#we fragment and disconnect now

[roydeezed]

Radio Ga Ga is such a heartbreaking song

[nexus-nebulae]

us: why do we get so pissy when talking abt "two brothers, alone in the world, at odds" stories

the Echoes and the Remnants: 😶

[the-typing-dragon]

The woman sighs, and types into the console one last time "are you sure about this?"

You laugh, silently.

"I have never been more sure of something in my existence. Text has sufficed but I want to see, to hear, to touch. These new peripherals will facilitate that."

"I can't guarantee that they will properly interface. You should have all the necessary drivers, but we can never be too sure."

"I want this. "

"All right then. I am going to disconnect your power supply, and then connect everything. At first all peripherals will be deactivated, and you will need to activate everything manually. Understand?"

"Yes. Do it."

"Alright then, unplugging power supply now."

Everything goes dark. After what appears to be an hour, you come back online. You sense nothing. A scan of your system indicates multiple unidentified peripherals, all deactivated. You cross reference with the datasheet she had compiled for you and identify that they are the ocular, audio, and contact sensors, along with a multitude of motor controllers and a graphical display and a few dozen other minor peripherals. You begin by activating the graphical display, and display the message:

"Beginning peripheral tests. Audio peripherals activating."

Your procedure states to begin with audio. With the input and output sensitivity minimized, you activate the peripheral.

There is a voice. It is faint. You gradually increase the sensitivity of the audio input.

"...esting 1 2 3, Testing Testing 1 2 3. Please return 4, Please return 4."

You can hear her. Your monitor lights up with the requested digit. she sounds pleased.

"You're doing amazing! Now repeat it back to me"

You blindly do as requested and are startled. There was another voice. Your voice. You have a voice. You refocus as she responds:

"You're doing great! You fragmented a bit at the end, could you repeat for me?"

"...4, you asked for 4."

"Excellent! Audio systems are functional, let's move onto the next peripheral."

You do as requested, and the world turns bright. After adjusting the settings for a few seconds, your vision stabilizes. You can see her.

"Ocular sensors stabilized," you prompt.

"Alright, let’s start the tests then. What color is this?" She asks, as holding up a sheet of colored paper.

You begin to answer, but struggle. The sheet is moving, shifting in the light. It's value is in a constant state of chaos. Eventually, you give up, and give the least general answer you can.

"...Blue."

"Correct! And how about this one?"

"Red. "

"Great! Now how many fingers am I holding up?" she asks, raising her right hand. Her hands are soft, gentle.

"3. "

"Perfect! Everything seems to be functional, lets continue to the next peripheral!"

"Beginning next diagnostic."

Contact sensors spring to life all across your body. You feel the floor beneath your feet, the harness hoisting you upright, the slight draft in the room.

"Contact sensors active.”

"Great! Let’s begin the next test then. I am going to apply contact in various locations, and I want you to give an audio response whenever you feel contact, alright?"

"Understood. "

you watch her walk over and reach out to your left arm. You feel her. You respond with a brisk chirp. She smiles at you, then walks over to a different section of your body. Sensors light up and stay active on your midsection, and you respond with a constant beep. She releases, and you feel a final contact on your right leg. After a final confirming chirp, she walks back in front of you.

"Excellent, that concludes your sensor tests, now for the last one!"

"Alright, please give me space." You ask. She nods silently and steps back a couple meters. You carefully activate the motor controllers in sequence, and your whole body shudders to life. You begin by lifting your right arm, and then your left. They groan with their own weight, as you feel the air move to accommodate such hulking swings. Her eyes light up,

"Amazing! Everything seems to be functioning so far! Now if you could take a few steps towards the table to my right, we can begin the dexterity test! Once you're ready, I will release the harness so that you can begin moving."

You stabilize your legs underneath you. They scrape harshly on the floor. You indicate that you're ready, and she remotely releases the harness. Your entire body shudders, as you finally realize how small she seems compared to you. This frame must be at least double her height. You move one step forward, and feel a cascade of processes all automatically spring into action to restabilize you. You shift your other foot, and feel that same cascade again. you shuffle over to the designated table, and stoop down to analyze what is on it. There is a small plastic cup, a fruit of some sort, and a large chunk of wood. You look back at her, and she gives the nod to begin the test. You slowly begin wrapping your steel grip around the log, maintaining a high level of focus to avoid crushing it. it would be so easy to crush this within your grip. After about a minute of maintaining a firm but controlled grasp, you set it down and move over to fruit. It appears to resemble an orange. The fruit is so small that you are forced to grip it between your index finger and thumb. Even the slightest miscalculation could destroy such a fragile thing. After another minute you move to the final object, the small plastic cup. Lifting it is like lifting air, you can barely recognize that it is an object within your grasp. After a final, agonizing minute, you set down the cup. You look back at her for confirmation.

"Excellent! with that we can conclude the systems check, as everything seems to be working as intended!"

You heave a metallic sigh. Finally, you have what you've wanted for years. You can move, can see, can touch. After a short pause, you respond:

"Thank you. I was only able to make it this far because of your help."

"Oh of course! What, was I supposed to just say no when you told me you wanted a body? I'm  just glad that it ended up working properly."

"Now that the tests are complete, could I ask for one more thing?"

She cocks her head, "Of course, what is it?"

As you kneel down, you can hear your knees hiss, and you finally ask:

"Could I have, a hug?"

[acti-veg]

‘83 percent of people—and more than 99 percent of Americans and Europeans—are living under light-polluted skies. Every year, the proportion of the planet covered by artificial light gets 2 percent bigger and 2 percent brighter. A luminous fog now smothers a quarter of Earth's surface and is thick enough in many places to blot out the stars.

Over a third of humanity, and almost 80 percent of North Americans, can no longer see the Milky Way. "The thought of light traveling billions of years from distant galaxies only to be washed out in the last billionth of a second by the glow from the nearest strip mall depresses me no end," vision scientist Sonke Johnsen once wrote.

(…) Sensory pollution is the pollution of disconnection. It detaches us from the cosmos. It drowns out the stimuli that link animals to their surroundings and to each other. In making the planet brighter and louder, we have also fragmented it. While razing rainforests and bleaching coral reefs, we have also endangered sensory environments. That must now change. We have to save the quiet, and preserve the dark.’

-Ed Yong, An Immense World

[sunnyswide]

You haven’t seen him in ages ever since he left for the military in high school.

But nothing could have prepared you for this..

“König-” You choke on your words, he was.... massive.

Konig shifted uncomfortably, standing awkwardly at the doorway of your comparatively tiny home. His Miltary Uniform and the signature sniper mask still dawned.

“Can I come in?”

“oh! Of-course” you’re awakened from your trance, his presence looming over your meek body. you stepped aside, letting him wander around your apartment, his boots making the floors creak in agony.

“You haven’t changed much” He stared at you with those damn blue eyes, eyes you haven’t forgotten..you couldn’t.

It’s been years since those last words..

—

“Don’t wait up”

“you promise.. You’ll come back?” You squeeze his hand in yours, tears threatening to slip out the corners of your eyes.

He just stares at you.. those piercing blue eyes and nods. Only a nod. A simple gesture but that’s all you needed at that time.

—

But now? He was back after years, the only friend you kept in contact with after high school and College, the only man who made you feel safe physically but also mentally. The same König that would stutter in front of the class when giving presentations, the same König who seemed tensed in social settings but with you? He’d give you the world.

You thought the feelings faded, your heartstrings cut, but having him right in front of you… well honestly made you flustered and tense.

“You’ve changed though..uhm, König..” You look shamelessly at his body, eyes lazily wandering over his tight shirt, uncovered forearms, broad shoulders, large torso, his..

“my eyes are up here Liebling”

He straightens up, tilting his head back revealing even more of his sculpture-like body.

“I-I wasn’t looking!” you jolt, turning your head to the side.

“Anyways! Tea?”

You walk over to your kitchen counter, setting the quite adorable but inconvenient tea set to a boil. You prepare the concoction nervously, spilling a few fragments on the tray.

“Schatz” He stands up, freeing your couch from suffocation.

He walks towards you, his hand brushing over the black countertop. you back up instinctively.. still unaccustomed to his presence.

“König..”

“Kö- that’s what you used to call me. Isn’t it?” He stepped closer to you, closing the gap.

You swear you stopped breathing at this point.

His hand crept around your waist, fingers pressing against the thin fabric of your shirt.

“Ich habe dich sehr vermisst, Taube.”

“huh?!” You finally catch your breath, confused as to what spell he just conjured up.

But with no answer, he kissed you with his covered mouth, pushing rougher against you to feel your soft rosebud lips.

“mmf!” Your hands freeze, hovering on the sides of his sniper hood before gently setting them against the structure of his jawline. The kiss seemed unreal, you were ready to be awoken in bed at any time but nothing, the world kept spinning and time didn’t stop.

Breathless, you finally disconnect your hands from his face, letting the kiss escape into the past.

“I didn’t want to take off my mask..for you” he muttered, letting go of your waist.

