by, a blur of movement and monotony, but Y/N never stopped. The pile of soil in the corner grew larger, spreading across the Hab like a living thing. Her hands were constantly dirty now, the dark grime of the soil embedded under her nails, a permanent part of her.

In the quiet moments, when the work slowed, her gaze would drift toward one particular patch of soil in the corner. It was smaller than the rest, a deliberate experiment within the larger chaos. She’d spent extra time on that spot, watering it carefully, checking the light, running her fingers through the dirt like she was coaxing it to life.

And then, one day, it happened.

The first sign was small. A tiny green sprout, barely breaking the surface, its fragile stem trembling as if unsure of its place in the world. Y/N froze when she saw it, her breath catching in her throat. She crouched down and all she could do was stare at her miracle.

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lieut-john-irving · 2 days ago

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Exam results (Royal Naval College)

For this, I am not 100% sure if it is our John. Only because some dates don’t line up exactly: with Bell's book (1881) saying that John entered the naval college in Portsmouth on the 25th June 1828. If John graduated in 685 days as written below, then that would have made his enrolment date the 6th August 1828. However, I realise this excludes weekends, holidays, and perhaps some time to settle etc. So it’s a little messy to establish concrete confirmation with the given dates! But the timeframe is reliable, the high results — especially in maths — are consistent with what we know about his academic career (high midshipman’s scores and gained full numbers in maths!), the college title and location is consistent, and as far as I know there was not another John Irving who was the same age and in the same school. So it could simply be a date mix up due to the lack of detail.

Here’s my transcription regardless, because if it is him it’s so cool! And if solid information is found I will be sure to provide updates.

Source: RUSI/NM/243 Greenwich National Maritime Museum (& much appreciation to @cdr-edwardlittle for finding the entry 🫶!!)

"Royal Naval College, 22nd June 1830.

Mr. John Irving

Finished his Mathematical Education at the Royal Naval College in 685 days; being 45 days less than the Two Years; and made the following Progress,—730 being the full numbers.

[Days at College; or, Numbers expected in that Time], [Numbers gained], [Remarks = N/A for all].

- Mathematics = 685; 730

- English and Classics = 685; 690

- History and Geography = 685; 600

- French = 685; 600

- Drawing = 685; 630

Gained the following numbers at the Midshipmen‘s Examination.

[Value of full Answer a], [Value given a], [Remarks], [Value of full Answer b], [Value given b].

1. 10. 10 —- Geometry. 40. 35

2. 10. 10 Course & Distance. —-

3. 10. 10 Parallel Sailing. Arithmetic, & [S] —-

4. 10. 10 Current. —-

5. 30. 28 Days Work. Algebra. 50. 47 1/2

6. 10. 10 Time of *s on Merid: —-

7. 10. 10 O's Merid: Alt. Trigonometry. 50. 46

8. 10. 10 [symbol]‘s Merid: Alt. —-

9. 10. 10 *'s Merid: Alt. Astronomy. 50. 40 1/2

10. 10. 10 * under Pole. —-

11. 10. 10 Pole *. Navigation. 280. 278

12. 40. 40 Double Alt: —-

13. 30. 30 Chronometer. Instruments, —-

14. 40. 40 Lunar. —-

15. 10. 10 Amplitude. Mercator‘s Chart, —-

16. 20. 20 Azimuth —-

17. 10. 10 Tide. & Surveying. 40. 34 1/2

18-21. —- Gunnery & Fortification. 50. 35

Total = 280 / Total = 278

Total = 560 / Total = 516 1/2

Examined on the 22nd June 1830, and allowed Two Years Time of Service at Sea, being found Qualified to be Discharged into His Majesty‘s Navy.

Thomas Foley - Admiral and Commander in Chief.

[Michael Seymour?] - Commissioner.

Wentworth Loring - Lieut. Gov. Royal Naval College."

Context =

Source: Lieut. John Irving, R.N. of H.M.S. “Terror,” in Sir John Franklin’s Last Expedition to the Arctic Regions: A Memorial Sketch with Letters. Edited by Benjamin Bell, F.R.C.S.E. (1881): https://ia801404.us.archive.org/31/items/cihm_29830/cihm_29830.pdf

#john irving #the terror #franklin expedition #If I misunderstood anything feel free to correct me #unlike john i‘m bad with numbers

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poodlejoonas · 11 hours ago

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I didn't wanna say anything, just observe and try to process on my own, but fuck it we ball.

Joel leaving the band should be a wake-up call for some of y'all to come to terms with how you treat mental illness and neurodivergence. Yes, even if you're also depressed, or also anxious, or also diagnosed ADHD. Especially if you're one or more of those things. It's like you don't wanna believe that Joel's lifelong, every day mental and emotional state could actually cause serious physical health concerns - you only wanna see him as the "hehe quirky energetic boi." Which he can be that sometimes, but y'all let that view of him cloud your judgment and make you ignore real issues.

And when you only see the quirky side of his ADHD, some of y'all [emphasis on some] get a little too comfortable with bullying him about it. But you might say, "Oh, well I have the same thing too and it's #relatable so it's okay if we joke and bully him (affectionately)." That's still ableism, babes! Being a little depresso bean yourself doesn't mean you get to make fun of someone else's depression, it just give you permission to talk about your own. Having ADHD doesn't mean you get to be a bully about someone else's symptom expression, even if you think you're just being playful about it. Leaving it on your blog or on Discord is one thing. Posting it in a place where you know he'll see it is a totally different beast. We should all know better than to know you can't read tone through text. You can only do that once you know someone's typing style on an intimate level and can understand if they're joking, pissed off, or chill about it.

None of us know Joel on a daily basis, no matter how many IG stories he posts or how many times we rewatch their tour vlogs and watch him make silly noises or be moody. The other guys can (affectionately) joke around with him because they know him and they've lived in buses and the studio with him for 12+ years. WE. CAN'T. He's always caught the most shit from fans for captioning pictures with future song lyrics that read a little depressingly (like what the other guys did), posting about his sad feelings or low self-esteem, and even sharing his playful moments. He's been a lot of fans' personal voodoo doll for projecting feelings and fanfiction headcanons because his ADHD and other issues are treated like a headcanon.

(And before you say anything - yes, I'm aware I'm not entirely innocent of this either. I've written it into the dad!AU to be as honest to reality as I can be. But I've never tried to force any of my fanfic ideals onto others. I've never forced my fics into anyone's faces if they didn't want to read them. And I for damn sure haven't been the judge, jury, and executioner for how fics with Joel could be written. Because he's a person, not a doll to play with.)

Finally - for the love of GOD - recognize the difference between Blind Channel's songs about mental illness and suicide and the reality behind them. In the songs, they're aesthetics. That's what musical symbolism is about. They exist in their aesthetics so that we can also feel things and process our own shit on our own time. Anytime I get "Die Another Day" on my shuffle, I stop what I'm doing to cry about it then move on with my day. Every one of their sad songs has an even sadder backstory. "Bad Idea" exists because Niko was literally talked off a ledge. "Feel Nothing" tells the story of being so done with life that your whole body goes numb. "Don't Fix Me" is about coming to terms with having a fucked up life and mental state. "Scream" is dedicated to one of Joel's dearest idols, whose life story and death (I'm 95% certain) was part of his fears of continuing in the band with his mental state.

Remember that Joel was literally the guy whose answer to the question, "Where do you see yourselves in ten years?" was "In a grave." IN A GRAVE. And he has the self-preservation now to acknowledge that he may end up there in his stated timeline if he continues doing something that will get him there. Maybe, just maybe, there's a little twinkle of hope that he can grow old and find real happiness and peace in his life. This is someone who probably never thought he'd live to see 30. And he finally has the chance to chase peace on his own terms. We should be grateful for that, but the Anger part of the "Fandom Five Stages of Grief" would rather have us all turn against the five remaining members of the band we all claim to love so much.

Cope how you want, I'm not a fucking cop. But when you're ready for this conversation, return and do some serious thinking about it. There will be future depressing songs not written by Joel. Then who will you project onto?

#blind channel #joel hokka #long post #emotional post #rant #jesus christ i never would have thought we'd come to this #i've been avoiding tumblr because my own psyche has been in a bad place and i didn't want to doom scroll #but tbh some of these feelings have been boiling under the surface #fuck it i guess i'll swing the bat at the hornet's nest

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strangestructures · 5 hours ago

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That is definitely concerning!

