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pkg4mumtown · 5 months ago

Text

Scream (‘Til There’s Silence)

Pairing: Ghostface!Hotch x GN!Reader

Rating: Explicit / R

Summary: A serial killer comes to your small town. Will the FBI finally catch him?

Content Warnings: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, murder, stabbing/knives, manipulation, stalking, sexual content, strong violence, choking, GN!reader (no Y/N, usage of ‘mouse’ as a nickname), strong language, first person POV, Ghostface is his own warning

A/N: HEED ALL WARNINGS!! Keep yourself safe, seriously. Just because I wrote this does not mean I condone any of these actions in real life. This is a work of fiction. Also, if I missed any warnings, please let me know.

Now, POSTING TWO FICS IN ONE WEEKEND?? Who the hell am I? I hope you enjoy this as much as I did writing it. Also, enjoy the art and custom Ghostface costume that Hotchy-boy wears. Also, do not talk to me about plot holes lolll

I made an unsub playlist inspired by some of the Criminal Minds unsubs. I’ve embedded it below. A few in that playlist that gave me vibes for this fic were: Change (in the house of flies), Scream, Possum Kingdom, and Tear You Apart.

Also available on AO3

Aaron POV

Thump.

…

Thump.

…

Thump.

…

A satisfied hum left Aaron’s throat as the young woman's heart finally stopped beating underneath his hand.

It was his favorite part, feeling the life drain out of their bodies. Choosing who and how each innocent person met their end. It felt different from killing an unsub on the job, which didn’t satisfy him whatsoever. In those cases, he usually preferred the satisfaction of outsmarting them through the legal system. He had only killed a handful of unsubs as Ghostface, ones that were legally elusive to the BAU and needed something more permanent. Still—it wasn’t the same. Sure, he still felt them die but they never fulfilled his prey drive. The terrified screams, the vulnerable situations…no. People like him didn’t do that. They fought back with anger, stoicism, and a little glee. They watched their back, paranoid of the government. They were armed more often than not.

Not satisfying at all.

Only once did he have to kill an unsub as Ghostface to protect his identity, the unsub having profiled him right back with terrifying accuracy. Foyet was able to clock that monster inside of him and despite the expressionless façade he gave the older man, it was jarring. Dare he say he was actually scared for once in his adult life. So, Foyet had to go, simple as that. But he let the older man die with his suspicions confirmed about Aaron. Let him watch the grin that pulled across Aaron's teeth as the knife slid into Foyet's heart with a satisfying grunt. It was poetic, and okay, maybe a little satisfying.

Ghostface had become such a problem that he was made a priority case for the BAU, the file having permanent residence on their desks since the killer—since Aaron—drove Jason Gideon to leave the FBI. Since Ghostface was directly responsible for David Rossi's reinstatement with the FBI. Since SSA Aaron Hotchner was made the golden boy to spearhead the Ghostface investigation. Oh, how giddy it made Aaron to see the rest of the BAU's frustration every time a new case popped up.

Yanking the long hunting knife out of his current victim's body, Aaron squinted underneath his mask for anything he might have missed—a rarity, but he liked to take precautions anyway. He had designed a mask that provided very little in the way of field of view, so he always took extra care with his surroundings. It was entirely his fault for the poor design but he wouldn't be caught dead in that cheap, plastic costume mask. Plus, he enjoyed the design process and threw in a little flair for the dramatic with sharp angles and pointed teeth.

He checked his watch, clasped neatly over a black, stretchy base layer he wore to keep his body hair at bay. It made him sweat like hell underneath the ribbed, long sleeve thermal, tactical pants, and cowl he wore but this was how he lived his life.

The plan was relatively simple each time. Aaron picked a city when they had a stretch of time off, drove there—because planes were obviously out of the question—paid cash for everything, found an easy victim, and terrorized the town for a few days. Usually racking up two to four bodies to get the police on high alert. His team unwound with vacations and family. Aaron? He preferred a different kind of alone time to unwind.

When the BAU was inevitably called in he would terrorize the town a little more in between working the case and find an easy scumbag to pin it on.