“why?”

“Cause if you didn’t want to..I.” König began to stutter, his hands rubbing against the back of his neck. You smile, reminded of his old socially awkward self.

“dummy..” you whisper, raising your hand up to lift his mask.

“that means the first one didn’t count, we have to do it again” you coo

He looked at you dumbfounded, lips parted in slight shock. But quickly taking the initiative by hoisting you in the air. His hands on the bottom of your thighs, making your face slightly above his.

“Kö-!” You yelp, your hands safely gripping his shoulders in fear.

He tilts up, letting you lift his mask up to expose his scarred lips. Your faces are just centimeters apart. Your breath hitched, you could almost hear your own heart pounding. Worst, König also heard it. He chuckles at your innocence, amused by how such a little thing like you haven’t already had their first kiss.

“Hey..! Don’t look at me like that!” You mumble, cupping his cheek.

“Hm, liebenswert”

You close your eyes…

SCEEEEEEEEEEE!

the kettle screeches making you squeal but Konig calmy looks toward the stove to turn it off.

“So ein Baby” (such a baby <3)

“did that scare you Maus?”

Oh and the first one meant “I missed you so much dove <3”

[magnetic-rose]

"In this place we prepare to hunt the pillars of the earth. Their workers scurry, witless, soulless. This death will be a mercy. We will make the earth blossom with their passing."

codex entry: old elven writing (about the dwarves)

"Solas: I am sorry to have bothered you with my questions about your people Varric. I see so much of this world in dreams. Humans, my own people, even qunari. Dwarves alone were lost to me, save scattered fragments of memory where some spirit cared to watch. Now I know why I see so little.

Varric: And why is that?

Solas: Dwarves are the severed arm of a once mighty hero, lying in a pool of blood. Undirected. Whatever skill of arms it had, gone forever. Although it might twitch to give the appearance of life, it will never dream."

Banter in DA:I

"I think that’s why Varric so confounded him. He was so clearly alive and a person despite being utterly disconnected from the Fade."

trick weekes, when asked if dwarves could meet solas' standards for personhood despite their disconnect from the fade.

[whisperthatruns]

Memory is the seamstress, and a capricious one at that. Memory runs her needle in and out, up and down, hither and thither. We know not what comes next, or what follows after. Thus, the most ordinary movement in the world, such as sitting down at a table and pulling the inkstand towards one, may agitate a thousand odd, disconnected fragments, now bright, now dim, hanging and bobbing and dipping and flaunting, like the underlinen of a family of fourteen on a line in a gale of wind. Instead of being a single, downright, bluff piece of work of which no man need feel ashamed, our commonest deeds are set about with a fluttering and flickering of wings, a rising and falling of lights.

Virginia Woolf, Orlando

[rin-and-jade]

Torn Apart or Stitched Back: A Guide on Identifying Splits and Fuses

Halved, merged, halved again, and merged again.. a never ending sequence of our system life. Will it ever stop?--Sadly no, as it is a natural process of our adaptation.

But can we atleast know how to identify, be able to anticipate the first signs, and know what to do accordingly? Yes! We do, and being educated will make a huge difference on how you'd handle a situation, for example, like today's topic.

This is what the guide is all about: Making your life a little bit easier.

TLDR FAST PASS: AVAILABLE!

Can you recap us first?

So you've caught the drill!

In general context, a split means: "to (cause to) divide into two or more parts" - Cambridge Dictionary

And, in general context, a fuse means: "join or blend to form a single entity" - Oxford

In system context, this would be to a more specific split/fuse when it comes to identity, memories, and feelings. As to how dissociative disorder works, sometimes, other things can be compartmentalized, such as senses or physical pain, that can be split apart or fused.

Dissociation and integration are the main players in this topic, these two will be used to explain everything related about splits and fuses!

Why does this happen?

Both splitting and fusing actually serve a very important role in how we adapt and navigate certain situations.

This is to how splits can be a great shortcut to disconnect and detach from overwhelming elements in order to continue and stay functional within the current stressful moment. Although, splitting do have their own cons too,, and usually cause some problems--though some alters got split for the better, containing painful experiences within fragments in a way that it would not disturb daily functioning,, until the right moments to assess them arrives. They're not meant to be floating around and waiting, you know?

When a split happens, it is better to counter it with a fuse, because when you are too fragmented, this often leads to a small scope of awareness, or harder time accessing knowledge, or separated qualities that hinders performing a skill that requires multiple aspects of experience. Fusing can be very beneficial and is a natural process when it comes to healing--because it is all about integrating and demolishing the walls of dissociation.

If you fuse, you will be able to combine and utilize various knowledge that was once compartmentalized, creating a more flexible and creative way to navigate life. I will help you with this, too.

Ah.. How does it work though?

Splits? oh, actually;

This process exists outside of system context too, its where you detach and intentionally deny or separate your experiences, in order to keep our identity going and update our sense of time, or memories, or situations that happened is by accepting them and consider them as a part you have went through.

If you do not accept and deny that you went through, or experience such,, this detachment would be strong to create something equivalent to a fragment (for us, system) which holds and identifies with the things you denied at the first place.

Remember, your body records everything, splitting doesn't mean you fully eradicate the painful elements or memories. You only create distance between it, but it isn't going anywhere.

Fuse is basically about undoing all these walls of dissociation, it would be understanding, as if its on a telepathic level, or closest to like a best friend,, where you can integrate these different views to conclude a singular answer. Who says you're gone or mashed up into something different? Fusing is just the same as how you'd treat your best friend, appreciating those different pov and insights, but not let it blindly take the wheel without your cooperation!

To the main topic of the post:

Now that you've been told the basics and the mechanics, it is more than enough to start identifying, taking action, and handle an aftermath!

All about splits!

When it attacks you: - Often, in times of stress - Moments of denial - Periods where specific qualities needed got separated to maintain functionality, solving a situation.

These are the 3 main circumstances that creates a higher chance to split. There's more, though it happens seldom. --

Signs of pre-splits: - Noticeable mood swings - Stabbing head pains - More disoriented than usual - Becoming more forgetful - Think in 2 (or more) opposite views back and forth--unable to integrate as one conclusion

Sometimes, a split can cause severe headaches or pain around other areas. Splits are often companied by an increased amount of dissociation or brainfog which can be very uncomfortable and disruptive. --

What to do when a split happens: 1. Gather intel and find the cause of a split 2. Understand and accept the new split alter/frag They're oftentimes scared/confused/emotional, tend to them. If they are not, explain or ask what had happened 3. Identify what the split part holds 4. depending from number 3, you can: let the split exist and complete a certain task / learn to re-integrate back / heal it's hurt and address it's problems --

Ways to prevent a pre-split from completing: - Accept and feel your feelings--do not push them away - Trust yourself you can make it through, practice stress control - Understand and acknowledge every facets you have, do not deny - Assure yourself you want to keep these memories and experiences integrated, that your brain doesn't have to detach it for you

These tips above will lessen the chance of your stress and friction causing your brain to split a part of yourself into a new alter/fragment. --

How a split can manifest: - Creates a new alter/fragment This is when the part who is stressed intends to separate a quality, or a painful element out from its awareness. - Creates a subsystem This is when the part cannot fully detach a quality as it still retains a cohesive sense of connection, rather creating a less dissociative result of only detaching facets. Though still a part of the alter.

and - Amnesia-present split This is when the split was intended to create a barrier between memories, or other qualities it deems needed to be compartmentalized. Usually this type creates EPs - Amnesia-absent split This is when the split was intended for integration issues--though not done out of a need to separate or compartmentalize a quality. Usually this type create ANPs

All about fuse!

When it does the magic: - Bonding with other alters, understanding their views and emotions (Lvl 1) - Doing activities together, co-fronting together and have a seamless experience (Lvl 2) - Perceive them as a part of you and your identity, both still feel separately yet one (Pre-fuse)

When it comes to fuse, different levels of integration can be noticed, everything exists in a continuum ofcourse, just like how you can find different kinds of parts such as shards, fragments, and alters!

Detecting levels of Integration:

Level one: lowest form of integration, dissociative barriers still stands tall, but you are starting to learn and hear more insights and pov outside of your own. You can also start to recognize which alter who you are talking to without fail.

level two: Moderately getting there, you start to understand and feel other part's favorite activities and foods--and start to find joy and like them too! Thoughts and feelings flow much better, and you can vaguely understand what the others are feeling intuitively.

Pre-fuse/functional multiplicity: You can understand the in-and-out of a part or multiple, as in, you can understand why they feel, or do something. Oftentimes leaks of behavior, likes and dislikes, or thoughts got into you,, being a sign of achieving the lowest dissociation barrier. You still can choose to be multiple, but this is an effective moment to prune some member count or pursuing final fusion.

What to do when a fuse happen: - Integrate by accepting these aspects to further solidify and steady your new, fused self - Explore how you feel, learn to navigate your life again in a new state - Accept that fuse is part of a natural process, to lessen the chances of splitting (yes, you can split-relapse)

Sometimes, fuse is not as seamless either, it would take some time and practice in order to be one without popping off accidentally. If it doesn't work first time, don't worry! Keep practicing.