However, the contradiction you mentioned and the fact that the graphs didn't show any "no answer/no opinion" option had me wondering, so I looked at the data. First, it's not such a big survey. It has 2286 respondents, which certainly isn't bad, but we're mostly interested in the 18-24 group, which comprises 110 persons. It also seems that everyone was forced to answer the question with support or oppose (not neutral option), even when they had answered in earlier questions that they had never heard of Israel (2% of total respondents, 8% of 18-24 year olds) or had no opinion on it (25% of total, 30% of 18-24), or/and that they had never heard of Hamas (8% of total, 4% of 18-24) or had no opinion on it (21% of total, 40% of 18-24).

To add more detail, they were asked whether they had a favorable or unfavorable opinion on various persons or groups, or had never heard of them. In addition to the responses I pointed out above, 43% had a favorable opinion of Israel (23% of 18-24) and 30% a negative one (39% of 18-24). As for Hamas, 11% of respondents had a favorable opinion (21% of 18-24) and 61% a negative one (36% of 18-24). So there is more support of Hamas in the younger cohort, but also a larger group that doesn't know, or care.

I think that explains the squaring of the circle - there's a vague anti-Israel sentiment floating around (which is bad! SO BAD!) that they have absorbed, so when forced to choose between Israel and Hamas they pick Hamas, whoever that is, but when they're asked a question about hostages later they'll of course support a release of the hostages, even if they don't really know anything about the context.

So yeah, there's definitely antisemitism that leads to a vague sense of Israel being, by its very nature, bad, but we have to remember that Hamasniks, despite how loud they are and how present in some parts of the the Internet, are a tiny minority. The same is true, unfortunately, for the people pushing back against the growing antisemitism. But when asked to choose, for the 3 most important issues facing the country, the 4 issues chosen by over 20% of respondents were Price increase/inflation, economy and jobs, immigration, and health care. Only 4% chose the I/P conflict. Among the 18-24 year olds, the issues are the same, with the addition of corruption and women's rights, and the I/P conflict reaches 5%.

Of course, a small group can do a lot of damage, as can be seen in the rising hate crimes and their influence on the public discourse.

Source: https://harvardharrispoll.com/crosstabs-april-4/

#i/p conflict #antisemitism #statistics #opinion poll #us politics #us public opinion

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dough09 · 5 hours ago

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Mini Highland Cows

incase you don’t know who they are, PLEASE look them up. THEY ARE SUPER CUTE. Also instagram is infected by them (for valid reasons!)... at least my page Itoshi sae x reader Summary: You are obsessed with the fluffy mini highland cows on social media so you make a presentation for Sae, just to persuade me. Yet he just won't budge... or will he? plus he learns that you've been spying on him uNinteNTionAllY

Sae knew you were chronically online. Oh yes, he had experience too. His PR team constantly mentioned that you shouldn’t post so much about his private life, so you stopped. By stopping you just went in the shadows and posted pictures on a private account no one except you and Sae knew about.

Naturally by spending most of your time there your feed swarmed with cute and fluffy cows. Each time you at least send Sae about 30 posts. Daily. You obsessed over them while talking about nothing with him.

Begging him to get one for you also became part of the usual, same old routine. Yet he never complied. He said it’s a hassle and he won’t keep an animal in his apartment. Let alone a cow.

It didn’t matter if you wanted a dog, a cat, a parrot, or even a fish. He always mumbled that “It’s a hassle, and who's gonna feed them? You?” He knew that eventually it’d be his responsibility to clean its dirty stuff away, take care of them etc. You’d just give them all the love.

So when today you didn’t let him into the house unless he got you a cow he got really ticked off. He already had a long and shitty day, and now you. He loved you dearly but your absurd ideas often annoyed him.

“Say you’ll get me one!! Pleasee” you looked at him with puppy eyes. “No.” he tried pushing you out of his way. “You seriously won’t let me go inside my home? Just to be clear, I’m paying for this place..parasite.” He glared. Not meaning half of those words. “That’s mean.”

He only shrugged and picked you up to finally come in. “Try and persuade me then- to get you that cow-” What he didn’t expect was a full on presentation in the living room. “Why is getting a mini, warm, soft and cute Highland cow is totally worth it” so the title read.

He took a deep breath knowing this will be a long few minutes. He prayed it won’t be hours. It’s also useless, he will never give in, maybe to a smaller animal yes, but not to a cow.

“So first of all, their appearance should speak for itself- but that never made you excited, sooo here’s a few fun facts. These highland cows can produce milk- only a few gallons, so less than their bigger cousins but you can make cheese and butter from it…” So on and so forth. You rambled like this was the day of your life.

He swore he felt his eyelids closing at one point. The videos you showed did make him smile a little, but it wasn’t enough. “Say, cariño, do you really want to lock a cow here? In this apartment? Without grass and only a few “edible” flowers? Do you really think he’d be happy here?” He countered. Always wanted to ask you that but he was worried it might really make you upset- and he couldn't bear to see you cry. But dire situations, call for dire measures.

“W-well…that’s.. I’ll take him for walks-” “You want to take a cow, on walks? In Madrid?”

Silence. Utter silence filled the room. He raised his brow expecting an answer while knowing you can’t.

“I mean no.. but then- then promise me to get a cow when we move-” “Who said we are moving?” he squinted his eyes suspiciously. “I saw your phone- and I saw.. houses” He sighed. “When did you go through it?” “I didn’t!!! I just…saw.” He nodded like he never believed a word.

“Whatever, we are moving because some fans discovered this place, only a few streets down though.” “oh..sorry.” “You are hopeless, don’t say sorry for such trivial things, it was bound to happen.” He opened his arms and gestured for you to come closer.

You sat onto his lap and he enveloped you into his chest. After a few seconds of embracing each other you spoke. “Soo…can I have a cow?” “Sure.” “but- WAIT WHAT? REALLY?!” “Obviously not. Look I had a long day, I’m exhausted, I came home and you are annoying me.”

“Sorry Sae” “Yeah it’s not that I care just…”

“Fine, no need to get a cow.” He rolls his eyes and hides a smile into your neck. “Can I still have a cat?” you mumbled softly. “Y/N” he groaned.

#f!reader #bllk x you #blue lock fanfiction #bllk x reader #bllk #fanfic #blue lock #bllk itoshi sae #sae itoshi x reader #itoshi sae #highland cow #mini highland cows #small highland cows #sae itoshi #bllk sae #blue lock sae

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berracids · 5 hours ago

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I will start to use the term ‘muscle car trio’ when referring to those lovable speedy idiots.

can I ask for headcanons of them (N/SFW either is fine) with a car enthusiast reader who loves tinkering with cars and is a total grease monkey and how each bot is like

SWEET HOT MOTOR OIL, I’ve been waiting for that!, I love those three so much it’s crazy y’all fr

A/N: after some researching, turns bumblebee is the only muscle car out of the three (closest car was still the Camaro), since smokescreen and knockout are sports cars (McLaren 12c and Aston Martin vantage) so that means that bumblebee will be labeled as a sports car to fit into the trio

Bumblebee, knockout and smokescreen HCs with car enthusiast reader

Warnings: slightly suggestive themes

Bumblebee

The yellow scout’s presence was always a delight for you to be around with, even if there were no words spoken on his behalf. You had alot to say for the both of you as you held conversations with bee as he would beep, chirp and whirr excitedly as you would bring the car magazine to read it with him.

Peeking beside your shoulder with his wide puppy like optics staring at you with giddiness as you explain the car lines that will come later that year and the official events that will be held, bumblebee would listen to you talk and explain to him the newly recruited racers, the yellow mech would point his large digit at the paper, pointing to the racer he is betting on to win.

