#Atomic Transmutations

[turiyatitta]

Reincarnation Unfolding

The Mystical Dance of Life at the Subatomic ScaleReincarnation is often conceived as a cycle of birth, death, and rebirth. This process, however, is not confined merely to the level of an individual’s life journey, but also at a minute, an invisible scale that continuously unfolds within us.The human body is composed of about 37 trillion cells, with each one possessing its lifecycle. Old cells…

[softgrungeprophet]

anyway, trying to decide if TJ is like, a walking neutron bomb or what

[man-and-atom]

A friend who grew up at Los Alamos tells us that fusion researchers there in the 1970s openly stated they had little hope of, or interest in, ever producing power. They were interested in the process as a source of high–energy neutrons which they could switch on and off, precisely for transmutation and similar purposes.

We beg leave to remind the reader that the difficulty of separating the numerous isotopes of mercury is a major reason why the US Bureau of Standards turned to neutron transmutation of (naturally monoisotopic) gold to produce isotopically pure ¹⁹⁸Hg, initially using Lawrence’s cyclotron at Berkeley, and later the X–10 pile at Oak Ridge.

But this is, perhaps, missing the point. To the alchemists of old, the transmutation of “base” metals into gold was essentially a metaphor. The power of the Philosophers’ Stone was to change any thing into the most noble version of itself. It was closely associated with the Panacæa or Universal Medicine, reputed to be able to cure not only illness, but even old age. In other words, its power was to turn ordinary humans into near–immortal, godlike beings.

From the standpoint of the Middle Ages, much of that promise has been fulfilled by today’s industrial society — average lifespans have increased by something like a factor of three, infant and maternal mortality have decreased by orders of magnitude, literacy is nearly universal, and a person of modest means can converse casually with people on the other side of the world, see what is going on there as if with his own eyes, and even be carried through the air and set down in the Antipodes less than a day’s worth of hours later.

All of this is achieved basically by the use of inanimate energy. And the largest source of that energy so far made accessible by scientific technology (the organized application of intellect to nature) is the nuclear fission chain reaction, to which we may turn for many times current world consumption, and for millennia into the future. In that sense, atomic energy may truly be regarded as the fulfillment of the dream of the Philosophers’ Stone.

??????

New fusion startup proposal to transmute mercury into gold by using fusion neutrons. Apparently the correct isotope can act as a neutron multiplier too. ?

[deerspherestudios]

🔍 QNA MASTERLIST (AN VER.👽) 🔎

This masterlist contains all questions and posts relating to Atom from Astronought.

General Info about Atom❕

It doesn't care about pronouns but can be referred to as it/they.

Atom would win against Mychael (Mushroom Oasis).

It's taken over bigger ships than Bidadari.

Atom is canonically six months old during the events in Astronought (it a baby,,)

Its favorite Disney and Pixar movies are Chicken Little (2005) and Wall-E (2008) respectively.

Lore about their species.

What their writing looks like. + They might be dyslexic.

What are Atom’s abilities❔

It uses transmutation to create things for MC. + more information about this ability.

How it makes 'living beings.'

The suit is the only way it can move like a human.

Atom’s romantic traits…❔

It thinks it's romantic to float in space together.

Its gifts for MC + favorite Christmas activities + thoughts on hot cocoa.

Atom's love language is giving gifts and performing acts of service, while receiving physical touch.

Atom and MC interactions…❔

If MC was on a planet instead of a ship.

If MC had a panic attack.

Extras❕

The reason Atom insists calling you 'luna nova' = 'new moon'.

Atom with a reciprocating MC.

Atom being hit by a snowball.

Its reaction to mistletoe.

If they discovered MC didn't save it out of kindness after all.

Atom being squished by the 'cheeks'.

[comicaurora]

Hi Red! First time asker, looong time reader and watcher of OSP! A genuine question about how air works and follow-up to your in-universe SCUBA explanation: If there is breathable and non-breathable air for the non-water breathing people, what process in the body makes one the other and how does it work? Is the air made of up different “types” like how stone has crystal bone and metal nerves along with regular stone? What makes air stale?

Is it even at all similar to how our bodies process air?

This is to say, I figured the only non-breathable air would either contain something toxic, or not contain traces of Wind (which seems to be what the atmosphere is). Could you even have “air” without the presence of Wind?

Your worldbuilding is incredibly cool and inspiring, and has gotten me back into drawing and writing! Sorry for the long ask!

Thanks for the ask! You've hit on the level of the worldbuilding that's just on the far edge of what I permitted myself to think about, at risk of getting way too far into the weeds and going insane.

So it's for the most part only aesthetically similar to real breathing, because this world doesn't have the same kind of molecular chemistry as ours does. Where we pull O2 out of the atmosphere and convert it into CO2, that's based in a very different kind of atomic element system to the one in this story.

All breathable air in this world is Wind (with a little bit of water vapor that's just Water in its gaseous form) and people need to breathe for the same reason they need to eat food and drink water: their bodies need to consume new material to incorporate it into themselves, because they are constantly in flux and all six elements are being cycled in and out of their bodies in various forms and ways. A chemical reaction happens somewhere in their body, some Wind is released, they need to replace it with new Wind or become debilitated. A person inhales a breath of Wind and their body consumes the parts of it they currently need and exhales the rest, plus any gaseous waste that's been released by their body's internal processes in the interim.

What goes on inside the body is very small-scale and comparable to real-world molecular chemistry, but it's broadly understood that inhaled Wind is fused with other elemental compounds as part of the various six-element fused materials that mortal bodies are largely made of. In general it's thought that the Wind breathed out is different than the Wind breathed in because it's been changed from one form to another, either by the body's transmutative inner Fire, by the known mutagenic properties of the body's inner Life, or by some innate property of the act of elemental fusion and defusion, which has been known to change the component elemental units in sometimes unpredictable ways.

This is also why water-breathing works differently in this world than in real life. Real gills pull dissolved oxygen out of the water, but in Aurora, Water and Wind are two qualitatively different things, and there isn't any appreciable amount of Wind floating around in Water. Instead, Water-breathers' bodies use Water in a way that magically mirrors certain properties of Air, taking advantage of the fact that Water's higher properties involve doing exactly that - imperfectly copying properties of the other elements. So their bodies use up much less Wind, because the Water that's abundant around them can serve the same purpose in the magichemical inner workings of their bodies. They get the Wind their bodies need more infrequently the same way they get the other elements they need - by eating plants or animals whose bodies are composed of six-element material fusions, including Wind.

This is also why they can get sick if they try breathing air for too long. It's too much of something their body doesn't know what to do with, like breathing pure oxygen.

[cryptotheism]

What would it mean to un-bake a cake?

These days, that would mean something atomic. It would mean throwing baked goods into the beam of a particle accelerator, or leaving a tin of pastries in an unshielded atomic reactor. Theoretically, it could be done, but peeling a cake apart, proton-by-proton, would be a painstaking and ludicrously expensive process.

In the second century, it would mean something alchemical. It would mean distilling the cake down to its elemental essences, purging its impurities, and then slowly reintroducing new materials until it transmutes into what you want. However, you aren’t even sure if such a thing is possible. Transmuting a cake into something else is getting uncomfortably close to playing god, and he might be mad if you edge in on his turf. But then again, he might not.

It is because of the alchemists that we have things like particle accelerators and atomic reactors. The whole of modern physics and chemistry is built on the work of alchemists theorizing about the nature of the world, and finding ways to practically test those theories. Alchemy became modern science. Alchemy was the chrysalis from which the butterfly of chemistry emerged.

To understand alchemy, we have to see the world like the alchemists did. The tricky part about thinking like an alchemist is un-learning all the scientific innovations that are common-sense these days. For example: can two water molecules be different sizes? Anyone who has taken a basic chemistry class will say “Of course not! One oxygen, two hydrogen. That’s water!” but remember, we weren’t actually able to check until around 1930 when people invented electron microscopes. For most of history, there was a fair bit of argument here, and rightfully so! Science is all about making a theory, testing the theory, and then refining that theory based on the test. To understand alchemists, we have to roll back the clock to a time when the most refined theory of the world was from a dead Greek guy named Aristotle.

An introduction to byzantine alchemy, today on patreon!

[bunji-enthusiast]

Are you still taking requests?

I was wonder if you could write for Mira!reader in Teen Team or if you want Zoey!reader since Zoey is your favorite

No pressure tho

𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞!

Zoey!Reader

Note // RRRRGHHH YOU LIT THE BRAINN, yes I’m finna do Zoey!reader for this. It’s mainly how u work out as an individual duo with each member. It's mainly just Eve and Rex cause I have better experience writing those two the most.

Summary || the musical member of Teen Team! you can think up lyrics for your songs on the go and your moves are exceptionally deadly.

Atom Eve:

Emotion meets logic, spirit meets science. You and Eve are a beautifully balanced team. She’s measured and pragmatic; you’re driven by intuition and emotion. You ground her spiritual understanding of the world, and she expands your perspective on what change looks like in the material realm.

The team says you two are the moms—you being the “will smack a demon with a sacred blade for you” kind, and Eve the “gently rebuilding the world around you while holding your hand” type.

You trust each other’s instincts completely. Eve respects your Spirit Vision and mystical awareness more than any sensor tech. When you say “something’s coming,” she doesn’t ask questions—she’s already beside you, palms glowing.

You’re a battle duo that could take on armies. You create sacred energy weapons midair; Eve reshapes terrain into shields, platforms, or energy blasts. Fights with you two are beautiful and brutal.

Your knife-throwing precision is amplified by Eve mid-fight—she might redirect a missed throw or transmute a blade into crystal mid-flight to pierce demon armor.

If you ever run out of knives? She transmutes rubble into polished spiritual daggers. You enchant them with Spirit Magic. It’s seamless. It’s deadly. It’s art.

Your signature combo: "Purification Bloom" — you carve runes into the earth with your daggers; Eve supercharges the ground with molecular energy, creating an explosive wave of spirit-light that wipes out demonic corruption.

You’re both intensely private, so your connection is built in quiet moments: long silences watching the stars after patrol, sitting together in a ruined park she just rebuilt, you softly singing while she helps you clean your blades.