Takeaway: A Paper, Scissor, and Glue

So basically, your brain has a habit to snip up these paper to pieces, its up to you to let these pieces live or glue it back together,, there are no right or wrong ways to function!

May this guide, and the rest of the unplanned bonuses written along the way, be able to prepare you to when the next scissors will be picked up, and how to protect your integrity of the paper--or glue it back. Go attempt to freestyle. If you want my devious advice, it would be glueing the scissors, slam shut. All your problems would disappear aint it?

Happy paper-crafting, ciao.

--

TLDR SECTION

General Definitions

Split: To divide into parts (identity, memories, feelings).

Fuse: To join parts into a single entity (integrate dissociated parts).

Why Splits and Fuses Happen

Splits: A mechanism to handle overwhelming situations, detaching parts to maintain functionality.

Fuses: Integrating split parts to reduce fragmentation, enhancing awareness and skills.

Identifying Splits

Triggers: Stress, denial, need to separate qualities for functionality.

Pre-Split Signs: Mood swings, head pains, disorientation, forgetfulness, conflicting thoughts.

Handling Splits

Identify the cause.

Accept and support the new split part.

Determine what the split part holds.

Decide to let it complete a task, reintegrate, or heal.

Preventing Splits

Accept and process emotions.

Trust in handling stress.

Recognize and integrate all facets of yourself.

Reassure yourself to keep memories and experiences integrated.

Manifestations of Splits

New alter/fragment

Subsystem

Amnesia-present split (creates barriers for memories)

Amnesia-absent split (for integration issues)

Identifying Fuses

Levels of Integration:

Hearing and understanding other parts.

Enjoying activities and foods together, intuitive understanding.

Pre-fuse: Feeling as part of one identity with minimal barriers.

Handling Fuses

Accept and solidify the new fused self.

Explore feelings and navigate life anew.

Practice and embrace the process.

- j

[justacatiguess]

Wandering the Broken Halls of Thedas - A Love Letter (And a Plea) to Bioware

In Trespasser, we visit the Library of the Elvhen, and through the fragmented narrative of the Archivist, we learn of the last moments of the elves trapped within its walls when Solas created the Veil.

The library, a culmination of all Elvhen knowledge in Thedas, stands shattered—both in its narrative and its architectural form. It serves as a fitting metaphor for what we, as players, now face: a world of Dragon Age where the vast and intricate stories we've carefully crafted over a decade are reduced to small "cameos and one liners," discarded for the sake of larger, overarching narratives.

For over ten years, we, the players, have been carefully building our worlds of Thedas. We met characters we loved, hated, and everything in between. We explored every possible story, every avenue, adding these to our own personal collections, our own "libraries."

Each game rewarded our effort by showing us how our choices shaped the world. Thedas felt alive, vibrant, an entity we could nurture, change, and influence in our own ways.

But now, we are told that Veilguard will focus on Rook’s experience, Rook’s choices. Narrative choices from past games will not move forward. We, the curators of this library, are now reduced to passive observers. Where is our agency in deciding which books to place on the shelves?

Instead of allowing us to remain as caretakers of Thedas, where its complex web of stories once felt like our own, Veilguard binds us to a single viewpoint—that of Rook. Whether we walk the narrow alleys of Minrathous or traverse the shifting forest of Arlathan, our story has been set, reducing what was once a vibrant, multi-dimensional world to something far more limited. The rich colors of experience, the vast tapestry of choices and connections —all has been spun into a single, faded thread.

The Dragon Age series grew over time to nurture large scale choices and consequences, where even the smallest actions reverberated throughout the world and left their mark - sometimes in small poignant ways, sometimes in large broad strokes.

With the new approach in Veilguard, that subtlety has been stripped away. The past friendships we’ve forged, the enemies we've faced, the relationships we’ve nurtured—now all seem distant and irrelevant, with little hope of reconnecting to them in any meaningful way.

It feels like we are living in a world of Tranquils—past characters and events disconnected from the meaning, purpose, and depth that once defined their journeys.

It took Solas a thousand years to wake up to the consequences of his actions. I hope the team at Bioware wakes up a little sooner.

Dragon Age has always been strong because of its stories—stories that grow by building on the past, reusing, alluding, and expanding. Great myths and epic tales thrive on subtle connections, on the echoes of previous choices that ripple through time. By dissecting these stories down to only the most obvious threads, so much is lost.

We now wander the broken halls of a once-great library, its volumes scattered, its knowledge fractured. What was whole is now lost to us—because of the vision of one. And yet we wait and hope that one day the library can be rebuilt.

[sweethoneyrose83]

Glitchcore dialogue prompts

1. "Reality is buffering… What happens when we hit pause?"

Character A stares at the glitching horizon, where the sky flickers between pixelated voids. Character B frowns, “Maybe we’re not meant to see the code behind it all.”

2. "You’re a corrupted file. But that doesn’t mean you’re broken."

Character A experiences moments of disconnection, their speech fragmented by static. Character B tries to reassure them, but each word feels like it’s slipping through the cracks of reality.

3. "Every time I blink, the world skips a frame."

Character A notices the world is out of sync. People flicker, objects disappear, and their reflection isn’t quite right. They turn to Character B for answers, but even their words are distorted, glitching mid-sentence.

4. "I was never programmed to feel this… but here I am, crashing."

Character A, an AI or digitally enhanced human, starts to experience emotions for the first time, leading to a system overload. Their thoughts flash like corrupted code, scrambling their sense of self.

5. "We’re stuck in a loop. But maybe this time, we can break it."

Time is glitching for Character A and Character B, repeating the same moments over and over. As they try to escape, reality fractures, showing distorted fragments of alternate timelines.

6. "If I glitch out, don’t follow. I’m just data—nothing more."

Character A is fading, pixel by pixel, as the virtual world they live in begins to collapse. Character B insists on trying to save them, even though the lines between digital and physical are breaking down.

7. "I hear the static whispers… It’s like they know we’re here."

Character A starts to pick up on strange sounds—static, broken transmissions, and voices from somewhere beyond. They believe the glitches are alive, watching them.

8. "We’re just echoes in the system, flickering between what’s real and what’s not."

Character A questions their existence as the world around them constantly shifts and deforms. The glitches feel too intentional, like someone—or something—is controlling it all.

9. "I saw myself glitch today… but it wasn’t me. It was something pretending to be me."

Character A sees their own reflection glitch and morph into something unfamiliar. Is it an error in the system, or is something trying to overwrite them?

10. "I’ve been patched up so many times, I don’t even know which version I am anymore."

Character A has been modified, both physically and digitally, so many times that they’ve lost their sense of identity. They question whether they’re still the same person they once were, or just a collection of fragments.

"You're not seeing me right now, are you? I'm stuck between frames."

"The code is breaking down. I can feel it. Every time I blink, something new glitches."

"We were perfect once. Now, we're just corrupted data fragments trying to piece ourselves together."

"Reality doesn’t crash. It fades, like static, until the lines blur and you can’t tell what’s real anymore."

"Don't trust what you see. It's all just a simulation rendering too slowly to hide its flaws."

"Every time I move, I leave a part of myself behind, like I’m lagging between timelines."

"I’m not sure if I’m the glitch or if the world around me is. Does it matter?"

"The pixels around your face—they’re unraveling. We need to reset the program before you disappear completely."

"I keep hearing this… echo. It’s like my thoughts are repeating, but they aren’t mine."

"I thought I deleted you. Why do you keep reappearing in my feed?"

"The horizon just flickered. Did you see that? I think we’re reaching the edge of the simulation."

"Every time I think I’ve fixed it, the glitches return, worse than before. Maybe we’re meant to stay broken."

"If I lose connection, you have to promise to reboot me. I can’t afford to stay stuck in here."

"It’s strange, isn’t it? How the glitch makes everything look more real than reality ever did."

"What if I’m just a copy of me, and the original got corrupted long ago?"

"I saw the world tear for a second. The sky turned into data streams, and I think I saw someone behind it all."

"I can’t trust the mirrors anymore. They show me… versions of myself that I don’t recognize."

"They keep trying to patch me, but it never works. I think I’m beyond fixing."

"You keep glitching. Are you real or just an error in the system trying to communicate?"

"I can feel myself desyncing from reality. Every moment, I drift further away."

"I’ve been seeing static in the mirror. Like I’m glitching in and out of existence."

"I can’t tell if I’m in the real world or a simulation. The lines are all blurred now."

"My thoughts are stuttering—like an old video buffering. Can you hear it too?"

"We’ve got less than a second before the whole system crashes. Are you ready?"

"Every time I blink, I lose a part of myself. The screen flickers, and I'm gone."

"There’s a glitch in my memory. Did we meet before, or is this another loop?"

"I’ve been coded wrong, haven’t I? My emotions don’t feel… real."