It was stupid how easy it all was when citizens and police were desperate to find a killer in a small town. They were willing overlook discrepancies and blame just about any bad guy in the town if they remotely fit the bill. They usually chalked it up to Ghostface copycats and despite the profile saying otherwise—Aaron didn’t mind a damn bit that the murders were blamed on a copycat. Anyone but him was good enough.

They didn’t even have a definitive profile on him, too many theories about whether he worked alone or if these “copycats"—copycats that didn’t exist—were a network of unsubs posing as Ghostface killers. Theories on if the continued murders were because they were catching the wrong people and the real Ghostface wanted recognition. In reality, it was easier for people to believe that one person couldn’t be this demented and bloodthirsty.

This was his last one for this stretch, having terrorized East Liverpool, Ohio enough for the moment. He had to report to work in oh…twenty-seven hours anyway. Roughly six hours to drive back to Virginia with no toll roads—cameras equal bad—time to stash his spare car, clean his equipment, etcetera. It was a full day ordeal.

Checking his secondary phone, one he set up to receive voice-mail from his work phone—which sat lonely in his apartment—showed a lack of incoming messages. He was grateful because it was a pain to locate public Wi-Fi or spoof a location on short notice, especially at 3:00 AM.

Humming to himself, he exited the house. He made sure that the neighbors security system caught a blur of movement as he arranged some staged, bloody equipment as a false disposal site and took off.

Aaron’s actual bloody equipment was wrapped neatly in plastic and stored in an aftermarket storage he created in the car—just in case he was pulled over. When he was safely in his spare car, Aaron still didn’t take his face covering—the one he wore underneath the Ghostface mask—off right away. He was too cautious of cameras despite the small city. He would wait until he was on a dark stretch of highway where he could quickly put some normal clothes on and change his license plate.

It's not until he does just that, that he feels wet, slick mud transfer onto his hands as he takes his boots off. It’s not the texture that makes him curse. It’s not even getting his hand dirty that makes him stop. It’s how high the mud was on his boot and how clear of a print he might have left that makes him overthink and wonder. Wonder where he left it, specifically, and if it would even get noticed.

Aaron quickly shook it off. He’s on a highway and doesn’t need to draw attention to himself.

People were dumb.

He was smart.

It would all work out.

It took all of two days for the small town of East Liverpool to get overwhelmed. The East Liverpool Police Department had a whopping twenty patrol officers to cover the nearly ten thousand citizens. Their station was lacking in equipment, forcing them to call in the Columbiana County Sheriff's Department for assistance with the three murders Aaron left behind. CCSD was barely any better in the personnel department.

The BAU was called in by the ELPD Chief, something Aaron expected, though he gave them much less credit and had estimated a day at most. The flight was quicker than the twelve-hour round-trip Aaron subjected himself to.

As soon as they arrived, Aaron was splitting his team up amongst the different crime scenes. He sent Rossi and JJ to the first murder to see if they could get a handle on victimology and patterns. Reid and Morgan went to the second to see what else they could get for their profile and set up a timeline.

Aaron needed to be at the most recent one to see if he really did fuck up. The evidence there was the freshest, so if he needed to fix anything, he would do it here without alerting Prentiss.

Aaron and Emily arrived to the modest, single-story house with police tape blocking off the front lawn. A few citizens were gathered, worried expressions as they murmured amongst each other and stared down the federal agents. Their glares felt like they blamed the agents for the massacre.

Well, that was sort of true.

The scene was quiet, eerily so, except for the murmur of officers and the clicking of cameras. As many Ghostface crime scenes as they’d been do, Emily couldn’t help the breath that left her throat at seeing the blood all over the walls as the victim was chased—hunted—in their own home. The interior was disturbingly pristine with no overturned furniture, no forced entry, nothing impulsive. Just controlled violence.

The body was in no better condition.

Cuts were strewn over the young woman's body, a common torture seen in these murders, with deeper stab wounds, and ending with a final deadly stab to the heart.

One thing that had always helped Aaron was his lack of preference in victimology. Well, maybe “vulnerable" was a preference but he could make just about anyone feel that way with a little bit of effort. The ones that spiraled into madness were extra special to him.