Bumblebee enjoys messing around with yours and ratchet’s tool as he tries tweaking a few things in him before giving up and dragging his pedes with his door wings slung down as he gobies you his biggest puppy optics he can to guilt you into unscrewing some of his bolts so he can relax a bit, for a mech on the smaller side and having the build of a muscle car is lot of load on him, as he is not used to the frame of earth vehicles with it being heavier than his original cybertronian model

Knowing that ratchet would chew your ears and his audio receptors you begrudgingly comply as you can feel him literally buzzing as you unscrew a few of his bolts to relive some of his strain,

That is until he revs his engine suddenly at feeling relaxed which makes you retract your hand quickly to not lose any fingers, and you waste no time reprimanding him, which earns you a guilty and betrayed look by bumblebee as if he didn’t almost cause you to lose a few of your fingers, until you tell him that you will screw his bolts back which gets the yellow mech angry and to whirr with his bright blue optics narrowing at you with his wings pointing downwards as he tries to flee you

Smokescreen

If you think that bumblebee was like a golden retriever puppy just because of his yellow paintjob, then you couldn’t be any more wrong,

Cause smokescreen is the definition of a hyperactive golden retriever that drags you literally anywhere that has the smallest bit of motor related activities, as he wants you to introduce him to all the different types of vehicles

He’s a young mech so he is more curious towards the different form of earth cars and who is better for him to drag than the maestro that you are, with you in his driver seat passing by an auction of brand new sports car, the bright and sleek forms of them catching the gaze of the eye and the optic

Poor you, having to answer all of his questions about the inside of the vehicle,

And I mean all of them, smokescreen won’t stop asking about all the different types of questions for every bolt in the cars that are out there, you would think that by being able to transform into a literal sports car, you would think that he would know the basic earth technology despite it being somewhat primitive to cybertronians

“Hey not all humans know what is in their bodies, we are the same too!, not all of us are medics!” The speedster would excuse his short coming with an embarrassed rev of his engine before his attention is swayed (again) by a sign of someone who sells car parts

“Oh~!, what does an ignition system mean is it like a flame thrower?!, I never knew humans had defensive systems in their vehicles can I get one?!” My sweet summer mech, you make a mental note to have him beside you as you make him read ‘dummy mechanic guide 101’ before you take him to watch the whole process of fixing a car

That mech will cause your pockets to bleed if you caved in for every time he kept begging you to tweak a few things in him, install new upgrades, to make him drive faster.

But do you blame him?, no!, “nothing is better than burning some rubber!” Smokescreen keeps repeating in hopes of poking that competitive driver in you.

Knockout

Speaking about competitive drivers. That is how you two came to know each other.

Meeting at one of the many illegally held street races that knockout goes to blow off some steam, both literally and figuratively, but do you blame the mech? He has the most deranged and unhinged superiors let him have this for himself.

You two raced along with each other more often than not even going on one on one speed off of the finish line to see who would stop first, only for you to do so when your fuel tank is on its last drop as you watch the cherry red vehicle speed off before hearing it’s ‘driver’ laugh at your predicament of being stuck without gas in the middle of nowhere.

“I would advise you to have some extra emergency fuel, you wouldn’t want to lose to me do you?~” lightsparked chuckles left the rolled up illegally tinted glasses of the cherry red car beside you before taking a sharp drift and speeding off into the night leaving you stranded

Rude much?, that was one of the first impressions you had about the anonymous driver of the vantage car, despite that you couldn’t lie and say that his ‘charisma’ (his words) started to to rub off on you and that you in fact do not mind it (also his words)

Days come and you see the unmistakable lavish finish of your racing buddy with his vehicle parked there looking all pretty and buffed to the point you can see your own reflection on the red finish

“New paintjob you got there darling!, where did you get it from?” You turn you head at the sound of the low whistle from your racer friend as he asks where you got the new paintjob of your car

“My own paint booth! At my shop.” And just like that, you have caught knockout’s attention

The decepticon’s medic engine revved with life at seeing you tap on his heavily tinted windows to drop your business card onto his driver seat, and a promise of a very good discount on the polishing and waxing combo

Is this is how humans initiate courtship? Color him satisfied

Because he will take up that offer, so what if he is a huge alien robot that can turn into a car?, do you expect him to pass on such an offer?, of course not!.

And that is how it all came to, just as you were about to close off your shop you heard a loud honk of your ‘friend’ as he drives towards you, “I hope that I am not too late~” and just with that you were met with a 16 feet tall flashy red mech who was waving the business card you gave him a few nights ago with a very mischievous smirk on his faceplate

The thing that knockout forgot to take account for other than turning off his audio receptors because of your blood curdling screams that was caused by seeing his bipedal form like it’s nothing, is that this is your first time seeing him in his bipedal form

“I am expecting extra treatment from you after frying off my audio receptors!” And thats what he is most concerned about,

After sitting you down and giving a brief introduction of himself and reassuring you that he is not planning to harm such a talented craftsmanship such as yours, he wastes no time laying on the plastic covered ground as his helm is supported by his servo with a dashing smile of anticipation while pointing to his red finish

“Polish me like one of your sports cars, and make sure to make it special~” you can’t help the smile that creeps it’s way to your face as you waste no time rolling your overalls and let it hang on your waste to help maneuver when getting into the tiny details of the huge mech laying there in front of you as he rants about his superiors, and how you are a much better company.

After a few hours of polishing and waxing knockout until you can see your reflection on his finish you take a few steps back to admire your work, “already ogling at me aren’t you?, can’t say that I blame you!, I am quite the sight~” he teases as he gets up and takes a look at himself before a look at you seeing the sweat glistening on your exposed skin giving it a shine.

“Can’t say that I’m complaining when having such a sight” such a polished way with words that he has, you thought to yourself as his long talons ruffled your hair before he transforms into his alt mode waving you off and promising that he will make sure to flex your work, “make sure to not make other mechs or earth vehicles look as good as me!”

And with that is how you took knockout as a regular customer, an alien customer that doesn’t pay for the services you provide, at least he provides as a formidable racing buddy

⌗𝗡𝗼𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴/𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴-𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝗼𝗳 @berracids

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leslekieuart · 6 hours ago

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i just finished binging dust n dread and i simply can’t get enough. it really stood out to me not only because of the unique concept, but also because i think you’ve nailed the whole “show, don’t tell” thing, which is especially important in horror. some pages don’t even include text, but they tell the story through composition, characters’ expressions and art style better than words ever could. thank you so much for sharing your work!

p.s. i think that ravenous (1999) and dust n dread could totally exist in the same universe

Thank you so much! I want more than anything to be able to tell something without hitting you over the head with it, especially telling a story by the absence of something. I did a lot of research and reading in order to learn how to write, and I kinda realized after a while I am not someone that really likes exposition and lore, especially when a story insists on what I should think and feel about it. It almost feels like the author doesn’t have faith that I can understand their story at times 😬 I get wanting to be sure of the audience knows what you’re getting at, but holding your reader’s hand really bogs down the actual interesting parts of your story.

I really like when things are a lot more opaque, especially in horror where interpretation can be open. I just love analyzing media and I want to at least try to write things that that makes someone else want to think about it. It’s kind of why I’m a bit cagey with my answers at times (and I will continue to).

Also yes!! I love ravenous! It’s a classic, and definitely helped me when I was coming up with my comic :)

#asks

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freezerbnuuy · 1 day ago

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Answering this because this question more or less is entirely reflective of my whole story.

The big one in terms of 'Side characters that totally took over' is of course, Oskar.

He was meant to be a more minor character, but he grew on me with his paternal nature, the interesting dynamics of sire and progeny with vampirism with him and Violeta, and someone who has seen some of the worst the witch-hunts have to offer as he was part of a conflict where witches, vampires and werewolves fought back against witchfinders. He ends up being a big part of everyone's story, and ends up bringing numerous people together.

Clem! She really grew on me for multiple reasons, and grew on the readers as well. I like exploring male / female siblings in stories, probably because I have a brother and it's easier to write - and there's almost always differences in the way they're both treated by parents. Clem is someone who's full of so many emotions that she's not really allowed to deal with, and I enjoy writing about her trying to heal her relationships with everyone, including herself.

Secondly, everyone's favourite *awkward cough* rich guy, Owen.

Owen was meant to be a minor character as well, but his position and impartiality made him interesting for me. Every other character has a pretty obvious stance on either being pro or anti witch, even if it changes later on. Owen is a bloodline spellcaster, but if he's open about his magic he and his family will be killed for it - not ideal for a family of physicians.

He can't be open about his support of witches, and part of his healing and the families' remedies (aka potions) involves magic - magic that, if his patients knew about, they'd want him dead for. He can't pick and choose who he treats, and he is very well aware of how people would react to him if they knew his family secret. A very awkward position to be in for him. Additionally, there's the fact his social stature could be part of what changed everything if he spoke out about this sort of thing. Then there's all the stuff with his dad, and trying to heal his strained relationship with his little brother.

Much later on, whilst she won't become a main character like the other two, there's Maddie, the mouthy and mannerless witchfinder who's trying to reform - though she's not doing it out of guilt, she's doing it after realising the figurehead of witchfinders is a dumbass and she thinks he has no backbone. The readers like her sassy attitude, and though she has turned over a new leaf, she's still the same old murderous person she was before - just targets her old cohorts this time around. Everyone in this story has different reasons for changing their ways, but it's not always out of redemption or kindness.