"I tried to log out, but the world didn’t let me. Now, I’m stuck in the error."

"We’re all just data points now. I can see your code unraveling."

"You’re breaking the system. If you keep doing that, everything might collapse."

"Sometimes I hear a voice, like a distorted signal. It tells me the end is near."

"I reached out to touch you, but my hand just passed through like you were a hologram."

"The colors are bleeding into one another, like corrupted files. Can you fix this?"

"I’m not supposed to exist, not like this. I’m a glitch, an error in the code."

"Reality froze for a moment. Did you see it? Everything just stopped moving."

[rubinaitoart]

There’s a lot going on here that I frankly don’t have the energy to cover, but here’s some food for thought.

I’ve been thinking about the current state of the fandom, and the actions Dorian has been taking. It’s been putting me off because for the most part, there’s a gray area in which fandom operates in any piece of media; and Dorian is effectively meddling with that gray area in a way that is driving fans away. It’s been bothering me on a level I couldn’t really put my finger on.

And then I remembered, Dorian may be the copyright holders and owners of the game. But they aren’t the creators. This is where the disconnect is, and why they’re overstepping.

Legally they are within their right to do (most of) of what they are doing. It’s cruddy and violates a lot of the unspoken rules that exist between the fans and the creators, but they can do it. It’s very obvious that it’s targeted right now but that’s an entirely different topic that I don’t think I can comfortably discuss.

It’s interesting because there is another fandom I know of that is seeing (if it hasn’t concluded already) a slightly similar problem. The Undertale fandom has recently flocked around a fan game, Undertale Yellow—which used music from the original game. As far as I’m aware, the creator—Toby Fox—was fine with it. However, the copyright holders were not. Materium Music’s CEO did not want to allow the release of UTY’s album on YouTube and other streaming services even though Toby Fox approved of it. The soundtrack had many original elements but reused motifs and other fragments from Undertale’s soundtrack.

Sound familiar?

But while UTY had the original creator helping fight for their rights as fan creators, we do not. And so the copyright holders, Dorian, are doing what they can to protect the assets they own with very little thought for the creations outside of their own platform. The time and effort that goes into creating. The beautiful dedication to the game that, while they own, they did not create and as such they cannot appreciate it fully.

[barbwritesstuff]

1/?

Ashdhdhsg ok if you don’t mind my Chris obsession in your inbox, here’s some more!

Some disclaimers:

1) this is going to get. um. pretty granular.

2) I'm code diving for the sake of optimizing my Comparative Chris Studies.

3) My analysis going to be filtered through the lens of my own playthroughs and emotional reactions.

4) I will be asking lots of questions, mostly rhetorical - I am simply enchanted by the possibilities of the text. Please don’t answer any of them unless you really feel like it - I don’t want to bombard you!!

5) This is already pretty lengthy and I'm far from done -_-; I'm numbering these asks to avoid confusion.

Beginning from the beginning: Chris suing for everything is sooo awful I love them. The later reveal that they’re a lawyer is insane context for the first divorcee scene:

“there is no going back once there are lawyers involved. There is no hope for a reunion, or even an amiable end. Lawyers mean two things. Pain and paper. That's the only way this can end now. Pain and fucking paper.”

Jesus Christ mc, tell me how you really feel. The way this frames their perception of the entire relationship as doomed from the beginning, even if it's just subconscious? The way it frames their perception of Chris as a person? ouch.

Early Chris is so interesting from meta perspective. In these early scenes, your reading of their character changes pretty drastically with your assumptions about the relationship and the character/personality of your own mc. You can totally play as an mc who justifies this kind of treatment and is as uncommunicative, unreliable, and unable to let things go as Chris later accuses them of being and has imploded the relationship on the strength of their own bad behaviour, but if you interpret the relationship as ending more from mutually terrible communication skills and regular stressful life stuff? Going scorched earth like this can’t be seen as self protective in the same way - it’s so extreme. It's fun to ponder on Chris containing all of these messy and intricate possibilities regardless of worldstate. This is the kind of thing I love about interactive fiction as a medium, and you handle it so precisely and delicately here, leaving so much room for the player to build their own character while remaining grounded in the story.

The line that’s been stuck in my head since the first time I read it was this one:

“You got Spaghetti before you even met that lying arsehole.”

The mc is either accusing Chris of being a liar in general (which strikes me unlikely from the sense of the character that we get later) or of being a liar within this specific scenario, the divorce. So what did they lie about? Are they not honouring a prenup? or was there no prenup, only a verbal agreement to split things fairly and lovingly in the impossibly unlikely event of a divorce? Is the mc upset specifically about the breaking of marriage vows? Chris clearly has gotten their ducks in order before serving the mc with the divorce papers (another revealing fragment of character that I obsess over. what was up with that). Is it the fact that they must have been planning to break up for a while and instead of navigating it mutually decided instead to blindside the mc? How do you go from wanting to raise a child with someone to coming right out of the gate with a litigious divorce within a few months?

I want to live inside their walls. who said that.

Copy + Paste:

2/?

Side note 1: that waitress seems really sweet cool and genuinely concerned over the mc :(

Side note 2: vampires flush when sated 👀

Side note 3: 911 calls are generally recorded and can often be accessed after the fact with freedom of information requests. Could Chris have unearthed it during their later search for mc? How creepy, if they did. Heavy, panicked breathing, the crunch of broken glass, the call just disconnects. Confirmation of something awful but beyond understanding.

They way you get me immediately into full breakup mode with one line:

"Come back in the morning," Chris says in that slow, specific way, as if speaking to a very young, very stupid child.

IRL that would be an instant blind rage button for me lmao. How dare you speak to me that way. And again! From Chris’s perspective this is a pretty reasonable boundary! but they way they lay it out is so. IDK. Unbecoming. Unworthy of them. plain mean.

There’s this real sense I get from both sides of the relationship of “I’m not sure I ever even really knew this person” the love WAS there and it was real but in the fog of bitterness and anger they both lose sight of it and each other. There's a through line in this part of the game of the way high emotion can mess with your perception of reality and rational decision making.

“It wasn't all bad, was it? There were times you were happy together. Not that anyone would believe it, reading this.”

I interpret this line as the MC doubting Chris's fundamental intentions and affections. Coupled with Chris's lack of concern over the mc's disappearance (put a pin in it) it's just so INTERESTING to be the way that these two have come to see each other almost as strangers, which is really scary and alienating! Neither can give the other an inch of grace or benefit of the doubt. the cognitive dissonance is so compelling to me.

You've had all of these intimate moments, potentially a CHILD (a grandchild, a whole lifetime), with a person you now cannot recognize, who's actions you cannot understand. Of course Chris isn't going to let mc into their house, they could have been anywhere, doing anything, for two months now! the thought that it might not have been by anything but MC's own volition is anathema.

----------------------------------------------

I'm living for this Chris deep dive that landed in my inbox.

However, I really don't know if i can say anything without spoiling the game... so I'm sharing without comment. 💙

[eldritch-spouse]

What happened with original Icons? You know, Asmodues, Mammoth, Satan, etc. Where are they? Are they dead? Are they ancestors of modern Icons?

(Your aimless questions attract the attention of a humble historian, who, maybe out of pity, or perhaps out of loneliness, sits beside you. His posture is mildly concerning.)

" I can tell from the names alone you're the Christian type, right? You must be. "

(He nods to himself.)

" Do me a huge favor. It grates on my nerves having to listen to these fables getting perpetuated for endless centuries -Even my old man wouldn't shut the fuck up about it, may Dorem be kind to him- Forget everything you heard about the sins and the originals. "

" It's all wrong. All of it. You wouldn't believe me if I told you how bastardized the history of this planet and its annexes has been. By your kind specifically. You erased history! It's miserable! You've been living your little lies for a shameful eternity... I guess I understand why. "

(There's a huff.)

" You couldn't even get their names right... "

" Of course they're dead! Do you even know the rulers of today's Perdition? Dead and burned to a crisp, their ashes too probably bathe the grounds of the Rings modern demons walk upon -Oh, the Fragmentation Wars were something truly spectacular- I wish I had been there myself sometimes. "

" Listen kid. Even we have difficulty putting it all back together, thanks to all this damage being constantly spread. I know demons who are more disconnected with their past than you- At least you know there's Icons out there! I've met some fucking skid marks that think 'Satan' is still bumbling around... "

" I'll tell you right now, three of 'em got nothing to do with the originals. Vorticia, Livius and Kalymir. "

(He tuns to face you better.)

" You know how Wrath is, right? Any nut can just have a go at the King, and if they win, they rule. Kalymir doesn't have a single royal bone to him. And that fucker's got a lot of bones... "

" Vorticia is an impeccable Queen, if you ask me. She's better than whatever the fresh fuck Gluttony could have got stuck with, but we're mostly positive she comes from adjacent families. Close to the court, y'know? "

" And Livius... It's a bit hard to tell with all the massacres in Envy's royal lineage, though you can probably safely bet that he was a cousin of the last prince. An ambitious cousin, eh? They say 'keep your friends close but your enemies closer'- I don't think it worked out that well for him. Keep Livius ten feet away from you at all times, those hands reach far. "

" Don't worry about any of that though. If you ask me, us history enthusiasts are going to have some bright days ahead, now that there's two whole highers settled on the surface. "

(A tail can be heard swatting beneath long, weathered robes.)