Eve sees the way you carry grief—for your fans, the souls lost to demons—and she never tries to fix it. She just sits with you in it. That’s part of why you love her as a person so much.

You admire her control, her compassion, and her constant drive to do better. She admires your raw strength, your fire, and the way your voice can shift from sacred hymns to throat-shattering rap verses.

Sometimes, you help her with her stress. You wrap her in a protective spirit barrier and just let her be. And sometimes, she helps you sleep when you’re haunted by spirit dreams—rearranging the molecules in your room to make it quieter, warmer, safer.

She was in awe the first time she heard you rap. Not just the rhythm—your lyrics had purpose, your delivery had power. You were a warrior and an artist. She couldn’t stop watching.

Once, she helped create the stage for a surprise rooftop fan concert you threw post-mission. She generated floating platforms with lightshows to match your beat. You called her your “stage angel”—she rolled her eyes, but she was glowing.

You’ve written verses about her. Not that she knows. (Okay, maybe she found your notebook and cried a little. She’ll never admit it.)

Your Golden Honmoon dream resonates deeply with Eve. She believes in reshaping the world for the better—and the idea of spiritually healing it strikes her as beautiful, vital, and worth fighting for.

She's fascinated by your Spirit Magic. You’ve spent hours explaining soul energy flows and demon corruption. She’s even helped you study it—scanning areas where Honmoon energy falters, calculating patterns.

You both believe that the world can be better—not just by destroying evil, but by rebuilding something sacred in its place.

Eve often finds herself wondering how you keep going—after everything you’ve lost. You tell her, “Because if I stop, they stay lost.” That stays with her. Always.

She’s never been one for spiritual stuff, but when you’re around, she finds herself believing—even just a little—that maybe souls linger. Maybe they sing.

You told her once, “You change matter. I change spirit. But maybe we’re both just trying to save the pieces people leave behind.”

That was the moment she realized she was in love with you.

Rex Splode:

You two are total chaos on the surface—bickering constantly, throwing jabs at each other mid-battle, arguing over music playlists during patrol.

But anyone who’s spent more than five minutes with you both knows it’s just your love language. You’re ride-or-die partners, and when it’s serious, the jokes drop and the synergy kicks in hard.

You balance each other—Rex is all reckless bravado, while you bring spiritual clarity and discipline (when you're not spitting fire in a rap battle).

Your powers are a lethal combo: Rex throws explosive objects, and you throw sacred knives and spirit-forged weapons. Together, it’s lightshow carnage with style.

You’ve saved his life more than once with your Spirit Vision, sensing demons or hidden threats before he even knows they’re there.

He jokes that your spirit daggers are “anime as hell” but lowkey thinks they’re sick as hell. He’s tried to charge one with his kinetic energy once—you had to slap the knife out of his hand before he blew both your eyebrows off.

Your combos are almost choreographed. You slice through a demon’s guard; he plants an explosive to blow its core. He calls it “Boomblade Special”, you call it “Please Shut Up and Just Throw the Thing”.

He pretends to hate your fans, but gets stupidly smug when they swarm you after a mission. (“Yeah, that’s my girl. Yeah, I’m in her band, kinda. No, I don’t rap—well, not seriously—”)

You once caught him listening to one of your unreleased tracks on repeat. He claimed it was “accidental” and “the beat slapped.”

He’s definitely joined one of your rap lives on IG just to drop dumb comments like “Bars 🔥 but I could out-rap you.” You responded by freestyling a verse about his last fight where he blew up his own boot. The fans loved it.

When the world goes quiet, he sometimes opens up. Late nights post-mission, when you’re healing him or tending to your own wounds, he’ll let pieces of the past slip—his childhood, the experiments, how lost he used to feel. You don’t push. You just listen and maybe squeeze his hand gently.

He says dumb things to protect himself emotionally. You know this. So when he tells you your spirit weapon “looks like a glowy butter knife,” you just smirk and tell him it slices egos too.

You’re one of the few people who can actually call him out without him getting defensive. You don’t yell or insult—you just look at him, tired and knowing, and he’ll instantly feel like a jackass and apologize.

He’s fiercely protective of you. Borderline reckless about it. But you’ve made it clear—you’re not a damsel. He’s learned to trust that. He’ll still get edgy when you fight Gwi-Ma-tier threats, but he’s trying to respect your strength.

After you defeated Gwi-Ma, he didn’t say “good job” or “congrats.” He just sat beside you quietly, handed you a warm energy drink, and said: “You did what none of us could. I’d follow you into hell if you asked.”

You once enchanted one of his explosive cylinders with spiritual energy—it exploded quietly, in pure white light, and vaporized a demon instantly. You’ve been experimenting with fusing your powers ever since.

You drag him demon hunting sometimes for fun. He complains but secretly enjoys it, especially the post-hunt ramen runs.

He once made you a mixtape—half of it was his favorite punk rock, the other half was him trying to rap. You kept it. He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t totally get the spiritual weight of the Golden Honmoon, but he gets you. So he supports it because it’s your mission.

One time he told you, “If making that Golden Moon means those souls get peace, then hell yeah—let’s melt down every demon in our way.”

[icedrake25]

Me losing my goddamn smooth lizard brain clay eating mind when I see the animator getting a pay raise mid-animation when Marcille performs some wacky science experiment to remold the flesh and blood of a dragon into her formerly dead lover and we get to see the aftermath of whatever morbid shit just happened.

I really love that scene because it is so clearly very spooky and morbid and evil looking and yet so joyful at the end. Like yeah, I just performed human transmutation and put a dead person back together atom by atom, recomposing their body from reused skin and muscle and cartilage. But it’s FALIN YAYYYYYY FALINS BACK and also she’s just kinda tranquil for a sec because like what I just died and got reassembled huh that’s cool.

Also gotta love the visual of frame by frame the blood and flesh and hair and muscle weaving and bubbling up to fill out an empty skeleton, finishing with a bloody, emotionless face. A human adult just got built RIGHT THERE. Whoa

[talonabraxas]

How to Transmute Human Consciousness into Buddhas Wisdom

1. The Ten Mysterious Gates

There are ten gates of wonderful manifestations as taught by the Hwa Yen School. I have omitted four of them which duplicate other ones. One may meditate on the six gates of mystic manifestations as follows:

(a) The mysterious gate of perfect yoga of the co-relation and co-existence of all things both in space and in time. As the nature of all Dharmas are Sunyata, every condition of every Dharma relates freely, moves freely, is united freely and plays freely. It is just like a great plain which does not belong to any ego-centered individual, and every person may play there. Hence the mystic circus brings their lions, elephants, horses, monkeys, bears and dogs with their girl and boy members to play there freely. So in the great Dharmadhatu which is of the great Sunyata, all Dharmas may play together and the space of four or ten directions and the time of the three periods may be united or separated, interlocked or interwoven at the meditators will since his mind has been sublimated by the Sunyata.

(b) The mysterious gate of sovereign power in connection with all the Dharmas. As oneself is Sunyata so are those other than self; as a being lacks self so does a thing lack self. Whenever the self is void where the power of the mysterious gate or rooms are opened, one is in all and all may be in one, too; one behind all, all may be behind one, too; small in great, great may be in small; low in high, high may be in low also. Thus all elements of beings and things are mutually identified. A universal identification forms an unlimited and ultimate freedom. Those American hippies who ask for more freedom by laziness onlybeard may be unshaven, clothes may be unwashed, girls may be sexually enjoyed without being married, drugs to enhance sex may be taken often, school lessons may be left but picnics should be frequently takensuch freedom is only a kind of suicide. One who really wants the great freedom should lay more stress on this meditation.

(c) The mysterious gate of performance of manifestations of either appearance or disappearance. When something appears, it appears in the Sunyata; when it disappears, it disappears into the same Sunyata. When the atom was only a potential, scientists treated it as superstition but Buddhists knew it could be broken up, 3000 years before the scientists. When the atom was made up into the atomic bomb it was not a new thing to the Buddhists. The atom and atomic bomb are one thing, but the former holds the potentiality of its disappearance, while the latter its appearance. Both form the complement of the whole entity of truth.

(d) The mysterious gate of sovereign power in different and opposite formswide or narrow (2nd gate), one or many (3rd gate), subtle or gross (6th gate). These pairs may interpenetrate one another commutably, freely, and uninterruptedly. Is not the finger narrower than a mountain but sometimes when held in front of ones eye it may hide a mountain in the distance. Is not the atomic bomb powerful and can destroy gross or great matter but it is invisible, as subtle as a spirit, when it is not split. Buddhists found out this truth approximately 3000 years earlier than the scientists. Are not the lungs 600 square feet larger than the body when they are extended; but they occupy only one small part of the body! Are not there 200 billion nerve cells in only one small brain? These examples are common things. If by the power of Sunyata, the mysterious and supernatural maya becomes much more inconceivable, yet it may actually be realized through this meditation.

(e) The mysterious gate of the various performances of separated Dharmas in the ten periods. Each of the past, present, and future also contains three periods. To the whole one, if these nine are added, it will make up the ten periods. By the speed of gnostic light, Buddha sees the things of the future and remembers things of the past. Time seems to go in reverse which is known by the theory of Einstein in these days, only Buddha knew it 3000 years earlier. Such a vertical connection completes the interconnection and interlocking of the separate beings along the nine periods. The precious five gates are mutually penetrated in the horizontal plane. When their vertical connection of time is added, it becomes four dimensions, which was known to Buddhists almost 30 centuries earlier than Einstein. Two dimensions may be symbolized by a plane. Three dimensions by a cube. Four should be symbolized by a ball fully encircling a cross. But there is the fifth dimension when it is added causes a mysterious penetration, and this may be symbolized by this signcrossed vajra non-limitation of time and of space. Things only occur with length and width in mathematics, materials adding height are solid geometrical materials. Adding time again are durable materials, yet they are physical. With the addition of the Sunyata mystic emergence it then becomes metaphysical. Hence philosophically length, width, height, duration and Sunyata emanation form a fifth dimension, as I newly make this term.