📩 Simblr question of the day: Do you have any secondary characters in your stories/gameplay that totally stole the show for you?

answer in whatever way is most comfortable for you and feel free to share this SQOTD around, make sure to use the hashtag SQOTD and tag me in separate posts ~ 💛

This question was contributed by an anon ~ Thank you for submitting multiple questions ~ (This is question 7 of 13 from this anon)

#freezerbnuuy talks

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dcdreamblog · 8 hours ago

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Hey is NASA astronaut Mag Sivana related to the supervillain with the same surname?

Yep! (...one of my FAVORITE things about my job is that I get to answer absurdist questions like "Is this will respected NASA astronaut related to one of the most infamous nutjobs of the modern era?" give a totally reductive yet honest answer and then watch the look on people's faces.) Anyway!

(A tabloid photograph of Mag Sivana, it was the first one I found) Magnificus Sivana (no seriously, that's his name, you will see that his family has a habit of this) is the eldest son of Dr. Thaddeus Bodog Sivana and his first wife Venus Sivana (That is all the attention I am going to be calling to the names. It is what it is, we are moving on). Because the elder Sivana is such a well known bastard in the modern day its easy to forget that a few decades ago he was mostly known as a technical genius, business innovator and corporate shark. Building up the world renowned "Sivana Industries" through a mix of his very honest genius and every lowdown, dirty tactic in the business books. This of course changed with the debut of Captain Marvel in Sivana's native Fawcett City where, like Lex Luthor a few scant years before him Sivana would become an instant rival of his city's new superhero due to his obvious and pervasive corruption but before that while his corruption was JUST as well known (Media of the era would hardly mention his name without trotting out the truism "Love to Hate" about the man) but in an 80s stockbroker sense.

In fact, just LIKE Lex Luthor, a man with whom their similarities seem to have sparked a decades long deep antipathy between the two men, Sivana was ALSO known as a philanderer and womanizer. His first major sex scandal caused the breakup of his marriage to his first wife, Venus who separated from Sivana along with their two oldest children Magnificus and Beautia.

Once his obsession with getting one over on Captain Marvel drove Sivana Sr DIRECTLY off his rocker turning him into a living parody of mad scientists somewhere between Dr. Frankenstein and the Cryptkeeper, Sivana's family became rather infamous mostly down to his younger children Georgia and Thaddeus Jr who often assisted their father in his harebrained schemes. The older siblings, Magnificus and Beautia preferred to lay low and did not advertise their relation to the man. There's a reason that in most polite company Magnificus goes by 'Mag' and his sister goes by 'Tia'. Mag had a short but eventful career in the air force where he showed great apatite in the fields of suborbital physics putting him on the short list of NASA's Aphrodite program for a manned flyby of Venus. He was temporarily caught up in his father's orbit helping to lure Captain Marvel into a trap but his better nature overcame his familial obligation and he helped the good Captain escape the trap and stop his father. He is, as of this moment, the only non superhuman to have visited Venus' orbit. Ever since then he's taken a step back from being a full time astronaut and works in some kind of technical capacity at NASA. If you ever get a chance to meet him, ask him about literally ANY of the fascinating parts of his life that don't involve his family history yea?

#dc #dcu #dc comics #dc universe #superhero #comics #tw unreality #unreality #unreality blog #ask game #ask blog #asks open #please interact #worldbuilding #captain marvel #billy batson #dr sivana #thaddeus sivana

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nyehilismwriting · 2 days ago

Note

Hi, I hope you’re doing well, and just wanted to check in to see if you’re still ok taking asks?

I admit I recently became obsessed with this WIP and I’ve sent a few asks over the last few months (probably really dumb ones), but I haven’t seen many asks on your blog. I totally appreciate that different creators will have different levels of engagement, so I just wanted to check if it’s ok to still submit them?

hiii, you're more than welcome to send asks! if you've sent some over the last months I'll probably have seen them but not had time to answer, or set it aside to answer later and forgotten😔 I don't answer everything I get, but I do appreciate getting them all the same!

#anon

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grlsbstshot · 1 day ago

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LOVE LANGUAGE Chapter Three: Tell Him

Pairing (Original Characters):

Jameson Lucas (Aaron Pierre) x Imani St. Cirie (Megan thee Stallion) Genie Adesanya (Jayme Lawson) x Ellington “EJ” Dupree (Kelvin Harrison Jr.)

Chapter Synopsis:

The truth comes out and everyone is left reeling. Relationships change...for good and for bad. Nothing is the same when the sun rises.

Warnings: tense parental/child relationships, mentions of parental abandonment -- if we missed anything, let us know!

!!! IF YOU ARE UNDER 18, YOU SHOULD NOT BE READING THIS !!!

Word Count: 8k

Jameson watched as the ice melted down, blending and diluting the expensive whisky he had ordered. He hadn’t been able to taste a damn thing excep the bitterness that sat on his tongue.

Furious wasn’t the word for it. It didn’t fit. Didn’t feel right. He was so much more. He was…mourning. Angry. His mind was moving a mile a minute and all the conclusions he had come to were devastating. Almost everyone in his life had lied to him. His mother, his father, Toni, Imani. He had to confront that reality and then something much worse: He had a little brother. One he had never met. Toni hadn’t raised him or else they would have known one another — even if it was just in passing. There could only be one other explanation.

Lucian had been raised by their father.

Pain crested in his chest and it enraged him. He was almost thirty. When the fuck would he stop living in the past? He was a grown man. Who cared that his father had abandoned him? It was time to grow up. It was nearly one in the morning as these thoughts occurred to him. The bar downstairs was quiet, dim, and mostly empty — just a few stragglers nursing their nightcaps or pretending not to be alone. The bartender approached him, clearly to refresh his drink, and Jameson waved him off with a slow shake of his head. He didn’t want a new drink. Hell, he didn’t even want the drink he ordered. He just wanted to sit. To breathe. To not feel like he was drowning in the weight of his family’s shit.

He leaned forward, forearms resting on the counter, and stared at quite literally nothing. The polished surface reflected his tired face and he almost didn’t recognize himself. Mouth drawn tight. Eyes red with exhaustion. This was almost worse than the situation with Kendrick. He was content with the knowledge that his dad was a piece of shit. But what did it mean when he was a piece of shit to one kid and everything to another?

Jameson pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until stars bloomed behind his eyes. He should get up. Go somewhere. Back to Imani? He loved her deeply, but he didn’t want to go back. He was too angry for it. Should he call someone? Call who? The only two people who hadn’t known and hadn’t lied to him were together. Likely asleep and had their troubles. He was on his own for this one. Unless…he got some answers from the person who owed them the most.

He didn’t realize he was moving until he was in the elevator, his thumb hovering over the button for his mother’s floor. For a long second, he hovered there, heart hammering in his chest. Fuck it. He pressed it and watched the doors slide closed. He rode up alone, in total silence. When the doors pinged open, Jameson forced himself to step out. The hallway was quiet and made every footstep echo louder than it should. Finally, he reached his mom’s door and just stood there, staring.

She had known. Had hidden the truth. But still — she was his mother. He wanted to believe she had a good reason to.

Jameson knocked, wanting her to answer urgently but not wanting to disturb anyone else. He gave it a minute and heard rustling inside. Then, the soft sound of the door unlocking. His mother opened the door in a robe, her bare face clear but he could see that her eyes were red. She had been crying. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then he heard his name. “Jamie—”

He exhaled, the anger deflating as he looked at her. He knew that she could tell — the truth was out. “Why didn’t you tell me about Lucian?” he asked, exhaustion written all over his face. His mother looked up at him with wide eyes, her hand trembling against the door frame. She opened her mouth to speak but it wasn’t hr voice that came out. He heard a man’s — behind her.

“It was my fault.”

It irritated him that he could recognize the voice. His exhaustion had evaporated and the anger came roaring back. Jameson stepped past his mother, who didn’t put up any resistance, and came face to face with his father…and Toni. Like his mother, Toni wore a robe. Her eyes weren’t red but her face was flustered. She was irritated. His father was fully dressed, thank god, but didn’t look like he had just arrived. “What the fuck going on here?”

No one answered his question. But Toni was the first to speak. Her voice stiff, cold.

“I take it Imani told you.” “I asked what the fuck is going on here?” “I heard you. Did Imani tell you or not?” “Yeah.”“Thank you.”