A detective—Hotch presumed—stepped out of a hallway to greet them, accompanied by a crime scene investigator with a camera hanging around their neck.

“Detective Miller,” she introduced herself. “We were both brought in from Columbiana County,” she gestured to the tech.

County or city didn’t matter. In an area like this? Aaron was confident wherever he left his boot print wouldn’t matter.

“Run us through it?” Emily asked.

The detective looked at the forensic investigator, who comically pointed at themselves in question. Another urgent nod from the detective and the nervous investigator finally started speaking.

After introducing themselves, they stuttered before speaking under the heavy gaze of the federal agents. It was irking Aaron that they couldn't get a word out but also gave him more confidence that these departments were not equipped to handle this.

“R-uh-right, so the killer entered here through the side window. We have a couple boot prints on the floor, but they’re too smudged to see much. Looks like the killer ambushed her here in the living room and started slashing. The sprays here and here indicate they were running toward the hallway where the victim fell. They didn’t move from there and the pooling suggests this is where the victim died. No prints or hair here but we did find camera footage from a neighbor across the street showing the killer disposing of evidence in the foliage. I did bag some traces of hair from those clothes that we’re testing now back at the county lab.”

Aaron was surprised. Not necessarily at any of the information because it was pretty spot on but surprised at the accuracy and detail as the forensic investigator continued explaining. The hairs were also not surprising. He planted those himself on the false evidence with short, red hair he snatched from someone in town.

He liked his chances, so far.

“Anything else?”

“Yea, well,” the investigator started and stopped. “Yes, actually. But a thing about the hair we found with those disposed clothes...it felt…I don’t know. Out of place?”

��I told you not to speculate like this,” The detective interrupted sternly.

Aaron cocked his head, intrigued at what the investigator had to say but would wait patiently.

“Sorry, Miller,” they shifted awkwardly.

Hotch nodded along, feigning impartial analysis. Internally, he scrutinized the investigator, watching for any sign that they picked up on anything else that was crucial.

Emily chimed in, “This level of organization is consistent with the other two. It’s almost surgical how controlled the scenes are.”

The investigator’s eyes brightened despite the glare of the detective warning them to back off.

“T-that's what I thought, too,” the investigator blurted out. “I’ve read up on the past cases you worked and I know there’s stuff left behind often but it doesn’t feel…right. The murders are so meticulously planned, with no evidence, and the killer throws stuff in a bush or makes rookie mistakes? We found a boot print on the side of the house and I know some of the ones you’ve caught haven’t even done that. I’ll show you. Follow me and—er—watch your step.”

As everyone stepped outside, two more SUVs rolled up to the house, the rest of the team getting out and walking toward the house. None of them looked like they had anything important to share which pleased Aaron.

“We found a boot print back here in the mud. It was raining early last week, so the ground has been pretty soft,” the investigator guided everyone around to the side the killer entered from.

Aaron suddenly remembered feeling like he had lost his footing climbing in through the window. It was the mud. He hung back in the group following behind Reid.

“Just watch your step he—”

The forensic investigator was cut off as the front of Hotch’s shoe met the instep of Reid's foot as the group turned the corner. Reid stumbled and Hotch did his “best" to grab the back of the younger man's collar to yank him back but wasn’t fast enough. Reid's foot stepped in the mud next to the print, distorting the print near the heel.

“—re…” the investigator sucked their lips in, an awkward smile pulling across their features. “And I thought the city guys were bad.”

Morgan snorted as Reid pulled his foot out of the mud. The rest of the team consisted of varying levels of cringing and head shaking while Aaron did his best to hold in the devious laugh threatening to bubble up.

“Sorry…” Reid mumbled.

“It’s alright, we took the cast yesterday and they’re analyzing the print now. We’re estimating size eleven boots and one-eighty to two hundred pounds.”

Aaron’s elation promptly died. He kept his hands in his pockets, fingers digging into his palm.

Derek stepped forward, frowning. “So, we’re looking at someone fit, strong, tall? Especially if he can get into this window. It’s a bit of a pull up.”

Emily nods. “Clearly trained if we're running with the idea that planting those clothes are forensic counter measures?”