(f) The mysterious gate of completion of virtues of the master and family working together harmoniously and brightly. If any one of the Dharmas or persons is taken as the chief one, all other Dharmas or persons might work agreeable as his retinue. For instance when the practitioner is practicing Ahimsa, all his neighbors follow his good example and out of great compassion send birds to their natural state from their cages, fishes to the ocean from their tanks, doves to the sky from their prisons. Remote neighbors follow their close neighbors, the village follows the remote neighbor, the town follows the village, the city and the whole nation and whole globe will follow one by one and the third world war will not happen. No matter how the facts really appear, one should meditate like this as if it is so fortunately becoming true. By the addition of the time dimension, the three periods may unite as one whole, so here and there, all persons of the whole world will eventually become kind, merciful and peaceful once and for all.

As Sunyata has no ego, it enables oneself to be united with all others. When one practitioner, Mr. A., takes one person as the master, all other persons of the ten Dharmadhatus, may be his family. At the same time, another practitioner, Mr. B., C., D. or so on may take someone in the family of Mr. A as his master and all other persons other than that master may be his family. Thus, master yet family, family yet master, they all have the philosophic emanation. Wonderful and inconceivable incarnations would happen without limitation. Again one master has his inner family and outer family, small family and big family, appeared family and disappeared family, small family in the big family, big family in the small family. Their transformations are at the will of the master without any confinement.

Alas! Very few persons know that Sunyata is not negativism. A philosophic, mysterious positive potentiality is within it. Still very, very few practitioners or scholars know the discriminations between the ten goodnesses and six paramitas which I am going to deal with below.

2. To Distinguish the Six Paramitas from Ten Good Conducts and Diligently Practice the Former Ones

(a) The liberatable way of charity. To give alms to the poor even frequently in an amount more than the whole world can contain is goodness which may get one a good rebirth in heaven, but to be liberated from heaven or earth one should give alms with the Sunyata which has no giver, non-giving, and non-objects of giving. In doing this liberatable charity, one is able to approach the liberation of Buddhahood. Buddha taught it in the Dragon Palace with the following stanza:

"Give all things till the ego remains, Give the ego till others remain, Give the others till Dharmas remain, Give Dharmas till Buddha to attain."

(b) The liberatable way of holding the precepts. All silas, vinayas or commandments should be kept with wisdom, as Buddha taught on some occasion:

Holding the Silas not depend upon Body, speech and mind, or depend upon Three periods, two sides, or depend upon Delusions, or awareness but by none Dependence is precepts holding the precepts on.

(c) The liberatable way of patience. To be patient on the occasion of misery or to the harmful person or at difficult work does good which is not sufficient to be liberated by the paramita. He who practices this should follow the main meaning of the stanza taught by Buddha on the same occasion:

Patience never knows there is I or you Neither keep the idea of mine and yours All men, things and views should be purified When all Dharmas become pure its patience.

(d) The liberatable way of diligence. To exert ones energies to do good and to leave no stone unturned to forbid evil, these are profane merits by which alone one does not reach the thither shore of Nirvana, but following the teaching below one does:

As men are in their nature so am I As Dharmas are in nature so is my Lord, knowing there is no thing to gain It is the real diligence so high

(e) The liberatable way of concentration. Sitting straight, thinking of nothing, neither sleepy nor disturbed in ones mind, this is a common attitude of a religious person. One does not abide in the truth unless one can follow the stanza taught by Buddha Gautama correctly:

Mind is not inside Nor outside nor bide Holds nothing but a void Dhyana can not hide

(f) The liberatable way of wisdom. Even one who is wise as a serpent or as Solomon and can see as far through a brick wall as anybody but sees no Sunyata, gets no realization thereof. One would not be liberated at all. Hence the ultimate Prajnaparamita should be practiced under the guidance of the following stanza:

All Dharmas are so plain Has neither goal nor vain There is view without sight But not view it as light No request no volition Pity on fools is real wit.

3. To Distinguish the Sunyata Identification with Bodhicitta from that Dry Sunyata without Bodhicitta

The wise one does know that the Sunyata does not stand alone. The ancients called those persons who had little recognition of Sunyata and mistook it as a thing of voidness separate from everything else as men of dry wisdom. Hence one should develop five kinds of Bodhicitta.

a. Bodhicitta of Will

When one is still in the Course of Hinayana, one finds out that he is in transmigration and suffers many kinds of pain and one then has pity on those who are suffering with the same pains. A strong sympathy arises in his mind. He might think that if I were a Buddha I might save them. So he keeps such a good will to become a Buddha for the sake of saving mankind and every sentient being trapped within the same transmigration. Every day he should frequently think like this. He might write down his special good wills in some ten provisions or more. Every day he should repeat them and practice every good Dharma for their accomplishment and ask his Protector to help him until this aim is reached.

b. Bodhicitta of Conducts

When the above mentioned wills are developed, one must perform with the six paramitas many myriad conducts of goodness to carry on all the good wills and actually benefit all sentient beings. Thus all the eight right paths of Hinayana and the six paramitas of Mahayana and all the Vajrayana precepts thereof under this guide or basis will be fulfilled.

c. Bodhicitta of Victorious Signification

To get rid of the volition of Bodhicitta, to flee from the demon of compassion, one has to develop the victorious signification which is thoroughly fixed with the Sunyata of nature. One of my stanzas on Bodhicitta may be introduced below:

The best significant Bodhicitta Is without any kind of work or data There is no real mind to arise it Nor is there volition to hold it.

There is neither pleasure nor pain, neither sufferer nor enjoyer, neither agreement nor sympathy, neither I nor he. One may know this well but one has to have some Bodhicitta to pity them who do not know that the Bodhicitta and the person who has been pitied are both of Sunyata. One is still in the Sunyata.

d. Bodhicitta of Samadhi

When one has passed the study of exoteric doctrines and starts to learn Vajrayana, ones Bodhicitta is no longer confined to mentalization but always keeps ones mind identified with the materiality. Thus Bodhicitta is symbolized by the moon. One must visualize ones Bodhicitta as a bright moon which is situated in ones heart and on a lotus in the middle of the heart. From the moon many rays of great compassion are emitted to sentient beings through all of transmigration.

e. Bodhicitta of Kunda

When one has studied Tantra and gets progress in the Anuttarayoga, one is enabled to practice the vajra love. One then has to develop this kind of Bodhicitta of Kunda which is the gnostic semen containing both the Sunyata of nature and the great compassion and great pleasure. Through the good karmas held in the lotus of the Dakini, the ultimate salvation may be fulfilled. This is the final and highest, deepest Bodhicitta.

The first three Bodhicittas are known to every scholar of exoteric doctrines but the next two are only known to the students of the Tantra and they are never systematically emphasized as I do.

Under the first two kinds of Bodhicitta, adding thoughts of impermanence and the pains of transmigration, one may practice again great compassion toward sentient beings and things or Dharmas. Adding the Sunyata meditations, through the third Bodhicitta of Victorious Signification, one practices the great compassion of the same entity with all sentient beings and things and that of non-condition. That is, without any particular connection with others, one should have great compassion towards every being and every thing.

Thus the human mind which was acting in a self-centered psychical sphere now is sublimated by the Bodhicitta and great compassion and becomes the mind of a Bodhisattva who is the prince of Buddhas and acting in the accumulation of Holy Karmas.

[finallysafeawakepowerful]

I have an insane belief in my ability to manifest things and control my life. I have an insane belief and true knowing that I am the power that forms my world. I have an intense, insane, burning belief in myself and my ability to give myself everything and surround myself with love, joy, abundance and peace. And whatever I choose, because there is nothing without me. Actual particles change based on my consciousness.

I know truly, it is my true belief deep rooted in the very fibre of my being and my dna that I AM all and I AM the source and I AM the creator and I CREATE everything and I GIVE MYSELF everything or take away. Either way, life followed my beliefs and being. My true belief is I know that I control this world for myself. Seeming matter, particles, the fabric of this world all changes and forms based on WHO I am and what I THINK and believe in my mind.

Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill (1883 - 1970)

There is a power, an intelligence, which permeates every atom of matter and embraces every unit of perceptible energy, that this Infinite Intelligence converts acorns into oak trees, causes water to flow downhill in response to gravity, follows night with day, each maintaining its proper place and relationship to each other. This principle can be induced to aid in transmuting desires into concrete, material form.

In attaining whatever they ask of life. The starting point of all achievement is desire. A burning desire, faith, emotion, belief and your conscious mind are all it takes to create all seeming matter. (Desire is not yearning for something you don’t have, desire is enjoying and loving that it is yours. Drop the conditioning of desire meaning it is not yours.) Particles start to take forth and work at once to shift and change in accordance to your creation and your beliefs. Matter is formed and the earth is shifted in accordance to you. The finishing point is that brand of knowledge/ belief that leads to understanding - understanding of the self, understanding of others, understanding of the Laws of Nature. Eventually you will find yourself in possession of a power that will enable you to throw off discouragement, master fear, overcome procrastination and draw freely upon your imagination.

Thoughts pass from one mind to another, whether or not realized by the person releasing the thought or the person picking up on it. (Ishtak Bentov proves this.) The person who gives expression to negative or destructive thoughts is certain to receive some sort of kickback. The release of destructive thought impulses alone produces a kickback in more ways than one. The person who releases thoughts of a destructive nature must suffer the damage through the breaking down of creative imagination and the frequency associated with it. These thought impulses are not only damaging to others, but they imbed themselves in the subconscious mind of the person releasing them, and they become an apart of their character and the creation of their life. One is never through with a thought merely by releasing it. When thought is released, it spreads in every direction through the medium of the ether, but it also plants itself permanently in the subconscious mind of the person releasing it, becoming it. You have control over your own mind; you have the power to feed it whatever thought impulses you choose. With this privilege goes with the responsibility of using it constructively. You are the master of your own earthly destiny just as you have the power to control your own thoughts. You may influence, direct and eventually control your own environment, making your life what you want it to be.