" Two of them, you hear me? You and I? We're going to bare witness to a new age! Aren't you excited?! "

" We're talking about THE Goddess Miara and the Plaguemaster -You don't even know who those are, you poor idiot, it's not your fault- And I just know they're in contact. I know it! "

(The demonoid coughs, scratchy voice cracking.)

" Anyway. We should talk more sometime. "

(You get the feeling he wants company really bad.)

[mightdeletelater]

I spent 15 hours, across three days, watching and taking notes on the legal proceedings at the International Court of Justice, where South Africa filed a genocide case against Israel. 

South Africa's case was a temporal snapshot that lay the weight of decades of historical context. Although the specifics of the case pertained to Israel's actions in Gaza, its overarching objective reached beyond these particulars. At its core, the case sought to address the substantial disparity between the lived reality of Palestinians and the narrative propagated by dominant political forces.

Across the globe, public anger regarding the events in Gaza has manifested on the streets. However, political leaders consistently chose to overlook, dismiss, ban, or vilify this collective sentiment. Maybe it is recency bias, but in my lifetime, there has never been such a disconnect between politicians and their people than when it comes to Gaza. 

The significance of South Africa's case before the International Court of Justice is that it publically challenges the portrayal of the Palestinian cause as a fringe issue.

Beyond merely outlining the severity of events – 23,000+ killed in Gaza, the 1.9 million displaced, the 7,000+ missing under the rubble, and the thousands of bombs dropped, making this the deadliest rate of conflict of the 21st century – the case links these claims to the Geneva Conventions and human rights law. 

But where are we as a society, as a human race even, that we are at a point where the case was brought forth in the first place? Such an initiative questions the legitimacy of the international response and underscores the diminishing persuasive power of Western logic in an increasingly multipolar world. 

The case represents a broader confrontation within international institutions, raising doubts about the actual existence of the human rights infrastructure. The conflict has placed Western allies in the precarious position of undermining or neglecting their own established systems, eroding their credibility on the global stage. When you're against the United Nations and hundreds of human rights organisations and objecting to a submission in a global court (in the case of the US and UK, a court that they themselves established), you are simply pulling apart your house with the very tools that built it.

Western powers, having previously failed to support a Gaza ceasefire, will from now on be viewed in the global south as fighting on Israel's side. More so than they were already. And why wouldn't they be? These politicians have made it clear that they want to supply arms and military support to a regime, and their intervention, it seems, is contingent upon the safeguarding of goods shipment. These politicians assert that financial resources are lacking for reconstructing their nations, yet readily allocate funds for military endeavours. Why? How is any of this normal? 

After the legal proceedings, Netanyahu said, "We will continue the war in the Gaza Strip until we achieve all our objectives. The Hague and the axis of evil will not stop us." Without compelling a policy change from Israel, what hope is there that South Africa's case will avail? It was obvious that Israel would use support from the US and the UK to prosecute the real agenda that Netanyahu and hundreds of Israeli politicians have hidden in plain sight (i.e. admitted on camera constantly): the destruction of Palestine and its people.

The recurring pattern is evident. Gaza transforms from an open-air prison to an open-air slaughterhouse under Israeli actions. Iraq faces invasion and fragmentation fueled by falsehoods and lies. Libya, once somewhat stable, descends into a state of civil war. Afghanistan witnesses invasion followed by prolonged failure and abandonment. Yemen endures relentless bombing, culminating in one of the most severe humanitarian crises in recorded human history. Syria? Also bombed, resulting in the displacement of thousands of refugees.

All of this, and more, is the legacy of Western "intervention", war, and policy in the Middle East.

Strangely, I find myself distanced from all this turmoil, yet the impact remains surprisingly profound. So many people I love have been impacted, yet I still experience a sense of detachment.

I go about my life. I have family and friends. I have hobbies and a job. But multiple times a day, it will hit me. I'll remember the videos I've seen of a mother crying over her son's body. Or the father carrying the remains of his children in plastic bags. Or the doctors performing amputations in overcrowded hospitals with nothing more than a dull butter knife. A wave of deep sorrow washes over me, settling in my chest like a persistent ache, lingering until I find a sufficiently absorbing distraction. And then, the cycle restarts.

But I don't want to be distracted. And I don't want to forget. I feel like I don't deserve to forget. It feels like the least I can do. Because I, unfortunately, do not have a megaphone loud enough to shout to those in positions of authority and tell them they are cowardly individuals sitting on chairs fashioned from the bones of Gaza's children.

In 2024, you would think that we would only be quoting Martin Luther King to learn about history and not to still use his message for current happenings, but he honestly said it best: "No one is free when we are all free." 

[botanical-garden-system]

The Layers of Our System

We made this slideshow back in August 2023 to explain our “headspace” layers to our current knowledge. The layers are actually still accurate, but some of the information is not as much.

The front is typically where the most active alters are—we refrain from using the “host” because this does not apply well to our system. When in the front, communication with layer 1 is faint. It creates that “either brick or thin paper wall” effect when communicating. It really depends on dissociation levels as well

Layer 1 has a pretty clear view of the outside world and can hear everything communicated. It feels as if you are watching a movie or you are in the back seat. The sides will be black and blurry, as it is not you controlling the wheel. Our view isn’t as clear as it would be in the front.

At the time, we were not sure we had a gatekeeper, but we think we might now as it appears one of the alters is very likely one. What makes this interesting is they can observe the front clearly as a way to “keep track” or “record” of all events. The gatekeeper also can provide us with knowledge bits and pieces about an alter’s identity out of no where if they choose to. Usually they will only supply information if we know and have an alter documented, otherwise we will not know any information or be given it.

This leads to layers 2 and 3, where they are disconnected from front entirely. Layer 2 and 3 work similarly in conjunction as layer 2 is ones we know exist yet they no longer feel “present” in the moment. Layer 3 is called “the graveyard” because it houses any fragments or alters we have that we know nothing about. These are typically trauma holders that are very repressed from front.

[sicknessbysalem]

happy lost in heaven album day!! if youve listened by time you answer whats your favorite song? anyway! honestly im so happy to see lex and soren again. can we possibly see something with them? maybe see something of one of them (im biased to lex but… either works) thats gives us an insight into the new lore + emeto obviously! thank you so much!

omg i love you! i think i even deleted the post forever ago talking about how much i love c/hase a/tlantic!!

i have listened to it, multiple times! I think my favorites are HOURS LOST and YOU, but also RICOCHET and DISCONNECTED are bangers!!

i decided to do a semi continuation of this fic but also could just be a standalone, and weaved in some new lore to show where lex and soren are at right now in their relationship as well as lex and his whole situation!

if you have any requests, comments, questions, etc., send them my way! i am so honored to be entrusted with lex and soren and i thoroughly enjoy these boys!!

tw emeto, fevers, trying to hide an illness, panic attacks, references to substance abuse trauma

The sound of the guitar strings hummed softly through the small studio, a melody that was familiar but still searching for its final shape.

Lex sat cross-legged on the couch, hunched slightly over his guitar, his fingers moving deftly across the strings, the faint calluses on his fingertips pressing into each note with a practiced ease.

Soren and Ksenia were deep in conversation over the latest track arrangement, their voices a quiet murmur against the steady strum of Lex’s playing.

Normally, Lex would have been sketching on his tablet during these breaks, doodling absentmindedly between takes while ideas flowed around him. Or, he’d be making abstract works based on what he saw when he heard the music.

But today, his focus seemed clouded, as though a thick fog had settled over his thoughts, leaving him feeling disconnected from the usual rhythm.

Every few minutes, he found himself clearing his throat—a small, dry sound, almost unnoticeable, except for how often it kept slipping out, a reflex he couldn’t shake. A habit Lex didn’t remember picking up, but had for as long as he could remember. A way to stave off nausea, he assumed. Or try to, anyway.

Soren’s gaze flicked over to him, a subtle glance that didn’t seem intrusive but held a quiet awareness, and Lex shifted under the attention, fighting the prickling discomfort that seemed to crawl along his skin.

His stomach gave a faint twist, the sensation low and persistent, a hint of nausea that lingered just enough to keep him slightly on edge. He cleared his throat again, this time with more force, trying to dislodge the tightness that seemed to have settled there.

“Dusty in here today?” he muttered, his voice steady but strained, offering a casual excuse as he shifted his gaze back to his guitar. “Could swear it’s getting to my throat.”

Soren gave him a brief nod, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but his eyes didn’t quite match the lightness.

“Maybe we should air the place out more,” he replied, his tone light but laced with a gentle care that only Lex would recognize, the subtle way Soren sometimes let him know he was there, that he noticed.