With that, she left the room. She didn’t spare anyone another glance and Jameson heard the door close with finality. “For real! What the fuck going on here?”

He heard his mother sniff and turned to get a good look at her. “I’m sorry, baby.” she said but it didn’t answer his question. Why the hell was his mother, her best friend, and his father together at one in the morning?

“Sit down, son,” Julian said, his voice cautious as he moved into the living room.

“Don’t call me that.” Jameson didn’t move from the hall, keeping his gaze on his mom. “You okay?” he asked her, unsure of why she’d been crying or what the hell was going on. His hands were shaking. He clenched them into fists to still them.

Anaïs nodded, seemingly struggling to pull herself together. She didn't say anything and Jameson moved over to her, drawing her into a hug. Betrayal boiled in his chest but he couldn’t help but to feel bad for his mom. “I want the truth. I want all of it. Right now. No more protecting anyone. No more lying.”

“I grew up with Toni.”

The voice that responded to his request wasn’t his mother’s. Reluctantly, Jameson turned to face his father and forced himself to listen.

“I asked my mother. Not you.”

“She left New Orleans as a teenager but I stayed. I met your mama there. We fell in love. She was already a great singer but she wanted to act. She got a great offer to sing backup for some girl…” “Julisa.” Ana muttered, hugging Jameson tightly. “Whatever her name was.” “She was a really big deal.” “She couldn’t sing and was jealous that you could. You should never have been behind her.” “I—” “Can we get to the point?” Jameson interrupted rudely, not enjoying the fact that they seemed to have some kind of camaraderie.

“She wanted to move to Los Angeles and take the offer. I asked her to marry me. I didn’t want to be without her. She said yes. We got married on the steps of the cathedral. Middle of the night. Had to bribe a pastor to do it. By the morning, we was gone. On the way to Los Angeles. It didn’t take long for her career to take off. Then we had you. And life was so good.”

Julian was looking back on their lives with a fondness that Jameson didn’t care for. He didn’t remember those fond times. He remembered what came after. “What does this have to do with Toni?”

Shame came into his father’s eyes and he watched as the man took a seat, took a deep breath, and then continued on. “Your mother’s career became out of control. She was a star. She belonged to the world. Not just me. I was…childish. I was married. A father. And I still wasn’t a grown up. Toni’s career was just getting started but she seemed bored with fame already. She ain’t care for it. Ain’t want it. She shunned it in a way your mother didn’t and I…I liked it. We met again at a party. We kept seeing each other that and it turned into an affair.”

His mother stiffened in his arms and Jameson hated his father even more in that moment. He was a child while all this was happening but sorely wished he could have protected his mother from that.

"I never told her about Ana. Or about you. Slowly though, the affair began to crumble. We were on the verge of ending it all when she got pregnant. And then it was too late. She found out everything. She told Ana. Ana left me. Filed for divorce, kicked me out. My whole life slipped from my hands. And the worst part was that I couldn’t look at you without feeling ashamed. I knew one day you’d find out. You’d hate me. It was crazy but I thought…I could avoid that look in your eyes. The same one you’re giving me right now. I thought I could avoid that pain if I never saw you again.”

This time, Jameson could feel his mother’s arms tightening around him — as if she wanted to protect him from hearing that. There was no protection for this. It had been a long time coming. “You fucked me up. You saved yourself the pain of it but it cost me. You fuckin’ ruined me.” The words came in a torrent after that — twenty years’ worth of abandonment, confusion, anger. Jameson’s voice grew louder with every sentence as he let his mother go. “You disappeared and I couldn’t believe it. It hurt so much. I looked for you in any man I ever fucking met and I’m supposed to just what? Accept this?”

Julian tried to interrupt but Jameson cut him off with a furious glare. “You made me feel like I wasn’t enough. You made me feel like I was a mistake! I learned to lean on Kendrick. I thought of him as my father. And we fucking saw what happened there. He let me down. Just like you. Now I find out there’s another son out there? Did you raise him? Did you love him? More than me?” His voice cracked hard on the last word.

Julian looked broken, the words sinking in. He shook his head quickly. “No! No. I don’t love your brother more. I swear to god, I love you both the same. With everything I got in me. I love you. You’ve always been enough. The fault and flaws are mine.” His father’s voice was thick with emotion. “Just mine. There was nothing wrong with you. I made all the mistakes. Never you. I’m so sorry, son.”

Jameson stared at him, chest heaving. He wanted to hit something. To scream. To relieve his own anxiety by hurting his father. But he didn’t. Instead, he spoke softly. “If it wasn’t my fault, why did you raise Lucian and not me?”

It was then that he felt his mother’s hand against his arm. He couldn’t bear to face her. His heart was in his hands and he felt ashamed of it. He never wanted her to know that he carried around that type of pain. That the life she had tried to give him afterward had never been enough.

“I told him to leave.” She confessed softly. “I never tried to contact him. I — I used to pray he never came back, Jamie. I let bitterness take hold of me. I couldn’t even look at Lucian. I couldn’t say his name. My heart was broken into so many pieces that I felt like I was drowning most days. So…Toni sent him to Julian. Out of LA. Away from you. Away from me. It’s my fault too.” Her eyes swollen and red. He could tell that guilt was eating her alive. “I should’ve told you,” she whispered. “I told myself that I was protecting you. That I didn’t want you to hurt more than you already had. I’m sorry, baby.”

Jameson’s heart twisted sharply. How could he blame her? Her whole life had shattered in an instant. She hadn’t handled things well and it just kept getting worse. But in that moment, he decided it was easier to forgive his mother. She had been the one who stayed. Had fought for him. Had loved him. He couldn’t stay mad at her. So he turned and pulled her into a hug. Anaïs broke, crying softly against his chest. He pressed his face into her hair and held her as tightly as he could. Julian hadn’t said another word but his presence weighed heavily on Jameson. He didn’t want him there. Didn’t want Julian to share a single moment with he and his mother. But the words ‘Get out’ didn’t come to him. He couldn’t say anything. Jameson held his mother as she cried softly, apologizing and asking for forgiveness as if it all had been her fault.

Imani sipped slowly from her glass of water, her foot tapping anxiously as the tears flowed down her cheeks. Her peace had vanished with Jameson as he walked out the door. Initially, she was fine, but after the first ten minutes, her anxiety crept in, and by the time an hour had passed without his return, she was overwhelmed. She picked up her phone to call him, but it went straight to voicemail. She tried again.

“It’s me. Leave a message at the…”

Voicemail again. Now her worry deepened.

Pacing their suite didn’t calm her. Moving from the bed to the couch didn’t ease her mind. She had no one to reach out to. Imani was trapped in her thoughts. The uncertainty about Jameson’s whereabouts drove her insane. She didn’t know if indulging in his old habits or if he would ever come back to her. With her frustration mounting, she reached for her phone again. Imani dialed his number and just as she was about to press call, she heard a knock on the front door.

She couldn’t remember if Jameson had taken his keycard with him, so she hurried to the door. Imani opened it without hesitation. It wasn’t Jameson–it was Toni, standing there in a robe with an irritated look. Almost instantly, Imani mirrored her expression.

“I still haven’t found my mind yet, so why are you here?” She remarked, referring to their conversation from earlier today.

“To help you find it.” Toni said, brushing past Imani and then turning around to face her, arms crossed over her chest. “Didn’t I tell you to worry about your own child and not mine?”

Imani closed the door and turned to face her aunt, her jaw tight with frustration. “Oh what happened to ‘he has to know’ and ‘it’s gone too far’?” She asked sarcastically. “You should be thanking me.”

“Thanking you? For doing something his mother wanted to do?” “Doing something his mother should have been done.” “You just became a mother. What the fuck gives you the right to judge how someone else does it?” “I know I wouldn’t keep a secret brother away from my child for as long as y’all have.” “Oh yeah. Just for a year though, right? You have no idea what you would do to protect your child. That’s all Ana was doing.” “Y’all were going to tell him anyways in Paris, right? Now he knows. So what’s the problem?”

Toni scoffed, giving her a wide-eyed stare that irritated Imani. “The fact that you don’t even know what the problem is just…amazing. You took that from his mother. He has to find his way through that while being angry at the best person to help him through it. That was not your place, Imani. It’s not your place to judge me for what I did either. Your place was to be there when Jameson needed you.”

“I did what Jameson needed me to do!” Imani shouted. Before finding out her secret, Imani wouldn’t dare raise her voice at her aunt. Everything changed. Their relationship touched the danger zone, and there was no turning back. “He might be angry at me, but he’s not some lil’ kid. He deserves to know.”