THERE ARE NO LIMITATIONS TO THE MIND EXCEPT THOSE WE ACKNOWLEDGE BOTH POVERTY AND RICHES ARE THE OFFSPRING OF THOUGHT

Chapter 4: Autosuggestion: The Medium of Influencing the Subconscious Mind

Autosuggestion is a term that applies suggestions and all self administered stimuli that reaches one’s mind through the 5 senses. Autosuggestion is self suggestion. It is agency of communication between that part of the mind where conscious thought takes place, and which serves as the seat of action for the subconscious mind. Through the dominating thoughts one permits to remain in the conscious mind (where these thoughts be negative or positive is immaterial), the principle of autosuggestion reaches the subconscious mind and influences it with these thoughts.

NO THOUGHT, where it be positive or negative, CAN ENTER THE SUBCONSCIOUS MIND WITHOUT THE AID OF AUTOSUGGESTION, (with the exception of thoughts picked up from the ether.) All sense impressions which are perceived through the 5 senses are stopped by the conscious thinking mind, and may be either passed on to the subconscious mind or rejected at will. The conscious faculty serves as an outer guard to the subconscious…

Nature has built us so we have absolutely control over the material such reaches our subconscious mind. Auto suggestion is the agency of control through which you voluntarily feed the subconscious mind thoughts of a creative nature, or permit thoughts of a destructive nature. Whatever seed you plant into the garden of subconscious is what grows and is given life.

You were instructed in Chapter 2, to read aloud twice daily the written statement of your desire, and to see and feel yourself already in possession of it. By following these instructions, you communicate the object of your desire DIRECTLY to your subconscious mind in a spirit of absolute faith. Through repetition of this procedure, you create thought habits favourable to your efforts to transmute desire into existence. And remember, the mere reading of the words is of no consequence unless you mix emotion with your words. You must mix faith and emotion with your words. Your subconscious mind only recognizes and acts ONLY upon thoughts that have been well mixed with emotion or feeling. This is a fact of such importance to warrant repetition in every Chapter. The lack of understanding this is the reason people who try to apply the principle get no desirable results. Plain, unemotional words do not influence your subconscious mind. You will get no results until you learn to reach your subconscious mind with thoughts or words that have been well emotionalized with belief.

The price of the ability to influence your subconscious mind is everlasting persistence in applying the principles.

Here is a most significant fact - the subconscious mind takes ANY orders given it in a spirit of absolute faith and acts upon those orders, although the others often must be presented over and over through repetition before they are interpreted by the subconscious mind. Consider the idea of playing a perfectly legitimate “trick” on your subconscious mind by making it believe - BECAUSE YOU BELIEVE IT - that you must have what you are visualizing, that this desire is already awaiting your claim, that the subconscious mind MUST hand over to you practical events and plans for acquiring what is yours. Hand over this thought to your IMAGINATION, and see what your imagination can do to create your desires and practical plans for the accumulation of your desires.

Begin at once to see yourself in possession of the desire, DEMANDING and EXPECTING meanwhile that your subconscious mind will hand over the plans or plan you need to obtain everything. Remember, your subconscious mind will act only upon instructions that are emotionalized and handed over to it with feeling. Faith is the strongest and most productive of emotions. Life begins in the form of thought. The amount is limited only by the person in whose mind the thought is put into. Faith removes limitation.

Man must be where he is in imagination. Your circumstances are whatever you feel and believe them to be.

All thoughts which have been emotionalized (given feeling) and mixed with faith begin immediately to translate themselves into their physical equivalent. Faith is a state of mind that may be induced or created, by affirmation or repeated instructions to the subconscious mind. You must convince the subconscious mind that you believe you will receive what you ask for. It will act upon belief. If you do not see great riches in your imagination, you will never see them in your life.

Chapter Eight: Persistence

Persistence is the essential factor in transmuting DESIRE into physical equivalent. The basis of persistence is the POWER OF WILL. Will power and desire make an irresistible pair. Men who accumulate great fortunes are known as cold blooded or ruthless but they are misunderstood. What they have is will power, which they mix with persistence, and place at the back of their desires to ENSURE the attainment of their desires.(Brazen Impudence.)

Lack of persistence is the cause of failure. Experience with millions of people prove that lack of persistence is a weakness common to majority of men; a weakness that can be overcome with effort. Those who cultivated the habit of persistence enjoy the insurance (belief) against (temporary) failure. No matter how many times they are defeated, they finally arrive on top of the mountain. (You are all it takes to scale this mountain.) sometimes the greats are tested through sorts of discouraging experiences but those who pick themselves up after defeat and keep trying are the ones who arrive at their destination. Those are the ones who pass the persistence test. It’s those who fight in the face of discouragement.

The human mind is a form of energy, a part of it being spiritual in nature. No great power can be accumulated or achieved through no other principle.

SEE AND FEEL AND BELIEVE YOURSELF ALREADY IN POSSESSION OF YOUR DESIRE. A burning desire, faith, emotion, belief and your conscious mind are all it takes to create all seeming matter. Particles start to take forth and work at once to shift and change in accordance to your creation and your beliefs. Matter is formed and the earth is shifted in accordance to you. - JC

[autisticsupervillain]

FTF: How Powerful Is?

A prolonged breakdown on a character detailing all their scaling, powers, stats, skill, and abilities to determine exactly how powerful they are.

This Week's Character.....

Oz!

Power:

Oz is, quite shockingly, explicitly one of the most powerful characters across the entire Monster Prom franchise. Oz was one of the Ancient Gods created by The Nothingness and is the physical embodiment of Fear itself. His role, which they rejected to live as an ordinary mortal, was to destroy all of existence, wiping out all life across Monster Prom's multiverse.

This means he scale's as a threat to Monster Prom's entire cosmology, which is absolutely huge. Monster Prom's multiverse contains infinite alternate timelines with several universal realms within each of them. Every timeline can contain the realms of Heaven, Hell, The Ghost Zone, The Human Realm, The Monster Realm, and countless others, all of which require interdimensional portals to be accessed. Even our own universe is secondary to the Monster Realm as the "main realm".

Moreover, each pf these universes can contain countless smaller Metaverses, infinitely smaller digital universes layered within each other that one can travel deeper and deeper into for hours without ever hitting a limit, suggesting potentially infinite dimensional layers within each universe.

As such, Oz is capable of posing a threat to an infinite multiverse, with each individual universe contain numerous realms the size of our own and thousands of, if not potentially infinite, dimensional layers. Keep in mind that digital universes being both actual universes and having different dimensional properties is consistent as a rule within Monster Prom, as shown in the first game where Calculester created a digital universe that he could alter the dimensionality of. This all adds up to Oz being High Hyperversal to two layers into Outerversal in sheer raw power for posing a threat to his entire cosmology, even if just over time.

Speed:

Speed is thankfully a lot simpler. The Ancient Deities explicitly predate Time itself and Oz can easily process the entire history of the universe is seconds.

This is pretty simple immeasurable-infinite speed.

Powers:

This is where shit goes well and truly off the rails.

Magic:

Magic in Monster Prom is an omnipresent energy source the permeates all of existence. Only the Human Realm is beyond its grasp. This is because Magic is created as an after effect of the sheer raw power Oz and other ancient Deities emanate at all times.

As such, any ability that can be archieved with magic if something that Oz should be able to do, as any magic that a character uses is something that simply pours out of him passively.

Keep in mind, magic in this franchise is capable of doing some utterly ridiculous things. The feat where Oz experienced the entirety of time was as a result of a spell cast onto them. People have created interdimensional portals, summoned demons that warped the fabric of reality, transmuted people and objects, sent the moon crashing down to Earth, and even folded time itself, turning several years into just a few seconds.

Eldritch and Abstract Physiology

Scaling to Zoe, Oz power's border on the completely absurd. From the power to eat sanity and concepts to the ability devour souls and reduce people to atoms. Both Oz and Zoe may have stopped living as Gods, but Zoe can still lean into the eldritch horror from time to time.

As for the "reality collapses when it loses an embodiment of an abstract concept" thing.... I've since changed my mind on that. While the True Power thing is still just a rumor, Hope's death causing the end of reality seems majorly contingent on.... well, Hope. It's because without Hope everything gives into despair and everything dies. It's a rule of the Hope concept specifically and runs counter to Oz emboding a different concept entirely. Not that it should matter, as Oz should be able to just create interdimensional portals like anyone else, so removing them from reality still shouldn't matter....

Protagonist Powers

All of this combines into some truly ridiculous Toon Force to turn Oz into a truly unstoppable monster.... when he wants to be. Which is generally never. From stealing a character's relevance to the plot to turning reality off and on again and even willingly becoming one with all of existence.

Thankfully, Oz is held back by a mixture of overwhelming social anxiety, an insatiable horniness for his fellow classmates, and a genuine desire to no longer be the monster they once were. Living as a mortal gave them genuine connections and friendships that they've never gotten before and Oz would likely never be willing to give those relationships up.

But, if you threaten any of their friends, or worse, stand between him and his comedic sexapades, then watch out! Because you're boxing with one of this dating sim's all time heavy weight champions. An eldritch dork with unfathomable power.

Conclusion:

Truth be told, I wasn't as able to go into detail on this one as I would've liked. Tumblr's picture limits really did a lot to hinder me from going in depth on Oz's powers this time around. I have the scans for every single ability I mention here, I just can't post them because ten picture cap.

His standing in the wider cosmology made going into detail on lower ends of the verse meaningless. Who cares if Damien can punch the sun or Calculester can nuke the moon when we're talking eldritch abominations. Depite being by far the most powerful and versatile character to get one of these rundowns to date.... Oz didn't need much explaining.

How Powerful is Oz? Yes. What can he do? Yes (So long as it's funny). Funny how that sorta paradox works out.

[deerspherestudios]

Okay my curiosity is killing me, I saw that you said when Atom makes something it is no longer apart of him so he can’t just become anything…. But at the same time I’m so curious what would happen if he attempted to make like a human form?? Like would it end up as an entity entirely separate from him, fail as a whole, or would almost be like two atom’s to deal with? (That would probably get jealous of each other LOL)

He can make our favorite creature so theoretically he could make a person but like, if he doesn’t fully understand the behavioral characteristics of a creature, can he really make it?