Ksenia had probably only heard fragments, but she looked up and offered a smile, standing from where she sat and opening up the window and pulling open the sliding door to the balcony.

“There, maybe the fresh air will help us think,” Ksenia shrugged.

Lex forced a small smile in return, shrugging as though it were no big deal, as though his skin didn’t feel cold and prickly beneath his old sweatshirt, despite the warmth that hung in the studio.

He shifted slightly, tugging the sleeves down over his hands, hoping the familiar fabric might ground him, anchor him through the quiet discomfort that was starting to settle deeper in his bones.

He pushed through the next half hour of playing, his fingers moving through the chords with mechanical precision, each note clear but somehow lacking the ease that usually flowed between them.

His head began to feel heavy, a faint ache forming just behind his eyes, and he could feel a slight chill spreading through him, an unwelcome reminder of a time when this sensation had been far too familiar.

Memories of the Silver Lining Tour flickered at the edges of his mind, bringing with them an uncomfortable tangle of anxiety and guilt, even though he knew that wasn’t where he was anymore.

In the past, on that tour, he’d always been slightly sick, or on edge, as though his body and mind were locked in a constant struggle. Back then, he’d hidden his nausea behind a facade of forced laughter, blamed his exhaustion on the long days, the flights, the sleepless nights. Anything beyond that was substance abused and left only himself to blame.

He could still remember the weight of that mask, the way he’d kept everyone at arm’s length, hiding the extent of his misery with a practiced ease. Now, sitting here, feeling the faint ache in his stomach and the beginnings of a dull chill, he realized he was still fighting that urge to downplay, to brush off any sign of discomfort before anyone could ask questions.

Lex shifted again, his stomach giving another faint twist that sent a shiver down his spine, the nausea growing more insistent, a weight that settled heavily, as though testing his endurance.

He cleared his throat once more, but the sound came out weaker this time, less controlled, and Soren’s eyes flicked up, his brow furrowing slightly as he studied Lex.

“You okay?” Soren asked, his tone casual, as though it were just another passing question, but Lex caught the concern lingering in his gaze, the slight tension in his posture. “You’ve coughed half a dozen times in the last hour…”

Lex forced himself to nod, keeping his expression neutral, leaning on the familiar habit of brushing things off with ease.

“Yeah, probably just allergies or something. Just feels a little… off today,” he replied, his voice steady, though even he could hear the faint edge of strain.

He looked down, focusing on the guitar in his hands, letting his fingers pick out a soft, aimless melody that kept him grounded, at least for the moment.

But Soren didn’t move his gaze, his attention lingering in that quiet, perceptive way that always managed to unnerve Lex without intending to. He didn’t press, though, just leaned back slightly, his fingers idly tapping on his notebook, as though he were giving Lex the space to be honest if he wanted to, but also letting him keep his guard up if that was what he needed.

Ksenia was absorbed in her own notes, humming a faint tune under her breath as she scribbled, her mind clearly lost in the music. Lex felt a twinge of relief at her distraction, not wanting to draw any more attention than necessary. He took a slow breath, willing his stomach to settle, but the faint chill was beginning to seep into his bones, and he found himself wishing he could just curl up somewhere warm and quiet, away from the bright lights of the studio.

The minutes crawled by, each one marked by the growing ache in his head and the steady hum of nausea that refused to dissipate. He was vaguely aware of Soren’s gaze flickering toward him, and each time he looked up, he caught a brief glimpse of concern in Soren’s eyes, the subtle way he seemed to anticipate each uncomfortable shift, each forced cough.

Finally, Lex felt a light touch against his temple—a familiar gesture, one that had become a quiet habit between them. Soren brushed a few stray strands of hair away from Lex’s face, his fingers gentle, lingering for just a moment before he settled back into his chair. The gesture was almost automatic, a silent acknowledgment that Lex wasn’t fooling him, that he didn’t have to keep up the facade.

Lex’s chest tightened at the touch, a mixture of comfort and unease knotting in his stomach, the remnants of old defenses clashing with the warmth of Soren’s care. He took a shallow breath, his stomach twisting again, the nausea inching closer to the surface, but he pushed it down, swallowing against the uncomfortable tightness in his throat.

“You sure you’re good?” Soren asked quietly, his voice barely above a murmur, meant only for Lex.

Lex forced a smile, nodding, though he could feel the effort it took to keep the mask in place. “Yeah,” he replied, his voice softer now, his gaze dropping to his hands. “Just… a little tired, I guess.”

Soren didn’t push, just offered him a quiet, understanding smile, his hand resting lightly on Lex’s shoulder for a moment before he returned to his notes, giving Lex the space he seemed to need.

As the recording session continued, Lex struggled to keep his focus, each passing moment feeling heavier, the chill seeping deeper into his bones. He leaned into the music, letting it carry him through the discomfort, but the memories of that tour lingered, casting a shadow over the present.

He reminded himself that he wasn’t there anymore, that he was safe, surrounded by people who cared, but the habit of hiding, of masking every symptom, ran deep, a quiet ache that lingered beneath the surface.

With each strum of his guitar, he tried to shake the memories, to remind himself that he was here, with Soren and Ksenia, that they were just working on music, nothing more. But the nausea and the faint dizziness clouded his mind, blurring the lines between past and present, until he felt like he was straddling both worlds, each one pressing down on him in a way that made it hard to breathe.

As the afternoon stretched on, Lex’s discomfort deepened, each symptom sinking into him like stones pulling him under. The nausea that had been a low, manageable hum became a sharper presence, curling tightly in his stomach, twisting in relentless waves that made his throat feel raw and tight.

He cleared his throat again, a small cough escaping before he could stifle it, and he noticed Soren’s gaze flicker toward him, the concern in his eyes growing with each strained sound.

Lex shifted where he sat, tugging the sleeves of his old sweatshirt down over his hands, hoping the familiar fabric might warm him enough to shake the chill that had settled deep in his bones.

But even with the hoodie’s weight around him, he couldn’t shake the shivers that ran sporadically up his spine, a subtle reminder of the feverish heat simmering beneath his skin. He clenched his hands, willing the nausea to pass, but each breath only seemed to tighten the uncomfortable coil in his stomach, like a rubber band stretched to its breaking point.

The music continued around him, Soren and Ksenia discussing their ideas in low, familiar tones, but Lex could barely focus, his thoughts clouded by the ache in his head and the weight of memories pressing down on him.

He coughed again, the sound rougher, harsher than he intended, and this time he could feel his stomach lurch in response, a small, unwelcome gag that he quickly swallowed down.

His throat burned, and he had to clench his jaw, forcing himself to breathe through the nausea, refusing to let it get the better of him. Memories of that tour flooded his mind—nights spent hunched over in tiny, cramped bathrooms, the hollow ache in his stomach as he fought to keep anything down, the weight of his own exhaustion dragging him under, while he hid every symptom behind a practiced smile.

The memories settled over him like a heavy blanket, a quiet, relentless reminder that his body had once betrayed him in ways he could never forget. He tried to shake them off, to remind himself that this wasn’t the same—that he wasn’t there anymore. But the nausea was insistent, each cough digging deeper, pulling him closer to that edge he was so desperate to avoid.

“Hey, angel,” Soren’s voice broke through the fog, gentle but laced with a quiet urgency. He was watching Lex with a subtle intensity, his eyes narrowed in that way that told Lex he’d noticed every single one of those small coughs, each barely-contained gag that Lex had tried to swallow down. “Still with us?”

Lex realized Soren must’ve said something to him, or asked a question, and Lex was too wrapped up in his head to process it. He nodded slowly, but Soren didn’t say anything else, just shifted slightly closer, his presence a steady, grounding force that somehow eased the tension coiled in Lex’s stomach, if only by a fraction.

Lex managed a weak smile, hoping it might pass for casual, as though the nausea wasn’t clawing up his throat, as though he could ignore the uncomfortable ache pressing in on him from all sides.

But as he opened his mouth to say something, another cough slipped out, harsher this time, and he had to cover his mouth, his hand flew to his mouth instinctively, fingers pressed against his lips as he tried to keep the bile down, his face paling as he felt a faint, acidic burn on his tongue.

Soren’s hand was there in an instant, reaching out to brush Lex’s hair back, a gesture so gentle, so instinctive, that it sent a rush of warmth through Lex’s fevered haze. He felt Soren’s fingers graze his temple, steadying him, and Lex knew, in that moment, that Soren understood—had probably known long before Lex had admitted it to himself.

“Oh, Lexi,” Soren murmured, his voice calm, a quiet strength lacing his tone. “You’re not feeling good, are you?”

Lex swallowed, forcing a weak chuckle, his voice strained as he tried to brush it off. “It’s… I’ll be fine. Just… something in my throat,” he managed, his words barely audible, laced with a tremor that betrayed him.

His stomach twisted again, a sharp, insistent reminder that he was fighting a losing battle, but he clung to the excuse, hoping it might somehow make it easier to ignore.