The investigator turned back to the group, “I’m guessing you’ve seen that before?”

The forensic investigator’s eyes fixed mostly on Hotch, who looked calculating but conflicted.

“We have,” Rossi murmured.

Hotch's mouth formed a grim line but not because that theory is absolutely in one of their profiles of Ghostface. No. For the first time, Hotch studied the investigator not just as another mediocre forensic scientist, but as a genuine threat.

MC POV

Doing all I could at the underfunded and understaffed ELPD station, I made my way back to the Columbiana County Sheriff’s Station. About half of the BAU joined the twenty-minute drive to the station for a closer look at the findings our lab eventually called about.

The hair didn’t match DNA from any known criminal investigations, bringing us to a dead end right away. All we knew was that the color was a natural red, fairly thin, and that the hair was forcibly yanked versus falling out naturally.

The BAU theorized to no end.

“The hair could have gotten stuck to the mask when he ripped it off?”

“Could have ripped the hair off someone, too.”

I wasn’t satisfied with the dead end and left their conversation in the conference room Sheriff Tanner let them convene in, a step up from the dinky broom closet Chief Banks set up for them at ELPD. I retreated to the lab, moving on to the boot print. The forensics lab was cold, humming with fluorescent lights, the kind that made everything feel clinical and impersonal but I was too focused on my work. It was also empty, many of the other investigators having left for the night with no other evidence to examine in these murders.

That boot print shouldn't have been there.

Everything else was methodically cleaned up—no DNA, no fibers, no obvious traces. But the print was deep in the mud near the side of the house and was hidden enough in the bushes that most would have overlooked it.

I only noticed it by accident, seeing the bushes dented unnaturally as I examined the outside of the house.

We ran the tread pattern through several databases, cross-referencing it against law enforcement, military, and civilian models. Unfortunately, it was a common brand, nothing special or expensive.

But something about it stuck with me. A gut feeling I couldn’t seem to shake despite there being nothing helpful to go off.

This was a mistake.

An actual one. Not whatever cover ups were passing for mistakes in the other cases the FBI worked. The Ghostface murders rarely, if ever, had actual mistakes in the hunt itself. The killer took far too much pride in it to leave mistakes like that.

Then, my phone buzzed and interrupted the eerie silence. I clenched my jaw, worry building up in my throat despite knowing there were officers and agents just outside the doors.

Unknown Number.

I hesitated before answering, not usually one to answer unknown numbers, but something told me it was important.

“Hello?”

Silence.

Then a distorted voice crackled over the line.

“What’s your favorite scary movie?”

I rolled my eyes, how had someone gotten ahold of my number for prank calls?

“I’m hanging up. It’s a crime to prank call police departments,” I sighed, hoping to scare whatever idiot was on the other line.

My thumb hovered over the red circle to end the call, when the voice spoke again.

“You like playing detective, don’t you?” His voice sounding harsher but still robotic like a modulator. “You should be careful. It’s not good to be too smart.”

A cold shiver ran down my spine as his voice vibrated unnaturally.

“Who is this?” I asked dumbly. At this point, I knew full well who it was.

A soft chuckle passed through the receiver.

“Come on, sweetheart, you don’t have to dumb it down that much,” he just about giggled. “I’ve been watching you work. It’s impressive, really.”

The seriousness of the interaction finally dawned on me and I frantically tried to get my desk phone working to have Detective Miller run a trace.

“Ah, ah, none of that.”

“None of what?” I mentally cursed as I typed the wrong extension.

“Trying. To trace. The call,” he growled. “Maybe I was giving you too much credit. You’re playing dumb a little too well to be acting.”

I stopped pressing buttons, clenching my fist closed.

“We don’t want you getting hurt, do we?”

“Okay,” my throat tightened in fear, my breathing increasing.

I had hoped that the more he talked, the more I might recognize the rhythm of his voice. Unfortunately, it wasn’t recognizable, not to anyone I knew at least. But, the way it spoke—calm, assured, with a hint of humor—it made my stomach turn.

“What do you want?” I finally worked up the nerve to ask.