IM SO SORRY I HOPE I DID THIS RIGHT I REALLY TRIED TO LOOK THROUGH EVERYTHING 🙏🏻 I love your games so so much! thank you so much for what you’ve created. Your work has genuinely changed my life for the better. 🩷

Aaa thank you for the sweet message and support! I was gonna explain it in this ask how Atom's transmutation ability works when it comes to creating living beings but the explanation was already so long I cut it out. I'm glad I get to explain it here!

To start, I always intended Atom to feel a bit eldritch-y, so this is probably the part where that aspect applies. Below is a clumsy explanation so bear with me, but to jump straight into it, this was what I had in mind:

So I've established they can make anything as long as they're familiar with it. If you're wondering how it learns, it's kinda hinted in-game when Atom mentions learning recipes from Kiara the cook after it dissolved her. I wouldn't know how to explain how that happens but chalk it up to being an alien lifeform! Also!! Think Warm Bodies I guess!!

Is it akin to a god if it's able to create life? Uhhh, shrug! I'm just having fun with them so just brush past this detail haha.

Anyways, the point is they can make stuff! This can be living and non-living things, but the caveat is anything 'living' kinda acts,,, off? The creature will look like it's alive but it feels like terribly programmed AI if you observe them long enough, with things like:

forgetting to breathe or blink

doesn't eat, doesn't drink, doesn't excrete anything

making the wrong noise

doesn't move like it's supposed to

flopping 'dead' for a few seconds before 'rebooting'

will dissolve into the rest of the worms when you're not looking (thus becoming a part of Atom again)

Extremely uncanny, extremely uncomfortable to watch. But if you ask Atom to shapeshift into something else, it'd still be a bunch of worms making up that shape.

For the sake of clarity, let's say you want a cat, that cat is gonna be it's own cat, however strange it might act.

If you want an Atom-shaped cat,, it's gonna look like worms.

I'll just use this doodle and hope it gets the idea across because I'm having difficulty explaining it but I hope it makes sense!

Edit: Actually now that I think about it, it's similar to this scenario from one of sanfangzhu's fancomics titled Reshape! Though,,, canonically the end result isn't gonna be that graceful hahaha.

[multiplicationdivision]

The Transmutation Crew

It wasn’t uncommon to see a construction crew that was entirely identical these days.

It wasn’t cloning, not exactly. With the advent that was transmutation technology, even duplication wasn’t out of the question, but these copied crews did not come from mitosis.

Transmutation was the simple conversion of one material to another. Using a small sample of rare material and converting cheap shit into it. Clay could become ultrahard steel, paint could become a thick gold coating. Construction sites were rife with the machines, letting off heavy bangs as entire freshly built structures were changed at the atomic level into sturdy workings of titanium and diamond.

Like anything on a construction site, there was an expected level of risk. One would fear the conversion of a man becoming hard rock, but this technology had laws. Like became like, inanimate struggled to be animate and vice versa. This risk was rather functionally pretty harmless.

Foreman Adams operates the transmutator, the closest position to the samples of once-rare resources stored at its core. Foreman Adams flips the switched to convert cheap plywood to mahogany, and his own signal echoes outwards as well.

3 men taking a break just a little too close look at their new shared faces, clade in the same belt tucked shirt and blue jeans that had been pristine a decade ago, but were now clung with dust. 2-year-old boots they could all remember shelling out a fair bit of money for, worth it for how well they’d held up.

These new memories always sat comfortably by the original mind. One of the men, Dustin, wouldn’t think twice about how one half of him had been so much shorter a second ago whilst the other felt that he’d functionally teleported away from the machine that his original self was still operating. Dustin would just down the rest of his water and stretch his new bulkier form, absent-mindedly wondering if Adams would let him come home with him that night. Spend a night with his foreman’s rocking husband, reenact countless memories of that man getting fucked by small armies of Adams.

These transformations were typically temporary. Selfhood was overpowering and most people’s identities would win out in the end, shoving off the new skin and memories after a night of rest. Possibly retaining a few errant qualities of the shift that fit well into the original self, acquiring a small amount of muscle or confidence for their trouble. That took practice though, so most of them expected the new kids to fall under the influence of one of their elders for a bit. Or for forever, either or.

A college drop-out they’d picked up a while back hadn’t been on the job for a day before one of their veterans, Roland, had unwillingly taken him under his wing. A single blast and that kid’s face had seemingly shifted permanently, all his shaggy hair shortening into a clean cut and scraggly beard rapidly becoming well-kept. They’d expected the new appearance to fade in a month, but it had been a few too many by this point and it was safe to assume the Rolands would remain a pair. Not that those two were complaining, all buddy buddy between themselves, the drop-out assuming Roland’s identity so much that none on the crew even got to learn his old name. Roland happy to share his house and cigarettes with a man who shared all of his tastes.

Some people were suited to their own self. Call it narcissistic, but each of them enjoyed their turn. It was why operator duty of the transmutator was always an alternating duty. Each of them enjoying a day to themselves, in a way. It was bonding, being this vulnerable. The whole crew having access to every single one of each other’s deep internal lives, understanding it as they did. Mateo’s love for partying, shared across each of the crew after work, picking up chicks and twinks as an identical legion. Archie’s drinking problems, leading his identically bodied friends to embrace the man’s passion for football, all of them shouting for the same team as they lay across each other on a too small couch in one of their living rooms. Lucas’s daredevil tendencies leading five or six of them with broken arms and ecstatic grins in the hospital, regretting nothing and daring to do more the next go around.

This job was one of absolute connection and it wasn’t for the faint of heart. Countless amounts of prospective workers turning away when their soul wasn’t willing to play with new faces, was too rigid to go with the flow. The ones that stayed embraced it, trading jabs and inside jokes as they got to know each other from the inside out. Jose’s body craved a good steak no matter the time. Dallas’s brain was somehow still closeted, despite having fucked countless genders in everyone of his buddies’ bodies. Archie would get amusingly embarrassed even when another one of himself joked about how much they masturbated, especially so when the definition of masturbation was quite stretched in their cases.

Tonight, the guys would likely all go home in Pedro��s truck. Each of them shrugging off the man’s high vis vest in a pile of replicated clothing by the door. Pairs of them fitting into a shower before relaxing outside with their small army of clones. Inevitably curling up with as many as could fit on the bed, enjoying the way their shared brains didn’t mind the overbearing closeness of so many bodies. The newest of their crew would spend too long in the bathroom, acquainting themselves with every curve of Pedro’s older body as the veterans fought over blankets as their favorite talk show murmured in front of them. They’d probably fuck a bit, then pass out. Wake up to some of them in their own bodies as the remaining clones made breakfast, acting as good hosts for their “guests”.

They was nothing closer than a construction crew these days. Nothing like transmutation to make you trust them like you trust yourself, literally placing your life in their hands.

It was the good life, and twenty of the same face could attest to that.

[cryptotheism]

when did alchemy become chemistry?

Basically to make a long story short, it was around the late 1700s when we finally got off the corpuscular theory of matter, and switched over to something more resembling modern atomic theory.

Because what that did, was effectively remove the concept of transmutation. Alchemical transmutation can't happen if there aren't essences you can distill and switch around. And you can't really have alchemy without transmutation.

[bunji-enthusiast]

Bunji I was wondering if you’ve seen Rise of the Guardians

And was hoping you could make reader like North/Santa or Bunny or even Tooth or Pitch I think they would be fun to write and read

(I feel like Sandman would be like Groot and I font want you to make doubles and I feel like Jack would be super easy to write and he’s everyone’s favorite but I wouldn’t mind if you decide to write either of them)

𝐀𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫

Bunnymund!reader

Summary || Somewhere between dimensions—where Spring kisses the void and reality feels like soft soil underfoot. The air is heavy with residual magic and fractured molecules, the kind of place that shouldn’t exist…but does, because you do.

Note // funny you say this, cause I already had something in the works for Bunnymund!Reader for this thing! I love, love this movie with my heart. Definitely a timeless piece ❤️

You don’t remember falling. But you remember landing.

Sharp. Sudden. Like your name was ripped from the wind and tossed into this world without a warning.

The crater you made is still steaming when she floats down.

Atom Eve. All will and pink light. Her hair rides the breeze like a flame not quite ready to burn out. She's cautious, her hands flickering with latent transmutation energy. Not a villain, not a victim—but unsure if you're either.

You flick your ear. Dust yourself off. Aster Bunnymund doesn’t do ‘damsel’ and certainly doesn’t do ‘defenseless.’

“Alright,” you say, stepping forward, claws flexed just a little, your boomerangs humming low on your back. “Which galactic gremlin decided it'd be real cute to hijack the Easter Bunny mid-delivery route?”

Eve cocks a brow. “You talk. That’s new.”

You smirk. “So do you. Should I clap?”

“Are you… a kangaroo?”

The air stills.

You tap your foot twice. A flash of light, and a tunnel opens behind you, lined in wildflowers and softly glowing eggs. You don’t go through. Not yet. But you let her see.

“You bite your tongue, sheila,” you mutter, crossing your arms. “I’m a Pooka. Guardian of Hope. Bringer of Spring. The original chocolate alchemist. And definitely not your average marsupial.”

Her eyes flick to the ground, registering the blooms sprouting beneath your feet—life, actualized by magic and intent.

Then back to your eyes. “Right. Definitely not average.”

You sense her hesitation. Not fear. Curiosity, laced with that righteous concern heroes carry like second skin.

“Look,” she starts, her voice gentler now, “I thought you were a threat. Some kind of illusion—this place messes with matter. You fell through a quantum rip that shouldn’t even be here. Which… doesn’t explain the sentient eggs.”

“Oi. Barry and the boys are sensitive. Don’t call ‘em eggs.”

The sentient eggs in question hop into formation behind you, saluting Eve with wobbly pride.

She tries not to laugh. Fails. “Okay. That’s… kinda adorable.”

You roll your eyes.

“Fine,” you sigh, finally relaxing. “Not here to fight. Was delivering some Hope to a struggling planet—next thing I know, boom. Spliced sideways through a transdimensional chocolate storm and now I'm talking to a bio-alchemist in a pink cape who nearly atomized me on arrival.”