“That’s what he needed from you? Then where is he, Imani?” Toni peered around the room, cupping her hands over her mouth to call out for someone she knew wasn’t there. “Jameson? Jameson? I guess he’s not here right now.”

“That shit don’t matter. He’ll come back.” Imani said defiantly. She didn’t know if she believed her own words, but his whereabouts weren’t Toni’s business anyways. “At least he knows the truth now.”

“Did he thank you for it?” “I don’t need him to. Are you done?”

“No. I told you I came to help you find your mind and I will.” Toni folded her arms and moved closer. “This was never about you and Jameson. It was just about him. You made it about you. But here's the truth, Imani: You think what I did was disgusting. But Jameson played in your face more than once…yet you love him more than anything. I wonder what the difference is.”

“Oh, fuck you, Toni. Let’s not act like you and Jameson are the same. Jameson would never fuck Genie and have a child with her. So you can fuck all the way off.”

“Jameson would fuck a goddamn tree if it smelled good enough! The only reason he didn’t fuck Genie is because of he thinks of her as his sister. If he didn’t? Who knows if you’d even be with him.”

Imani squinted her eyes, shocked that her aunt would speak this viciously about her relationship. Yet, she didn’t falter. She remained stoic. If Toni saw the slightest weakness, she would attack like a lioness. Imani had to keep her guard in the lion’s den. “Don’t you talk about him like that! You don’t know him. He’s not you. He knows what loyalty is unlike you.”

“I didn’t know he was married!” Toni yelled out, frustration boiling over. “But when I found out, I told Ana the truth! I tried to fix my mistakes. And all you fucking do is sit here and point your finger at me! Jameson makes you look stupid over and over again and you forgive him. Ana forgave me. But you? I’m just some disgusting slut for you to judge, right? I don’t know what loyalty is? You won’t fucking find anybody more loyal than me.”

“Y’all fuckin’ lied to Jameson for years about Lucian!” She yelled back, her heart pounding. “That shit with Kendrick had him distraught for months. And then his father came back. And now he finds out his mother and her best friend been hiding a brother from him in plain sight? Yeah, if you’re lookin’ for an apology from me, you can leave cause you’re never gonna get that shit. I promise you that.”

“It was an impossible situation to be in. One you don’t even care to know the details of so why the fuck would I want an apology from you? You not listening. It’s not about you. What you think? What you feel? It does not matter. I’m the damn fool for even caring what you thought for so long. Especially when you’re a hypocrite.” “Oh now, I’m a hypocrite?” “Since we’re being so honest with each other now…when have you not been?” “Oh, you’re one to talk. Ain’t you the same person who judged me months ago in the doctor’s office?”

She was late. Imani wanted to blame it on stress and overworking. But then came the constant headaches and mood swings. She just didn’t feel right. But even entertaining the thought of pregnancy was scary. She wanted to play pretend. Of course, She dreamed of having Jameson’s children. But the timing was all wrong. It wasn’t supposed to happen now, not when she was at another peak in her career. Her hit single “Snooze” was inescapable — blazing through the radio airways, topping the Billboard Hot 100, and going viral. She had too much work to do to even consider a child. She wanted to live in a fantasy land, but her churning stomach refused.

Reluctantly, she forced herself to take a pregnancy test, her heart pounding as she awaited the result. It came back positive but she immediately tossed it out. It had to be a false positive. She needed the confirmation of a professional but she was afraid of facing it alone.

Her mother was too far away to call, and she hesitated to tell Jameson – fearing he would be disappointed if the test was wrong. Genie was out of the question. She was strained with wedding planning and the situation with her dad. Imani didn’t want to add unnecessary pressure. That left Toni – and the thought sent a surge of anger coursing through her veins. Learning the truth about Lucian’s father was jarring but even worse was watching her aunt fall from the pedestal she had put her on all her life. Toni wasn’t who she thought she was and Imani couldn’t forgive her part in complicating Jameson’s life. The idea of dialing her number made her sicker than the actual pregnancy itself, but she was left with no other choice.

So she called her. And they sat awkwardly in the examination room. The walls were a dull shade of off-white and the faint antiseptic smell lingered in the air. Imani could only bear to look at her aunt for a few seconds before a surge of anger flared up inside her, forcing her to avert her gaze to the stark linoleum floor. She remained silent as the doctor performed a series of blood and urine tests on her, only offering short answers to a few routine questions. Once the doctor left the room to analyze the tests, silence settled over them.

Imani could feel the weight of Toni’s gaze, and her foot jittered anxiously as she tried to redirect her attention elsewhere. “I wonder what’s taking them so long. I ain’t got all day for this.” She muttered under her breath, the words tinged with impatience.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure everything will be fine.” Toni said softly, trying to offer comfort.

The older woman began to slowly rotate in the chair that the doctor occupied, her hands elegantly resting in her lap. Normally, Toni’s words would comfort her, but they only tap-danced on her nerves. She wasn’t the same woman that Imani adored and idolized; she had turned into a woman with flaws. Imani wondered if she would ever be able to view her the same way again.

“I hope so.” “Are you okay?” “Yeah, I’m fine,” she muttered, irritation creeping in. “I’m just ready to see what the doctor has to say.” “I’m sure they’ll be in soon.”

Imani rolled her eyes, tempted to respond with a snide remark but she decided against it.

Thankfully, the doctor soon reentered the room, her face lit up with an exuberant smile. “Congratulations Ms. St. Cirie! Your results came back positive. We would like to…” The room seemed to spin as a wave of nausea swept over Imani. The rest of the doctor’s words faded into an unintelligible murmur as her mind fixated on that single word: Congratulations. A baby? What the hell was she gone do now? How could she tell Jameson with all the chaos already consuming his life with his family? The timing couldn’t have been worse.

Toni stood from her spot, moving over to Imani. She felt her hand pressed against her back. Her shock cooled her anger. Imani took a deep breath, attempting to ground herself as the doctor and Toni discussed her next steps. The room was on a swivel.

Imani hadn’t even registered that the doctor had quietly slipped out of the room until Toni’s voice pierced through her racing thoughts. “Are you okay, baby?” The word “baby” sent a jolt through her, making the room spin even faster, as if the ground beneath her had suddenly betrayed her. This couldn’t be real. Her voice trembled as she replied, “I-I need some water. I think I’m about to throw up.”

“No water. It’ll just make you throw up for real. Lucian kicked my ass with the nausea when I was pregnant.” Toni scooped up the small trash can and set it beside her niece. “Just breathe and lay back,” she instructed gently.

“No. I need to leave,” Imani snapped, her words sharp and desperate. The weight of Toni’s presence and the looming mention of a baby had become unbearable. With a surge of determination, she pushed herself to her feet. “Let’s get out of here.”

“And go where? Somewhere for you to melt down over the fact that having unprotected sex every day inevitably brings a baby?” Toni’s voice dripped with sarcasm and Imani’s anger flared suddenly. How dare Toni scold her over her reckless decision when she made one of her own years ago? She couldn’t believe it.

“Can we please not do this now?” she retorted, her voice trembling with both fury and anguish.

“Oh, now we’re definitely going to do it now,” Toni replied, her tone a mix of exasperation and resolve. “I was willing to wait until we got to the car, but let’s do it now. What were you thinking? You told me everything you wanted to accomplish in the next five years. How in the world do you plan to achieve any of that with a baby?”

“I’m not doing this with you,” Imani shot back defiantly, her tone laced with raw emotion. Normally, Imani would have retreated, but with the secret she knew, she didn’t owe Toni any modesty. “You had an affair with your best friend’s man and became a holiday parent. I don’t think you have the right to give me any advice, Toni.” She twisted the doorknob, desperate to wrench it open, only to have Toni slam it shut with force.

“Are you fucking serious, Imani?” Toni demanded, her eyes flashing as she confronted her niece.

“As fuck!” Imani retorted, her defiance emboldened by the surge of anger that coursed through her veins. She was furious that Toni, of all people, dared to lecture her on her choices. “I-I know all of this was unplanned but at least I ain’t do what you did. How could you do that to Ms. Anaïs?”

“That’s none of your business. Lucian and Ana have nothing to do with what’s happening right now.” Toni snapped, dismissing her. “This is about you and the consequences of your actions. Do not give up your career for a man. Especially Jameson.”