“I just wanted to say how much I admire your work,” he cooed, voice shifting to another ragged growl in an instant. “But you’re getting a little too…interested…for my taste. Not that I don’t appreciate the enthusiasm, really. It makes me wonder how enthusiastic you are for cock,” he snickered over the line.

All I could do was clench my teeth. Any threat I wanted to throw at him was meaningless, not when he could easily do to me what he did to those innocent people. I made a mental note to keep my gun out and ready at home until this case was solved.

“I’ll see you soon, little mouse.”

Click.

The line went dead.

Hours later, I had changed gears again, going over crime scene photos and camera footage from residences. I was waiting on the FBI’s analyst to look over the footage for height estimates. Most of the footage was unusable, but the blurred mask in the corner of the screen was haunting me. It was like he did it on purpose, got just enough of himself in frame to guide us where to look.

And we were falling for it.

I was startled out of my trance by a hand on my shoulder. Reaching for the wrist quickly, I grabbed ahold and turned my chair in one motion.

Oh.

“Agent Hotchner,” I sighed, gulping and putting a hand over my rapidly beating heart.

“Reflexes are good but you should probably not have both of those in,” he gestured to my earbuds.

“Yeah, um,” I cleared my throat. “Was there something I could help with?”

“Oh, no. We’re going to get some shut eye and come back with fresh eyes,” he leaned his hip against my desk, glancing briefly over the files on my desk. “Long night?”

“Long couple of days actually. Just one murder scene is rough enough on us. But three? Most of the techs that went home today hadn't slept in a couple days.”

“I imagine it would be hard to considering...,” he added.

“Yea,” I glanced at my screen again. “It’s freaky. How do you guys manage?”

“We usually partner up and sleep in shifts,” he sighed. “You shouldn't be here this late, though. Finish it at home.”

“I was probably going to sleep here. Feels safer.”

His head cocked slowly to the side, looking at my expression where I was focused on the screen and not on him, “Did...something happen?” His gaze flickered to the entrance of the lab before looking back at me.

“I just—no—I, uhm,” I stumbled over my words, lying poorly through my teeth.

His gaze was so heavy. Why was it so heavy? Why wouldn’t he look away?

“Come on, I’ll give you a ride.”

I hesitated, but the pinched look on his forehead softened and he let himself smile just the slightest.

Was it stupid considering my thoughts on the killer?

Yes.

Would it be stupid to leave alone?

Also, yes.

Would I hate myself if I fell asleep under my desk?

Most definitely.

I nodded, and picked up the file to look over at home, stuffing my notes underneath all of the official paperwork in the file. I gathered my other belongings and shutdown my computer for the night.

The air outside was crisp and cold. I felt myself looking around wildly at each pitch-black space created by the old street lights and dim glow of the moon. The streets were mostly deserted, the only cars left in the parking lot being the night shift deputies. Even Agent Hotchner’s team was gone.

“Where do they have you holed up?” I asked as I climbed into the SUV.

“Uh, some motel back in East Liverpool.”

I knew the one. There weren’t even many options anyway. One motel there and one bed & breakfast. One hotel across the river (and state lines) and one a half an hour north.

I directed Agent Hotchner where to go, my house being just on the outskirts of East Liverpool. You could say I was a little invested to catch the serial killer based on that fact alone. The leather seats had barely warmed up to my body heat when he spoke again.

“Your talents are wasted here,” he spoke.

If I had a nickel for every time someone complimented my work today...well, I’d have two. And one of those was from a serial killer, so I didn't know if I even wanted the nickel.

“Thank you?”

“Just saying. You’ve caught a lot of details that many small departments miss in cases like this. A lot of them are so eager to see it go away that they don't make conclusions based on the evidence.”

“It’s my job,” I stated simply.

“It is,” he agreed. “But you’re better than your average forensic investigator. Have you ever thought about bigger departments? The Bureau, even? I can pull some strings if you ever wanted to apply.”

“I like helping the communities I grew up in,” I shrugged.

“Shame,” he hummed.

He soon pulled up to my house, following my directions to a T. Agent Hotchner put the car in park but I didn't immediately move to get out. Tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, he looked over at me as I stared out through the windshield.