She floats down fully now, feet touching the ground with a quiet crunch of flower petals.

“Sorry,” she says, sincere. “I don’t usually go full defense mode unless I’m—”

“Stressed?”

She blinks. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

You tilt your head. “You glow differently when you’re carrying too much. Hope’s a tricky thing. Harder to hold when it’s not your own.”

There’s a pause. A silence. One of those rare, golden ones.

Then she says, “How’d I get so lucky?”

You shrug, flashing a half-smile. “Maybe the universe thinks you needed a reminder. Or maybe…” You gesture at the blooming life between you. “Maybe Hope shows up where it’s most at risk of being lost.”

She doesn’t answer. Not with words.

But she nods, slow and soft, and for a second, you both just stand there—two beings carved by magic and trauma and too many choices, meeting not as enemies, not even as allies. Just as beings who get it.

You tap your foot once. A tunnel flares open.

“Take care, Atom Eve,” you say, stepping toward the glow. “And if you ever need a bit of Hope again…” You wink. “Just look for the chocolate.”

And with that, the Guardian of Hope vanishes into the soil.

Spring lingers in your wake.

Somewhere on the outskirts of a war-torn city, where spring never had the chance to bloom. The sky is smeared with ash and steel-gray clouds. Blasted concrete and shattered windows sprawl like broken bones. Inside a crumbling clinic, laughter echoes—soft, weak, and impossibly brave.

They’re just kids. Orphaned. Sick. A few too young to understand what war means. But they believe in you.

And that’s more powerful than any weapon.

And, you’re bleeding.

Not badly—but enough. A slash across the arm from one of those shadow-stitched mercs, the kind of thing that smells like sulfur and broken dreams. Hired muscle. Or worse—Fearlings in disguise.

But you don’t move. You crouch low in front of the children, boomerangs already humming, glowing faintly in your palms.

They cower behind you. A girl tugs on your fur. “Bunny?”

“Shh. Gotcha, darl’, don’t worry.”

You flick your wrist.

A bladed boomerang arcs into the night, cracking into one of the creeping figures slinking across the rooftop. It falls in a burst of ash and bone.

The others don’t run. They laugh.

Too many. Even for you.

But you're the Guardian of Hope, dammit. You don’t run either.

You push the kids back toward the cracked stairwell, the one you reinforced with roots and a bit of stubborn magic. Not much time. Not much strength left.

And then—A ripple in the air. A pink shimmer. A shift.

And suddenly they’re gone.

Not the kids—the shadows.

They implode, flash-fried into bursts of energy and torn atoms. You blink, senses whirling.

And there she is.

Atom Eve.

Hovering in the ash, surrounded by a corona of light and fury.

Eyes glowing, palms still hot from the transmutation. Hair snapping behind her like a banner of war.

“You again,” you mutter, straightening with a wince. “Told you to look for chocolate, not carnage.”

She lands next to you, quick scan of the kids huddled behind your barrier. Her eyes soften. Then harden again as more figures crawl from the smoke.

“Guess I was looking for both.”

One of the mercs lunges. You step into it, elbow crackling against its ribs, and spin a kick that launches it back toward a waiting construct of hers—an energy spike that spears it midair.

“Nice form,” she murmurs.

“Yours ain’t bad either.”

Then: a pause.

“They’re sick,” you say suddenly, voice low as the ground shakes beneath another blast. “Some of ‘em don’t have much time. But they believe. They still believe.”

“I saw.” Her jaw clenches. “That’s why I’m here.”

You fight side by side. Like it’s instinct. Like you’ve done it a hundred times before.

Boomerangs whip through shadow.

Constructs burn holes in the dark.

You summon roots from below—twisting vines of life that bind and break the enemy—and she builds shields around the children, hexagons of raw will and pink brilliance.

The battle burns hot, fast, and then—

Still.

Just rubble. Breathing. And the tiny sound of coughing behind you. You crouch by the kids again. One hands you a melted egg, soft and slightly lumpy.

“You dropped this,” he says.

You smile—tired, cracked, but real.

“Thanks, mate.”

Eve walks over, sits beside you in the dust.

“You always do this?” she asks, watching the children settle back down, laughing despite the ruins.

“Only on Tuesdays,” you grunt. “And maybe when the world’s got the nerve to forget what Hope looks like.”

She doesn’t speak for a while.

Then, soft: “You shouldn’t have had to do it alone.”

You glance over.

‘Neither should you.’ You think. You nudge the egg toward her. “Go on. Eat it. Might turn you into a rabbit.”

She laughs, actually laughs, and takes a bite.

“You’re insane,” she says.

“Probably,” you reply. “But Hope usually is.”

The wind is calmer now. The smoke from the fight drifts upward in lazy curls, not frantic anymore—just memory. Shadows retreat into their holes when the light’s too strong, and right now, there's nothing brighter than the kids’ laughter.

You sit on a broken chunk of concrete, one leg stretched out, the other bent, arm resting casually over your knee like you didn’t just take down half a strike team with glowing boomerangs and sheer obstinance.

The smallest of the kids—Lani, maybe six—climbs into your lap without asking. You don’t flinch. Don’t pull away.

You just smile, slow and fond, like this is the part you actually came for.

“Bunny,” she says, whispering like she thinks it’s a secret. “When I grow up, can I be magic too?”

You chuckle, adjusting your arm so she’s more comfortable.

“‘Course you can,” you say. “Already are. You laughed during a war. That’s top-tier sorcery.”

She giggles, muffling it in your fur.

Eve watches from a few feet away, leaning on the edge of the clinic wall. She doesn’t try to interrupt. She just watches, her arms folded, but not in that defensive way—not anymore.

There's a softness in her face that wasn't there when you first met. It’s cautious. Thoughtful. A little sad.

You look over and catch her eye.

“Something on your mind, love?” you ask, voice low but not unkind.

Eve hesitates, then walks over slowly. She crouches near the kids, but keeps a respectful distance, like she doesn’t want to disrupt the magic.

“How do you do it?” she asks, barely above a whisper. “They’re hurting. The world’s burning down around them, and still... they laugh. You make them laugh.”

You shrug a little. “Hope ain’t a shield, Eve. Not really. It’s… a seed. A fragile little thing you plant in the worst dirt, with barely any light. You don’t tell it what to be. You just give it a chance.”

She lets that sit for a beat. Her eyes flick to Lani, then the others playing with your eggshell constructs, turning them into crowns and pretend swords.

“I’ve tried to fix things,” she says. “Big things. Buildings. Systems. Families. I can rewrite molecules but not… not what people carry in them. Not always.”

You tap your claw against your chest, just once.

“’Cause you’re trying to heal cracks by covering ‘em in steel. Doesn’t work. Not when what people need is to remember why it’s worth fixing in the first place.”

Eve looks at you. Really looks.

And something clicks behind her eyes.

Not a solution. Just… space. Space for something new to grow. Lani suddenly looks up at her.

“You’re the pink spark lady, right?”

Eve blinks. “Uh… yeah. That’s me.”

“You were really cool,” the kid says. “You made the bad guy pop like a balloon!”

Eve smiles, surprised at herself. “Thanks. I was kinda hoping no one noticed how shaky my hands were.”

“I did,” says a boy behind her, grinning through missing teeth. “You were shaking, but you didn’t stop.”

Eve exhales slowly. That means more than she expected.

You give her a small nod.

“See? Told you. Magic.”

She looks at you again, not with awe—but with something gentler.

Respect. Maybe even belief.

“...You know,” she says, “I think I get it now.”

You grin.

“No you don’t.”

She frowns. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t get it,” you repeat, standing slowly as Lani slides off your lap. “Not yet. You’re startin’ to. But the real secret is you never fully get it. You just keep showing up.”

A beat. Then you add, “You gonna keep showing up?”

Eve looks down at her hands. Then at the kids. Then back to you.

“Yeah,” she says. “I think I am.”

The kids are asleep now. Safe. Tucked under makeshift blankets, heads resting on one another, small chests rising and falling. Eve stands by the doorway, arms folded, eyes scanning the distant skyline. And you—well, you’re still seated, sharpening the edge of a boomerang that doesn’t really need sharpening. Just something to do with your hands.

That’s when the hum starts.

Low. Unnatural.

A moment later, a distortion peels into the air with a flicker of blue light. A thin ripple opens like a tear in fabric—and a man steps through.

Long coat. Balding head. A wicked scar running down his jaw. Cool green light from a teleportation badge still flickering on his collar.

Cecil Stedman.

Your ears twitch.

You feel the shift in the air before he speaks. Not malice. Not even threat. Just calculation. Cold as steel.

“You're taller in person,” Cecil says, looking right at you.

You stay seated, brushing a few egg fragments from your lap. “And you're more wrinkled than the rumors.”

He doesn’t laugh. But the corner of his mouth moves, like it almost happened.

Eve turns slightly, but doesn’t speak yet. Just watches. Like she’s weighing something.

Cecil’s eyes scan the scene. The kids. The cracked earth. The torn-open shadows that haven’t quite dissolved.

“I saw the fight,” he says. “Drone footage. Satellite pings. You held your own.”

“Did more than that,” you mutter. “These little ones are still breathin’, aren’t they?”

Cecil nods once. Slowly. Like he’s filing away the confirmation in a long ledger of debts and dangerous favors.

“Hope,” he says after a beat. “That’s what you’re about, right?”

You glance at him. “That a problem?”

“No. It’s inefficient. Messy. Wildly unpredictable.” He pauses. “But it works. Sometimes.”

There’s a longer silence. Eve shifts, finally stepping in.

“What do you want, Cecil?”

He looks at her. Not surprised. Not threatened either. But there's a flicker of... awareness. A different kind of calculation now.

“You,” he says plainly. “And him.”

You snort. “What, the GDA looking to hire a rabbit now?”

“I’m looking for results. You got them.” He steps forward, one boot crushing an empty eggshell. “I’ve got too many variables on the board, and not enough people who know how to work outside the rules without setting the board on fire.”

Eve folds her arms tighter. “You want us to work with you?”