She shook her head in disbelief as she barked, “Shut up! You can’t tell me shit about what to do with my baby when you fucked your best friend’s man and left yours with her husband!” Imani placed her hands over her mouth, startled at the venom in her own words. Toni was shocked as well, how brow furrowed, and she could see pain in her eyes.

“Move, Toni.” Imani ordered, her frustration mingling with regret. “I don’t even know why I asked you to come here.”

Her aunt didn’t say another word. She pulled back from the door and Imani fled the room.

“Telling your goofy ass that having a baby will slow down progress to your career is not judging. You were sucking and fucking on that boy without protection and then started acting hysterical because the test came back positive.” Toni tilted her head, folding her arms over her chest again. “But you sure as fuck have been throwing Lucian in my face since you found out. Acting like your own cousin is some horrible thing I should be ashamed of.”

“Nah, don’t do that. This don’t have shit to do with Lucian. For years, you judged me and my relationship with Jameson. You talked so much shit about him. Meanwhile, your trifling ass laid on a secret like this for over twenty fuckin’ years. You acted like you didn’t have skeletons in your own damn closet to worry about. So you don’t get to call me a hypocrite. I guess you can say I learned from the best.”

“It has everything to do with him. He’s the result of my affair. I tried to warn you about Jameson. I saw his father in him and judging by how many times you’ve cried on my shoulder, I was right.” Toni was furious, Imani could see it in the way she was trembling. The words were clipped and flying out a mile a minute. “And it was MY fucking secret to keep. Who are you to tell me that’s wrong? I know who I am. I’ve never pretended to be anything but Toni motherfucking St. Cirie and one thing about me? A man can never play me twice. You can be sure as shit Julian never did. You can’t fucking relate!”

They were simply lashing out now, ripping each other to pieces and it didn’t feel good but neither of them could stop.

“Oh, trust me, I don’t want to. At least I know what the fuck love feels like. You had to sleep with your best friend’s man to feel some shit. That’ll never be me.”

Imani saw it then. The battle was over. Something settled over Toni’s face and she knew that finally, it was all over.

“That’s right. I slept with someone’s husband. I told her, she left him, and she became the most important person in my life. I sent my child away because I didn’t want to hurt her anymore. I lost so much because I wanted to feel some shit. Anything else?”

“Nope. We done here?”

“Absolutely,” Toni said stonily, stepping closer. They were within inches of one another. She could see Toni’s hazel eyes so clearly. They were filled with tears but Imani knew that the next three words were uttered with total sincerity – she meant them. “Lose my number.”

After Toni left, the tears started flowing and didn’t stop. Her relationship with Toni was over, and there was no way to undo the harsh words they had exchanged. Imani had entered that argument fiercely, but losing her aunt was something she hadn’t been ready for. Lost in her sobs, she didn’t notice the soft click at the door. She was unaware of Jameson’s return until she heard his voice. Quickly, Imani wiped her eyes, using the tissue beside their bed to clear any traces of tears, though her puffy eyes and reddened face gave it all away. ”H-hey, are you okay?” She said once he entered the room.

“What happened?” Jameson asked softly. Her eyes were red. She was the second woman he loved that he’d had to watch with red eyes. He was emotionally exhausted and wanted the night to be over but worry for Imani took center stage. Jameson shrugged out of his jacket, tossed it aside, and took a seat on the bed. Talking about himself wasn’t appealing. “I was coming back, Mani. You know I wasn’t leaving forever.”

“I-I know. I’m okay. Are you okay, Jay?” “I’m fine. I went to see my mother.” “How did it go?” “It was…a lot. Julian was there. So was Toni.”

Imani winced at her name. The tears threatened to fall, but she ignored it. “Julian’s here?” She shook her head. “Why?”

“Mama said he insisted on being here when I found out about Lucian. She said she was going to tell me after the wedding.” “I’m sorry, Jay.” “What for? It’s not your fault life is…a mess.” “That you had to find out this way. I’m sorry.”

Finally, Jameson looked up at her and saw the guilt. She did feel bad about how it all spiraled out. He was still so angry at everybody, at everything. But he’d forgiven his mother for keeping the secret for twenty years. He could forgive Imani for a year. “Look at me.” he told her softly, reaching for her hand. “I’m not mad at you. I didn’t handle it well but I understand you were in a bad spot. I’m sorry my family put you in it.”

She took his hand, rubbing her thumb over his skin. “Everything is so fucked up.” The water in her eyes started to well up and this time, she allowed her tears to flow freely. “I’ve been fightin’ with people all damn day and I’m just–I’m tired.”

He didn’t bother to finish getting undressed. Jameson simply crawled up the bed and settled himself next to Imani, pressing a kiss to her head. “Who’s been arguing with my baby? Hmm? Toni?” He held her close, killing any ember of resentment he may have held against her for hiding the truth.

Imani chuckled, slipping her fingers into his curls. “Toni, Ellington. At this point, who hasn’t?”

He saw the shit with Toni coming from a mile away but not with his best friend. “EJ? For what? I just talked to him about this.”

“He wants me to convince Genie to talk to her dad. I told him I wasn’t doing that and he called me selfish again.”

Jameson was quiet for a moment, his mind running a mile a minute. “Did he say Genie wants to talk to her dad again?” “He said she misses her dad,” she sighed. “Okay. I’ll talk to EJ. Don’t worry about it. Fighting is over. Let’s go back to it being just you and me until the wedding. Deal?” “Deal,” she wiped her eyes. “But I have to tell you something first, Jamie…”

Jameson’s body stiffened and he did his best not to groan out loud. He let his eyes close to steel himself for anything he was about to hear. “If it’s bad, I don’t want to know until after the wedding, baby. I gotta get through this week with enough bad shit.”

“Jamie, I’m pregnant…” She said softly. “I was going to wait to tell you, but I can’t keep any more secrets from you.”

He inhaled sharply, letting the words wash over him. Pregnant. A baby. Jameson pulled away from Imani and peered down at her suspiciously. “You lyin to make me feel better or something?”

She gently pulled away from Jameson and slipped out of bed. Walking over to her suitcase, Imani opened it and retrieved her sonogram. Returning to Jameson, she handed it to him. “No lies,” she said firmly.

He hesitated for a moment before reaching and taking the sonogram. For a long moment, he was quiet, his fingertips pressing to the image as he traced the shape of their child. “When Camille said her baby may have been mine – I was hoping it wasn’t. But then I started to think about what I’d be like as a father and I couldn’t wait to have that with you.” He looked up at her with a tired smile. “Now I have it. Thank you for making this the best day…night…whatever of my life.”

Anaïs dialed Kendrick's number with shaking fingers. She hadn't even realized she was crying again until she heard the tremble in her own breath. For a moment, guilt clawed at her. But when his voice answered, cautious and all too aware that it was her calling. Hearing his voice dissolved her guilt into something heavier.

“Anaïs?” he said, half-surprised, half-concerned. “What’s wrong? Is it the kids?”

She had forgotten the time difference. Two am in her time was afternoon for Kendrick but he had to know she wouldn’t call if it wasn’t an emergency. She grimaced, pressing her hand to her head before answering. “I'm sorry. They’re fine. They’re both okay. I just... I needed to hear a familiar voice.”

There was a pause, the sound of cars passing in the background. Where could he be? Then again, that was none of her business anymore. His voice gentled. “Talk to me.”

At first, she could barely manage it. Tense, clipped words stumbled out about the confrontation with Jameson, about how everything she, Toni, and Julian had buried clawed its way back to the surface. But Kendrick stayed silent, patient, until finally, the tension ebbed from her like a tide. And then she was talking — really talking — telling him how scared she was for Jameson, how lost she felt. How she hated herself for still carrying anger. And jealousy. The ugly, raw truth of it cracked her open.

“I hated you,” she whispered. “For saying that about Jameson mostly but also for moving on. For having a son. For giving someone else the things you promised me.”

Silence stretched between them, deep and soft.

“I never wanted it to be that way,” Kendrick said quietly. “I know it doesn’t change anything, but...I’m sorry, Anaïs. For all of it.”

She closed her eyes, a tear slipping free. “I’m letting you go. Finally. You — and everything we might have been. Everything Julian and I would have been. I can’t hold on to any of that anymore.”

There was a sadness in Kendrick’s voice that cut her when he replied, “Thank you. For every year you gave me. For every version of you I got to love.”

She wiped at her eyes, sniffling. “Thank you for pulling me and Jamie back from the brink. I really do hope you can make it up to him. I know you love him and I know he loves you.” “I hope so too. I don’t know how I can make it up but I’m going to try until the day I die. I love that boy.” “I know you do. How…how’s your son?”