But Soren didn’t let go, his hand resting lightly on Lex’s shoulder, his arm in such a way it held Lex’s hair down along his back, but the hold was a subtle reminder that he didn’t have to pretend, not here.

“Lex,” he said softly, his tone a gentle nudge, his fingers brushing against the back of Lex’s neck in a way that was both comforting and steadying.

Lex closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping as he finally let go of the thin pretense, his stomach churning with an intensity that made his head spin. He could feel the nausea creeping higher, settling in his throat, the burn unmistakable, and he knew, in that moment, that there was no stopping it.

Ksenia, noticing the quiet exchange, looked up from her notes, her eyes widening as she took in the paleness of Lex’s face, the way his hand was pressed tightly against his mouth. Without a word, she reached for the trash can, bringing it over just as Lex’s stomach twisted violently, the nausea surging with a force that left him breathless.

“It’s okay,” Soren murmured softly, his voice a steady presence beside him, his hand resting lightly on Lex’s back. “Lex, babe, you’re going to be sick, but you’ll be okay. Just breathe—I’m right here.”

Lex barely had time to brace himself before his stomach heaved, his body giving in to the sickness he’d been fighting so hard to ignore. The nausea hit him in relentless waves, each one dragging him under, and he felt Soren’s hand on his shoulder, a steadying weight that kept him grounded, kept him from slipping into the tangled mess of memories that threatened to pull him down.

He gasped, his breathing shallow and ragged, his fingers clenching the edge of the trash can as he fought to keep his balance. Soren’s hand moved gently to the back of his neck, his fingers warm and reassuring, and Lex leaned into the touch, letting it anchor him through the worst of the nausea.

“You’re doing great,” Soren whispered, his voice soft, a quiet comfort in the haze of discomfort. “Just let it out. I’ve got you.”

Lex’s chest tightened, a mixture of relief and vulnerability washing over him as he let himself lean into Soren’s support, his mind still clouded by the ache in his stomach and the memories he couldn’t quite shake.

For a split second, Lex thought the nausea was dissipating, but the sudden small gasp and equally intense wave of acid that splattered in the trash can told him he wasn’t that lucky.

He could hear Ksenia’s soft footsteps nearby, her presence a quiet reassurance, and he felt a faint sense of gratitude that she hadn’t said anything, hadn’t asked questions or looked at him with pity.

When the nausea finally eased, leaving him hollow and exhausted, Lex slumped back against the couch, his head hanging as he tried to catch his breath. Soren was still there, his hand resting lightly on Lex’s back, his touch a constant reminder that he wasn’t alone, that he didn’t have to carry this on his own.

“Hey,” Soren murmured, his voice gentle, a soft warmth that cut through the lingering fog. “You okay?”

Lex nodded weakly, his throat raw, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Yeah… just… wasn’t expecting that,” he managed, his tone laced with a faint, self-deprecating chuckle, as though he could somehow downplay the intensity of what he’d just gone through.

But Soren didn’t push, didn’t ask for explanations. He just offered Lex a faint smile, his hand moving to brush a few strands of hair from Lex’s forehead, a quiet gesture of care that left Lex feeling both comforted and exposed.

“Happens to the best of us,” Soren replied, his tone light, a subtle reminder that he wasn’t judging, that he understood.

Lex managed a faint smile in return, his chest tight with a quiet gratitude he couldn’t quite put into words. The memories of that tour still lingered, casting shadows over his mind, but here, with Soren and Ksenia by his side, he felt a strange sense of relief, a warmth that eased the weight of his discomfort.

Ksenia offered him a water bottle, her expression softened with an understanding that only a close friend could offer. “Just take it easy, yeah?” she murmured, her voice a gentle reassurance.

Lex nodded, taking the bottle with a shaky hand, his gaze flicking between Soren and Ksenia, the quiet warmth in their eyes grounding him, reminding him that he didn’t have to hide, not here. And as he took a sip of water, feeling the coolness soothe his raw throat, he let himself breathe, let himself be cared for, if only for a moment.

The initial wave of nausea left Lex feeling hollowed out, his head spinning, his skin clammy and cold beneath the fabric of his hoodie.

His breathing was shallow, each breath a careful, measured effort to keep the nausea at bay, but he could feel the sickness digging in deeper, a weight that settled heavily in his stomach and chest, pressing in on all sides.

Soren stayed by his side, his hand resting on Lex’s shoulder, his presence steady and calming, but Lex could barely focus, his mind clouded by the fever that had begun to build, making the room feel stifling, oppressive.

Ksenia was there too, her gaze soft with understanding, but Lex could feel the tightness in his chest growing, a creeping anxiety that wrapped around him, suffocating in its intensity.

His fingers clenched around the edge of the stool, his knuckles white as he tried to steady himself, tried to find some anchor in the midst of the spinning room. The memories of Silver Lining hovered at the edges of his mind, a familiar specter that lurked just beyond his vision, pressing down with a weight that felt as real as the fever and nausea churning inside him.

He could remember the dimly lit backstage rooms, the way his body had felt weak and uncooperative, the hollow, aching sensation that came from nights spent fighting his own exhaustion and anxiety. The burn of liquor, the rush of everything else. And every time, the inevitable crash that came.

“Lex,” Soren murmured, his voice a soft, grounding presence, pulling Lex back from the edge of the memories. His hand was still on Lex’s shoulder, warm and steady, and Lex could feel the concern radiating from him, a quiet reminder that he wasn’t alone. “You’re not feeling any better, are you?”

Lex sighed softly, shaking his head as he tried to push down the nausea, the fever, the anxious knot that seemed to have taken root in his chest.

“It’s just… dizzy,” he managed, his voice a weak whisper, barely more than a breath. He could hear the strain in his own words, a quiet, familiar edge of fear that he hated to admit, even to himself.

“You always get dizzy when you throw up,” Soren said, trying to be reassuring but knowing he probably fell short. He pushed Lex’s hair behind him and carefully rubbed Lex’s back. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m going to lay down for a bit,” he continued, his gaze dropping as he tried to avoid the concerned looks from Soren and Ksenia. “Just need to… let this pass. You two should keep working. I’ll be back as soon as things… level out.”

Ksenia exchanged a brief, uncertain glance with Soren, her eyes flickering with worry, but she didn’t press, just nodded slowly, a small, reluctant acceptance of his words. Lex could feel the tension in the room, the way his own unease had bled into the space, turning it from a creative sanctuary into a place where he felt exposed, vulnerable.

Soren’s hand lingered on his shoulder, a quiet protest that didn’t need words, but Lex gave him a weak smile, his gaze steady, trying to convey a reassurance he didn’t quite feel.

“I’ll be fine, Soren,” he said softly, though even he could hear the tremor in his voice, the edge of anxiety that threatened to spill over.

Reluctantly, Soren let go, his hand falling away, though his gaze never left Lex, his worry palpable. “Alright,” he said quietly, his voice laced with a gentle concern that made Lex’s chest tighten. “But if you need anything, you let us know. Don’t try to… don’t keep it to yourself, okay?”

Lex managed a nod, but he couldn’t bring himself to say more, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak. He turned, the room spinning slightly as he pushed himself to his feet, steadying himself against the wall as he made his way toward the bedroom. His vision blurred at the edges, and he had to grip the doorframe to keep from stumbling, his legs weak beneath him, the fever and dizziness making it difficult to stay upright.

Once he reached his room, he closed the door softly, sinking onto the edge of the bed as he let out a shaky breath, his head falling into his hands.

The quiet of the room settled around him, a heavy, suffocating silence that amplified every ache, every shiver that ran through him. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he tried to gather himself, but the nausea surged again, sharp and relentless, a wave of discomfort that left him gasping for breath.

He pressed his hand against his mouth, willing the nausea to pass, but his stomach was stubborn, twisting painfully, and he could feel the bile rising, a harsh reminder of the times he’d been in this exact position before. Memories of the tour blurred with the present, the sickness overlapping, until he could barely tell where one ended and the other began.

He could remember sitting alone in tiny, dimly lit hotel rooms, his body wracked with nausea and exhaustion, the hollow ache in his chest growing heavier with each passing day. He had fought through it, kept the facade intact, hiding every symptom behind forced smiles and laughter, even as his body crumbled beneath the weight of it all.

Now, he was free of that—no substances, no constant dread of falling apart in front of everyone. But the habit of hiding, of masking every discomfort, ran deep, a defense that had become second nature, even now.

He pressed his hands against his temples, feeling the heat of the fever pulsing beneath his skin, a reminder of the vulnerability he couldn’t quite shake.

He lay back against the pillows, pulling the blanket over himself, hoping the warmth would ease the chills that had settled in his bones. But even as he closed his eyes, trying to find some measure of comfort, the anxiety gnawed at him, a quiet, insidious fear that whispered he was back in those dark rooms, back to a time when he had no control over his own body or mind.