“No. I want you to work near me,” Cecil says. “I know better than to try and leash a wildfire. But I also know you’ve both seen what’s coming. You feel it, even if you can’t name it yet.”

You look up slowly.

“…Pitch,” you murmur. “Or somethin’ worse. Somethin’ whisperin’ to the broken pieces of this world.”

Cecil doesn’t blink. “I don’t care if it’s called Pitch or the goddamn Boogeyman. If it threatens Earth, it goes in the ground.”

The air’s quiet again. Except for the soft breathing of the kids. You flick your boomerang into its holster with a clean snap.

“You don’t believe in what I do,” you say. “But you’re not stupid enough to ignore it.”

Cecil’s voice is low. “I don’t believe in magic eggs. Or flower-covered boomerangs. But I believe in results. You saved these kids. That earns respect. And maybe… a line I can call when the sky starts cracking.”

Eve glances at you.

You meet her eyes.

There’s no need to speak.

You just stand. Tall. Dust-covered. Ears twitching in the wind.

Then: “We’re not soldiers.”

Cecil nods. “Good. I’ve got too many of those already.”

He turns, raising his badge. Light flickers. But before he disappears, he looks back once.

“I’ll be in touch.”

Then he's gone. Just the wind again.

Eve exhales. “He’s the kind of guy who puts a knife in your hand and tells you it’s for the greater good.”

You nod. “Aye. But if the blade’s comin’ either way… might as well decide where to aim it.”

Eve chuckles dryly. “And here I thought I was the jaded one.”

You grin. “I’m ancient, love. Comes with the ears.”

The world is quiet here. Not because it’s peaceful—but because it’s trying to be. The kind of quiet that grows in between the cracks of heartbreak and healing.

You hadn’t planned to stop.

You were passing through—tunnel to tunnel, root to root, delivering hand-painted eggs and tiny woven charms of spring to a few kids at the hospital down the block. You were meant to disappear again. Back into the warren. No attachments.

But something held you here. A tug.

Hope sometimes plants itself in strange soil.

She’s kneeling in the garden bed, sleeves rolled up, dirt under her nails, hair tied in a lazy bun. The green shirt she wears looks lived-in—creases from cradling a baby, wrinkles from sighing too hard, maybe. There's a tiny little shovel in one hand and a ceramic rabbit figurine tucked between a patch of marigolds.

Your nose twitches.

“Symbolic, or just seasonal?” you ask from the fence.

She startles, turns—but doesn’t flinch. That’s rare. Most people do.

Her eyes lock onto yours with practiced wariness. The kind you only learn after losing something you thought was real.

Debbie Grayson.

You recognize her from the files North once handed you. And from the grief that trails behind her like a whisper in the breeze.

She squints at you, shading her eyes. “You’re not exactly hiding. Big, fluffy, and wearing what looks like boomerang holsters.”

You smirk. “Only the finest Outback leather.”

She stands, brushing her palms on her jeans. “So, what are you? Magic rabbit? Alien? Fever dream?”

“All three, if the day’s long enough.”

There’s a beat. Then, surprisingly, she laughs. A quiet, tired sound, but real.

You hop over the fence without a word, landing soft on the mulch beside her. “You’re Debbie.”

She nods. “And you’re real, apparently.”

“Name’s Bunnymund. E. Aster, if you’re formal.”

Her brow lifts. “Like the Easter Bunny?”

“Guardian of Hope,” you say with a half-bow and a twirl of one ear. “Not just eggs and chocolates. Though I do pride myself on presentation.”

Debbie leans back against the edge of a raised bed. There’s something sharper in her gaze now, like she’s connecting dots.

“You’re not here for Mark.”

“Nope.”

“Not for Cecil?”

You shake your head. “Never been fond of secret labs and grim philosophies. Man smells like old smoke and newer regret.”

That gets a full laugh from her, this time. She covers her mouth.

You take a seat beside a tomato plant, careful not to crush the stems. “I stopped by to see some kids. One of them said her mom used to tell her spring comes early if you smile hard enough. That sounded like magic to me.”

Debbie’s smile fades slightly. “That sounds like something I’d say to Mark. When he was little.”

You glance at her sideways. “You’re still sayin’ things like that. Just takes longer for the echoes to come back.”

There’s quiet between you. The kind that doesn't need to be filled.

She watches the breeze flutter through the wind chimes hanging by a wooden post. “Do you ever get used to it?”

“Losing someone you thought was unshakable?” you ask, ears low.

She nods.

“No,” you say gently. “But you get stronger around the shape of the hole.”

Debbie looks down at her hands. “I thought I married a good man. A hero. Turns out he was just… playing the part.”

“He was loved,” you say. “That part was real. Even if he didn't deserve it the way you hoped.”

She doesn’t answer. Just presses her fingers into the soil.

You reach into your satchel and pull out a small wooden egg. Painted in delicate brushstrokes—flowers, vines, tiny stars. You offer it to her.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“Hope. Takes different forms. Sometimes it’s a promise. Sometimes it’s just... the courage to keep showing up.”

She takes it slowly, like it might disappear if she touches it wrong.

“You’re stronger than he ever was,” you say softly. Debbie looks at you as you stand.

“I’ll be around,” you add. “If you ever need help. Or someone who still believes in good men. Even if they’re hard to find.”

You tap your foot once. A shimmer of light, and a tunnel begins to open beneath you.

She steps forward, voice quiet but steady. “Thank you.”

You pause just before disappearing.

“You keep planting,” you say. “I’ll keep watch.”

And then—gone.

Just wind, earth, and the quiet sound of chimes in a garden where grief and growth now share roots.

Chicago sleeps fitfully below, the sky strung up with restless stars. Streetlights flicker like uncertain thoughts. Somewhere between yesterday’s grief and tomorrow’s storm, you return.

You step out of the tunnel not with a bang, but with the soft whisper of dew on grass. The roof creaks beneath your weight—not built for seven-foot Pookas, but holding firm like everything else in Debbie’s life lately.

She’s already up here.

Wrapped in a coat two sizes too big—probably Nolan’s. There’s a glass of something amber by her side, untouched.

She doesn’t look surprised when she sees you.

“I was hoping you’d come back,” she says. Not like someone asking for a miracle—more like someone who knew the wind would shift eventually.

You tilt your head. “Rooftop stargazing. Classic grief move.”

She lets out a breath that’s halfway to a chuckle. “You’re not wrong.”

You sit beside her. Careful not to crack a tile. “It’s quieter up here. Easier to pretend the world makes sense when it’s small beneath your feet.”

Debbie leans forward, eyes tracing the skyline. “Mark’s gone. Off-world with Eve. I told him it was the right call, but—”

Her voice breaks, just for a second. “God, he’s still just a kid. My kid.”

You say nothing. Just let the moment be.

Debbie reaches for the glass. Holds it. Doesn’t drink.

“They left yesterday,” she says. “The GDA gave me the usual: ‘classified mission, planetary risk, he'll be fine.’ But I saw Cecil’s eyes. No one is ever just ‘fine’ when he’s involved.”

She turns to look at you now. Direct. Unblinking.

“I don’t need a bedtime story. I need to know if there’s anything you can do. You’re not from here. You’ve probably seen things we haven’t even dreamed of.”

You lean forward, arms resting on your knees. “I don’t work for Cecil. I don’t track missions. I don’t answer to flags or labs or secret satellites.” Then softer, “But I listen.”

Debbie exhales slowly. “And what do you hear?”

You close your eyes.

A hundred whispers ripple through the air—joy, dread, faith, pain. But one stands out: a flickering thread of hope that bends but doesn’t break.

“Your son’s still burning bright,” you say. “He’s scared. Determined. Holding the line.”

Her lips tighten. “So I just wait?”

“No,” you say. “You hold. You stay strong so he has something to come home to.”

There’s a long pause.

“I don’t feel strong,” she admits.

You reach into your satchel and hand her something—a pendant made of twined silvergrass, woven with delicate threads of moonlight.

“What’s this?” she asks, fingers tracing its soft spiral.

“Anchored hope,” you say. “You wear it when you’re scared, or angry, or tired of being the one who holds everyone else together. It won’t fix the pain, but... it reminds you why you endure it.”

Debbie closes her hand around it.

“Will it help?” she asks quietly.

You look at her—not the sadness, not the strength—but her, the full weight of all she’s endured and still choosing to stay kind.

“It already is,” you answer.

Silence settles in again, not awkward this time—just shared.

Then she says, “You’re not what I expected.”

You grin. “Few of us are.”

You stand to leave, but before you vanish into the earth again, she speaks once more.

“Come by again,” she says. “Even if it’s just for tea.”

You give a half-bow, one paw to your chest. “You got it, Debbie Grayson. And if tea turns into smashing the occasional lab or decking a morally grey GDA director—well, I’m flexible.”

She actually laughs, you disappear beneath the stars.

And above, a mother wraps her coat tighter, pendant in her hand, eyes on the sky—not waiting anymore, but holding.

Holding fast.

Within the week, Mark and Eve are back. Battered. Changed. Alive. Chicago breathes a little easier tonight, but the air still hums like a string pulled too tight. You feel it the moment you step through the tunnel into her backyard — the tension hasn’t left, it’s just wearing a different face.

You don’t knock. You never need to. The ground splits gently beneath your feet, and you step out beside the flowerbeds Debbie had finally gotten around to replanting. Poppies. You remember — she told you they were her mother’s favorite.

The back door creaks open before you can move.

Debbie leans on the frame, mug in her hand, tired warmth in her eyes.

“I figured I’d see you again,” she says, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Come on in, unless you’ve got some mystical rule about doorways.”

You grin. “Only when dealing with vampires and bureaucrats.”

She actually laughs. That’s new. And healing.

You duck under the frame, careful not to knock anything over, and follow her to the kitchen. There’s a kettle warming. The scent of ginger and chamomile floats through the room.

“They’re upstairs,” she says, before you can ask. “Mark’s asleep. Eve’s pretending she doesn’t need rest. She’ll crash in an hour.”

She sets a second mug in front of you. “Thought you might want something warm.”

You tilt your head. “You brew tea for interstellar rabbits often?”