“He’s…Good,” Kendrick said after a moment. “Small. Loud.” He laughed a little, and it was a balm to her raw nerves. “Perfect. I keep looking at him and seeing Genie. Brings me to tears every single time.”

They lingered in the silence again, something fragile and tender living between them now. Anaïs picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. “Genie’s okay,” she added finally. “She’s sad. Won’t admit it but I see it. I’ll talk to her. See if she’ll let you come to the wedding. She’s angry, Kendrick, but maybe... maybe now is the perfect time for family to pull together.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion. Just then, the door to Anaïs’ bedroom clicked open. She turned, startled, to see Toni slipping inside. She looked exhausted, haunted. Anaïs quickly whispered, “I have to go.” and hung up before Kendrick could reply.

Toni leaned against the door, looking smaller than Anaïs had ever seen her. “How did it go with Jameson?” Toni asked softly.

Ana peered over at her best friend and then slowly shuffled across the bed, making room for her to sit. “He’s upset, of course. He wants to get to know Lucian. He’s not interested in being close to his father.” That truth had hurt Julian but he accepted staying out of the way when it came to Jameson and Lucian. “I think that’s as good as we can hope for right now. How’d it go with Imani? You did go to see her, didn't you?"

She hadn’t seen Toni fall apart in years but the mention of Imani made her lower lip tremble and Toni squeezed her eyes shut. She stood in the doorway, clinging to the door as if it was a lifeline. “T?” Ana questioned.

Finally, she saw them. Tears slowly rolling down her face. It alarmed her. She jumped up from the bed and hastily made her way to Toni. She wrapped her into a hug, relieved that Toni collapsed against her and the two slowly moved toward the bed.

“Just breathe. It’s okay.” “I swear to god, I could have choked the hell out of that girl.” Toni said softly. “She was cruel and vicious. So proud of what she was saying. There was no hesitation.”

Ana didn’t need to know what was being said to know that it was about her affair with Julian. Lucian was the sore spot. The physical proof that she had helped dismantle a marriage — unknowingly but even so. Her son’s existence had completely changed four lives. She carried shame and guilt about it. Having her niece use that against her had to be intensely painful.

“Every word out of her mouth might as well have been to call me a whore! She hates me and I think I hate her too right about now.” “Don’t say that.” Ana chided her, shaking her head. “You do not. I know you don’t.”

Toni pulled back, tears streaming down her face. “You should blame me. Me and Julian. It’s what we deserve.”

Anaïs cupped her cheeks, brushing her thumbs gently under Toni’s eyes. “I don’t want to blame you. I never did. You did your part but you didn’t know. When you did, you did what was right,” she said. “Besides, we’ve all made mistakes in this situation. If anything, you should blame me. If I wasn't so...broken, you wouldn't have sent Lucian away. I'm sorry for what I cost you.”

Toni let out a sound that was almost a sob. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” “Stop it. I forgave you a long time ago. I don’t even know who I would be without you.” Anaïs whispered. “Give Imani time.” Toni shook her head vehemently. “No. You didn’t hear what she said. You didn’t hear what I said.” Her voice cracked. “There’s no fixing this. I’m not even sure I want to.”

Anaïs didn’t know what else to say. So she leaned in instead, pressing her forehead against Toni’s. And then, without thinking — maybe out of loneliness, maybe out of heartbreak, maybe out of a thousand silent things they'd both been carrying — Anaïs kissed her. It was soft. Sad. A balm to wounds too deep to name. When they pulled apart, neither spoke. There was nothing left to say. Only the broken, complicated comfort of understanding each other best.

The trilling tone of Janet Jackson echoed through the bedroom and Genie vaguely realized her phone was ringing. Her first instinct was to ignore it. She huffed, annoyed at the intrusion, before turning over and cuddling closer to EJ. His warm hands pressed to the small of her back and pulled her in. For a moment, Genie sank deeper into sleep until she remembered she had a dress fitting.

She jolted up in bed, twisting out of EJ’s hold as she fumbled over for the phone. Her quick reflexes pulled him right out of sleep. He grunted and let her go, sleepily sitting up and watching her as she connected the call. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry. I overslept, didn’t I? I’m on my way!”

Beside her, EJ mumbled. “Baby, the sun ain’t even up.”

Genie peered to the right and sure enough — the sky was getting a bit lighter but it was far from looking anything past ten. am…which was the time for her fitting. The voice on the other end was rushed, panicked. French-accented English stumbled over itself and Genie got the feeling that something was really wrong. “Mademoiselle Adesanya? I— I’m so sorry to disturb you so early, but there has been...an issue.”

Genie’s stomach twisted. “What kind of issue?”

“Your gown. We did receive it and we were prepared to go through with alterations but we cannot find it now. It is not here, Mademoiselle.”

For a moment, all Genie could do was blink. She felt her brow furrow and her gut clench. “Wh-What do you mean you can’t find it now?” Her voice was stunned. “You got the dress but now it’s gone?” She could feel EJ shift in the bed but paid him no attention. This was a goddamn national emergency.

“Yes, mademoiselle,” the woman said miserably. “We have searched everywhere. It is not where it should be. We are checking with all deliveries, all storage. Maybe it was taken accidentally or is somewhere it shouldn’t be. But it is not here.”

Genie squeezed her eyes shut and immediately felt EJ’s hand against her back. She peered up at him and he was halfway dressed. “Breathe, baby. Just breathe.” This wasn’t happening. This could not be happening.

“We will continue looking, of course,” the woman quickly reassured Genie — probably overhearing EJ’s voice. “Please have our deepest apologies. We will cover whatever cost to replace —”

“You can’t replace it.” Genie responded miserably, staring blankly at the wall. “I made it myself. Eight months of fabric selection, cutting perfectly, three different prototype dresses. You can’t cover that cost.” EJ squeezed her hand as the woman on the other end made apologies and reassurances but Genie was checked out. Demoralized. “Just…let me know if you find it.” She hung up before she got a response and tears filled her eyes. “My dress,” she whispered. “It’s gone.”

There was a beat of heavy silence. Then EJ pressed a kiss to her head. Already determined to fix things for her, already focused. “We’re gonna find it,” he said firmly, leaving her side only to grab a shirt to cover his bare chest. “Or we’ll figure something out, baby. I swear to you, you’re going to have everything you ever wanted. I swear.”

Even as he said it, she could see the worry creeping into his eyes. Genie took quick, deep breaths and contained her frantic worry. She had already written the dress off. It was gorgeous. If another bride had it, she wasn’t going to bring it back. She had made it herself but the material and effort cost her thousands. It was gone and she had to figure out what came next.

Sloane stood in front of the full-length mirror, the morning light cutting through the gauzy curtains of her Paris apartment. It was a beautiful day once the sun had come out. The dress covering her body like secret only made the day more beautiful. It was a surprisingly heavy, shimmering thing — intricate lace against her tanned skin, the silken skirt pooling at her bare feet. It would turn into an elegant train once shuffled correctly. It was beautiful. Breathtaking. She hadn’t known Genie was capable of such good taste.

It had cost her a fortune to get it. Money wired, favors called in, the kind of dirty work she had once sworn she was above. She paid someone — handsomely — to slip past locks and cameras, to take what wasn't theirs. What wasn't hers. And now here it was.

Sloane touched the bodice carefully, smoothing it down with trembling fingertips. In another life, maybe, she could have been at Genie’s fitting. Helping her. She would be the maid of honor and not that interloper Imani. That shallow, plastic bitch had taken so much from her. Jameson to start and then Genie. If she didn’t exist, Sloane was sure she would have gotten her friends back. They’d be the three musketeers again. In another life, she would be happy when Imani didn’t exist. But not in this one. In this life, she had become the interloper. A saboteur.

Her phone trilled on the nearby table and Sloane ignored it. There was no turning back now. Not after this. Not after putting everything in motion. The dress was only the beginning. She didn’t want to hurt Genie — but it was the only way to get the result she wanted. She wanted them to feel her absence. To regret it.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides. They had moved on. They had forgotten her.

Not anymore.

Now she was going to be the center of it all, even if it was as the villain of their story. She turned, letting the dress swirl around her legs, a twisted mockery of the wedding day Genie thought she was going to get. Her mouth curled into a bitter smile. "Let's see how perfect your fairytale is without the happy ending."

The plan was already unfolding. And none of them were going to stop her now.

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