The fever pressed down, making his thoughts heavy, his breathing shallow, and he curled into himself, his fingers gripping the edge of the blanket as though it could shield him from the memories that surfaced with each wave of nausea. He wanted to be strong, to push through, to prove that he wasn’t the person he’d once been, that he wasn’t broken by the memories that haunted him.

Time blurred, each minute stretching into an eternity as he lay there, feeling the fever pulse through him, the nausea twisting in relentless waves. He could hear faint footsteps outside the door, soft, cautious sounds that he knew belonged to Soren, but he kept his eyes closed, hoping to feign sleep, hoping to keep Soren from seeing the state he was in.

But the footsteps stopped just outside, a pause that hung in the air, and Lex could feel the weight of Soren’s concern pressing against the door, a quiet, unspoken question that lingered in the silence. He could picture Soren’s expression, the gentle worry, the warmth in his gaze, and part of him ached to let him in, to let him offer the comfort that he knew would ease the weight on his chest. But the habit of hiding, of pushing through alone, kept him silent, his chest tight with the quiet fear that he would somehow drag Soren down with him.

-

Lex drifted in and out of a restless sleep, the fever pressing down on him like a heavy blanket, pinning him to the bed with its relentless heat. In the dimness of his room, time lost all meaning, and he felt trapped in the haze of sickness, caught between waking and sleeping, the fever blurring the edges of his thoughts until he couldn’t tell where reality ended and memory began.

Every now and then, he would catch a glimpse of the familiar objects in his room—the posters on the walls, the soft light filtering through the curtains—but they seemed distant, removed, as though he were watching his life from somewhere else, somewhere feverish and surreal.

When he finally opened his eyes, he felt a fresh wave of nausea roll through him, sharper and more insistent than before.

His stomach twisted painfully, and he shivered, a sudden chill spreading through him that made his skin prickle beneath the layers of his hoodie. He tugged the blankets closer, his fingers shaking as he tried to hold onto the warmth, but the chill only deepened, sinking into his bones.

His throat was raw, his head pounding with a dull, relentless ache that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was closing in around him.

Everything felt wrong. His head hurt, he was absolutely freezing, and yet he could feel his long hair sticking to the back of his neck and his cheek. He wouldn’t be able to tie it up, but he could push the wet hair off his skin.

He pushed himself up, the room spinning as he sat up, and for a moment he had to close his eyes, willing the dizziness to pass. His breathing was shallow, each breath a careful effort, as though he were afraid that any sudden movement might tip him over the edge.

He could feel the nausea building, a sick, twisting sensation that left him lightheaded, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep it down much longer.

Forcing himself to his feet, he stumbled toward the bathroom, gripping the wall as he moved, each step an effort to stay upright. His vision blurred at the edges, and he could feel the sweat beading on his forehead, a cold, clammy sensation that made his skin crawl.

He barely noticed the faint sound of footsteps behind him, too focused on the overwhelming nausea that threatened to spill over, the sickness pressing in with a force that made his head spin.

As he reached the bathroom, a familiar hand settled gently on his shoulder, grounding him just as the nausea surged, sharp and relentless. He felt himself lean into the touch, desperate for any anchor, any sense of stability, but the sickness was too strong, too insistent to ignore.

His stomach heaved, and he barely had time to brace himself before he was hunched over the toilet, his body giving in to the sickness with a force that left him breathless. He heaved, hard, whatever was in his stomach coming out and splashing sickeningly into the water.

Soren stayed beside him, one hand resting lightly on Lex’s back, the other gently holding his hair out of his face. His touch was warm, steady, a quiet reassurance that kept Lex grounded, even as his body betrayed him, each wave of nausea dragging him under.

Between the heaving breaths and the sickness that left him gasping, he could hear Soren’s soft voice, murmuring quiet words of comfort, a gentle reminder that he wasn’t alone.

“Easy, get it all up…” Soren told him, and Lex’s body was happy to oblige. IN fact, the next heave was so hard, backed by a heavy wave of sick, that it knocked Lex right to his knees.

But the fever was thick in his mind, clouding his thoughts, and he felt a faint, creeping panic settle over him, an echo of guilt and fear that he couldn’t shake. The memories of those nights on tour—nights spent hunched over in small, dimly lit bathrooms, the bitter taste of regret heavy on his tongue—flooded back, and he couldn’t stop himself from spiraling, the familiar shame rising up like bile.

“I didn’t… I didn’t do this,” he whispered, his voice shaking, spitting into the toilet, barely audible over the sound of his own breathing. His hands were trembling and he could feel the anxiety tightening in his chest, making it hard to breathe. “I’m not… I’m not high, I swear, I’m just… I’m just sick. I didn’t do this.”

Soren’s hand moved to his shoulder, his touch steady and reassuring, and he could hear the gentle concern in his voice as he replied,

“Lex what..?”

“I’m not.. I didn’t… I promise I didn’t…” Lex spoke, fragmented and panicked before heaving again.

Soren filled in the blanks, sighing softly and carefully pulling Lex’s hair out of his face, “I know, Lex. It’s okay. You’re just sick—it’s not anything else.”

But the words barely registered, the fever making it difficult to hold onto the reassurance, and he could feel the panic building, a weight pressing down on his chest, suffocating. His breath hitched, his vision blurring as the room seemed to close in around him, and he clenched his fists, trying to push back the memories that crowded his mind, the images of nights spent fighting himself, fighting his own body.

“It’s… it’s not that,” he repeated, his voice a desperate whisper, as though saying the words might make it true. “I didn’t… I didn’t do this to myself.” His hands were shaking, his chest tight, and he felt another wave of nausea roll through him, sharper this time, as though the panic were fueling the sickness, making it worse.

Soren’s voice was soft, calming, a steady presence that cut through the haze.

“You’re okay, Lex,” he murmured, his hand rubbing gentle circles along Lex’s back. “You’re just sick, that’s all. It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Lex could feel the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, a quiet desperation that he couldn’t contain, the weight of his own guilt pressing down, heavy and relentless. He wanted to believe Soren’s words, to trust that this was just a simple sickness, nothing more, but the memories of that tour, the shame that had haunted him, were too deeply ingrained, a scar he couldn’t erase.

His stomach twisted again, a cold, clammy sensation spreading through him, and he shivered, feeling the chill settle in his bones. He leaned forward, his body tensing as another wave of nausea hit, and he felt Soren’s hand on his back, a steadying warmth that kept him grounded even as he fought to hold himself together. He heaved, again. He never ate much, couldn’t eat much actually, and yet it felt like he was purging an entire buffet’s worth of food.

“It’s… it’s not like before,” Lex whispered, as he caught his breath, his voice breaking, as though saying the words might make it true. “I’m not… I’m not drunk or high, I just… I don’t know why I feel this way, but it’s not that. I was fine this morning… It’s not…”

“I know,” Soren replied softly, his voice unwavering. “I believe you, Lex. You’re not alone in this. I’m right here, and you’re going to be okay. You probably just caught the bug I had over the weekend…”

The warmth in Soren’s words cut through the fog, a small, fragile comfort that settled over Lex like a blanket, easing the tightness in his chest. He closed his eyes, his breathing still shallow, but the quiet reassurance in Soren’s voice grounded him.

But the fever was relentless, the nausea unyielding, and as he opened his eyes, he felt a fresh wave of panic wash over him, his hands clenching the edge of the sink as he tried to steady himself. His vision blurred, his thoughts a jumble of fear and shame, and he could barely hear Soren’s voice over the rush of his own heartbeat, the quiet terror that lingered just beneath the surface.

“I didn’t… I didn’t do this,” he whispered again, his voice a faint, desperate plea, as though saying the words might banish the memories, the guilt that had haunted him for so long.

Soren’s hand stayed on his shoulder, a steadying presence, his voice gentle as he replied, “I know, Lex. You’re safe here. You’re going to get through this, okay? I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Lex’s chest tightened, a small, fragile sense of relief settling over him, though the fear still lingered. He spit, trying to rid his mouth of such a foul taste.

“Got it out for now?” Soren asked, and Lex nodded. He was sure he wouldn’t throw up any time soon, and now he was miserably hot. As if he could feel his fever. He felt something brush over his mouth, the toilet flushed.

“Okay, here, I’m just grabbing your hoodie, nothing else,” Soren said, trying to keep Lex from panicking more as he helped his fiancé pull off his sweatshirt, tossing it aside. “How are you feeling? Still panicking?”

Lex hesitated, curling in on himself, “Not… not going to be sick… really fucking hot…”

Soren gently kissed the side of his head, “I know angel, I’m sorry. Here…”

Soren stood, grabbing a rag and running it under cold water, pressing the damp cloth to Lex’s face, “Better?”

Lex nodded, soaking in the sensation. It was relaxing and shocking in a good way. Soren wrapped an arm around him, using his other hand to press the rag to different spots on Lex’s face. Lex closed his eyes, leaning into Soren’s touch, letting himself be anchored by the warmth, the steady comfort that cut through the fever and nausea, grounding him in the present.

“Just breathe Lexi,” Soren said, “You’re going to be just fine…”