She smirks. “Only the ones who leave hope charms on my roof.”

You take a sip. “I hear those are limited edition.”

Silence laps at the edge of the moment. Comfortable now. Familiar.

Then, Debbie speaks again — softer.

“You were right, you know. About holding fast.”

You glance at her. She’s not looking at you, just watching the steam rise from her cup.

“I didn’t know how I’d do it. Not after Nolan. Not after everything he said to Mark. But then Mark came home, and he looked at me like... like he still needed me to be his anchor. Not just his mom. But his safe place.”

She looks up, eyes glistening—not with tears this time, but with something brighter. “So I held. And he came back. And I didn’t fall apart.”

You reach into your satchel, pull out a single egg. Painted in soft blues and greens, with a blooming tree etched across the shell in gold leaf. You slide it toward her.

“Spring’s not just a season. It’s a promise,” you say. “That even after the harshest winter, things can grow again.”

Debbie touches the egg gently, reverently. “Thank you, Bunny.”

You lean back in the chair, resting one foot over the other.

“You’re welcome, Debbie Grayson.”

She finishes her tea in silence, and you sit there together a while longer. No world-ending crises. No gods or monsters. Just two people — one human, one Pooka — breathing the same quiet air and watching the future grow roots beneath them.

The sun barely stretches through the windows, painting the walls in soft golds and peach-colored light. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaks. Quiet footfalls. Slower than usual — sore, likely — but familiar all the same.

You're still seated at the kitchen table. Debbie’s already left, humming something to herself as she busied with breakfast. She hasn’t said much, just the occasional look, like she was still trying to believe things were calm enough for a morning this normal.

You feel him before you hear him.

Mark.

He’s moving carefully, like he’s not sure if his body’s ready to be up again. A low groan escapes as he comes into the kitchen, one hand rubbing at his shoulder.

His eyes land on you. He blinks, and again.

“...You’re still here?”

You offer a crooked grin, ears flicking in mock offense. “Hey, I brew a mean cup of chamomile.”

Mark’s face twitches — he’s trying not to smile. He fails.

He pulls a chair, sits slowly. Winces a little.

“I figured you’d disappear like you always do after everything cools down.”

“I was going to,” you say, resting your paws on the table. “But then I remembered someone owes me a rematch in bowling.”

Mark chuckles — hoarse, tired, but real. “You still cheated. You can’t hover the ball all the way to the pins.”

“Not my fault you never specified Earth rules.”

Silence settles for a moment. Not heavy, not awkward — just the kind that comes when you’ve both been to war and made it home.

Then Mark speaks, voice softer.

“Thanks for showing up.”

You look at him. Really look.

There’s still blood dried along the hem of his sleeve. Bruises darken under his eyes. But it’s his expression that catches you — worn, but clearer than it’s been in months. Like something inside finally stopped spiraling.

“Any time,” you say. “Especially if kids are involved. You did good, Mark.”

He glances down, jaw working.

“I didn’t feel like it. I got so—” His hands curl into fists. “I wanted to kill them. I almost did. I don’t think I even cared if I made it out.”

You lean forward.

“But you did. And you didn’t lose yourself. That’s what matters.”

He meets your eyes, searching for something in them. Something that says he isn’t alone in that kind of rage.

“What if it happens again?” he asks, quieter now. “What if I stop holding back?”

You tilt your head. “Then you lean on the people who remind you who you are.”

A beat.

“That includes me, by the way.”

Mark exhales, a slow smile forming. “Thanks, Bunny.”

You shrug, pawing a bit of toast from the tray. “Besides, I’m technically your emotional support cryptid at this point. Comes with the cape.”

Footsteps again. Eve.

She enters in a too-big sweatshirt and messy hair, still pretending not to be sore.

“Of course you’re still here,” she mutters, but there’s no venom in it. Just affection.

Mark glances between you both. “We’re doing pancakes or what?”

You grin.

“Only if I get the first one.”

Eve plops down beside Mark, elbow nudging his ribs — gently, though he still flinches with a groan. You smirk into your mug.

“Tough guy,” she teases.

“Don’t start,” Mark groans. “I’m lucky I’m not still in traction.”

“You’d heal in like… ten minutes.”

“Not the point, Eve.”

Before either of them can escalate into their usual back-and-forth, Debbie reappears from the hall, balancing a large plate of pancakes like it’s an Olympic sport. She’s already smiling when she sees the three of you sitting there — her expression softens in a way that feels... earned.

“Good,” she says. “You’re all here.”

She sets the plate in the middle of the table, and somehow it’s exactly the kind of pancakes that tell you you’re safe: golden, fluffy, warm. A few have smiley faces burned into them — probably for Oliver, but you nudge one onto your plate like you’re claiming treasure.

“Maple?” you ask innocently, peering up at her.

Debbie rolls her eyes, grabbing the syrup bottle and tossing it to you. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Eve reaches over to snatch one of the smiley pancakes before you can. “I saw that first.”

“You cheated, I sniffed it out.”

“You don’t even have a nose under all that fur!”

You both pause.

Mark points a fork at you. “Wait. Do you? Actually? Because I’ve been wondering—”

Debbie slaps a hand on the table, firm. “No anatomy talk at breakfast.”

Everyone freezes. Then laughs.

It’s… light. The kind of laughter that doesn’t come from jokes, but from relief. From being here. From being alive.

Mark tucks into his pancakes with a quiet hum, chewing slower than usual — thoughtful.

“You know,” he says, glancing around the table, “I can’t remember the last time it felt like this.”

“Like what?” Eve asks, leaning her head on her hand.

“Normal,” he says. “Not perfect, but… normal.”

You don’t say anything — you just nod.

Debbie stands behind him, running a hand through his hair without saying a word. The gesture makes him still. Then, almost shyly, he leans into it.

Eve watches him. Then glances at you. “Thanks for not vanishing this time,” she says.

You grin between bites. “Can’t vanish on an empty stomach.”

Debbie moves back to the stove, and as she does, she speaks without turning.

“You’re welcome here,” she says. “As long as you need.”

You pause mid-chew.

It’s quiet again — but this time it’s that same warmth from earlier. The kind you can sit in for a long time and not want to leave.

Mark catches your gaze.

And you know, in that moment, he believes it too.

[sepublic]

            So some HCs on Raine’s magic;

            Raine can attune their soundwaves to a target’s resonant frequency; It could be a specific material, or even a person. So if they managed to hit someone with their instrument or a soundwave, they can figure out that frequency because every strike creates vibrations on some level.

            From that point, every soundwave that Raine sends off will pass through any other objects or materials without harming them, and only damage that which they’re attuned to. It’s a handy way to get past hostage situations or barriers.

            Raine can only attune their soundwaves to one resonant frequency at a time; If they want to switch to a different frequency, they need to hit their target like a tuning fork to match it. And if they want to hit everything, then Raine has to drop the frequency and regain it with another strike.

            Raine’s whistling operates independently from this sort of thing, so while not as powerful as their violin, it’s a good backup for when Raine wants to commit to a specific frequency, but also desires a general attack. Their whistling helps them attack people by surprise because Raine can also echolocate!

            This allows them to internally map out an area and whatever’s around them, though they have to consciously activate and focus on this spell; Combining this with Raine’s attuned soundwaves makes for a lethal assassin that can attack through walls. And since sound bounces off of surfaces, Raine can send waves that ricochet across whatever they hit, a scattered attack; These ones aren’t attuned to any particular frequency, so they can hit everything.

            Raine’s whistling can also mess with the frequency of molecules’ vibrations, making them shake enough to break down their molecular bonds; Hence their whistling breaking down the compounds in Terra’s potion to render it ineffective. Their whistling can also increase vibrations to raise heat and cause spontaneous combustion.

            Not only can Raine deconstruct and shred things apart with their vibrations, but these can also be used to transmute materials by affecting their atoms and molecules, hence the Apple Blood trick; This is a case of applying Potions principles to Bard magic, an idea either unheard of or discouraged in most schools.

            But their magic isn’t just offensive, Raine’s whistling/violin can create a small radius to ward off enemies and attacks, stopping them mid-air or tearing them apart; It’s like a shield of sound, which Raine can also generate around others. And since bard magic can make things float, Raine can levitate their boots to walk on air.

            Perhaps their most clever trick is the ability to bring sound effects to life; Storing the sounds of different things, to recreate those same effects on anything those released soundwaves hit. So if Raine hears something breaking, they can capture some of that noise into their violin, and then release it onto someone or something else; Anything hit by the soundwaves will break. The same goes for burning, exploding, splashing, etc.

            Raine’s predecessor was Scooter Crane, who could use the power of music like a conductor to animate objects and even people’s bodies, like Fantasia. He could summon literal music notes and lines to attack with, and anything hit would be forced to bend to his will. Crane primarily used this to perfectly coordinate covenscouts during the Coven Crusades, watching from afar; While Graye is a director, Crane is a conductor, and both proved to be control freaks who felt others couldn’t match their vision.

            Katya’s tambourine takes resonant frequencies to their max, making objects she strikes vibrate until they shatter. It’s simple yet effective, working on anything Katya chooses to hit.

            Amber’s recorder induces feelings in others; They can cause people to sleep, to calm down, or feel invigorated with any other emotion. It’s a subtler support role, although she’s learned some transmutation from Raine, allowing Amber to make objects rust with her notes.

            Derwin’s bassoon summons weather magic, which is a double-edged sword; It’s surprisingly easy to summon something as devasting as a hurricane… But weather magic is incredibly chaotic and uncontrollable; You might summon a storm, but you’ll find yourself just as subject to it as your enemies. So while it’s a low entry level to produce powerful attacks, most avoid weather magic for this reason.

            Bard magic deals with sound, frequencies, and animation; It’s the power of art, bringing words and pictures to life, and making things dance and move. It deals in the realm of emotions. But it can be tricky and roundabout to pull off more fantastical feats; Some witches find more straightforwardly powerful tracks, such as Plants or Abominations or Construction, which deal in physical strength, to be more to the point. Otherwise, Bard magic is seen as related to the arts, as well as writing and even legality, with many contracts written in Bard magic; It brings words to life, after all.