“I lied earlier,” I finally murmured, glancing at my dark house with only the porch light on.

“About?”

“I think Ghostface called me.”

“What did he say?”

“That he’d ‘see me soon’,” I punctuated with finger quotes and scoffed. “Can you believe that bullshit?” I shook my head, feeling the fear rising like bile.

“He has an obsessive personality. There's been evidence of victims being stalked and called repeatedly. You’ve seen the phone records,” Agent Hotchner shrugged. “So, yea I can believe it.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek and glanced at the house once more. I was being ridiculous.

“Let me walk you up and clear the house,” he nodded his head toward my house.

“It’s fine, that’s not necessary—,” I shook my head and moved to open the door.

“Humor me,” he smirked and shut the car off.

I finally relented and jumped out of the SUV, leading the tall agent to my front door. I hadn’t led a man to my door in ages, but that was beside the point. I unlocked the door and stepped aside, following him into the house and shutting the door behind me. His gun was drawn and his steps made virtually no sound—besides the old wood creaking beneath his weight—as he cleared every inch of my house. Every movement was practiced and deliberate from years of training, each lock, window, and room checked with efficiency.

It was kind of hot.

Which was a big deal for me as I tended to ignore the advances of the cops at the station.

I poured a glass of water as he finished up in my living room, setting the file I brought with me on the counter and my bags on the floor. I heard the back door open, as he presumably checked outside, then closed and locked again.

“You live alone?” his voice was casual, as he came into the kitchen, but the realization of it made me uneasy. “Not even a dog?”

I shrugged.

He stared at me again, a little too long, just like before.

“That’s dangerous.”

I nearly choked on the water I was drinking. Clearly, he thought just about everything I did was dangerous.

The way his voice deepened when his voice lowered in volume and the way he smiled, small and almost imperceptible made my skin tingle. I couldn't tell if it was a bad feeling or a good one and I was just out of practice.

“Well, this area doesn’t normally have trouble like this.”

Silence hung heavy between us as he made no move to announce his exit.

“I’ll stay,” he offered. “You’ll be safe and you can get some rest.”

“That’s not necessary,” I protested weakly.

“Well, I think it is. He’s threatened all of us at least once.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek, finally nodding, “Okay.”

Agent Hotchner nodded, “Be right back.” He opened the front door quickly and jogged outside and I was compelled to watch is back as he opened the back of the SUV to get his go-bag.

I let out a breath as he came back in safe and sound.

He ditched his bag near the door, finding his way back to me in the kitchen and leaning on the counter.

“Hungry?” he asked.

I shook my head, “Not really.”

“Yeah, me either.”

He looked down in thought, then took a step closer. His eyes darted all over my face, looking for any sign that I would push him away. He stepped closer still, hand reaching out and brushing the wrist of my hand that was propped on the counter while the other held my water. If I had been any weaker, the glass would have probably slipped out of my hand. His touch lingered longer than necessary, the tension growing in the room. His half-lidded expression casted the slightest of shadows over his eyes with his eyelashes.

Wow, they were pretty.

As if he expected me to drop the glass, he gently took it from my hand with his free hand. His stature, demeanor, presence...it was all overwhelming—commanding, like he could see right through me. The logical part of me screamed that he had no business standing this close and looking at me like that.

This was exactly what you didn't do in a scary movie.

And yet, when he leaned in, my breath hitched.

“You should trust me,” he murmured.

I didn't have the bandwidth to analyze the choice of words.

‘Should.’

Not ‘can’.

‘You should...?’

‘You can...?’

Against my better judgement, when I felt his mouth on mine, I responded by immediately grabbing his lapels and pulling him closer.

Aaron POV

Aaron didn’t normally do this: sleep with the object of his obsession. He killed them. That was the whole point.

But, they were so scared.

So alone.

So brilliant.

So willing.

From the second he walked into the lab and to their desk, he fantasized about how easy it would have been to drive his knife into their back. Over. And over. And over.

He saw that spark. The one he saw when his victims were fighting that fear, trying to keep from spiraling out of control. And, oh, how he wanted to make them crack.

With how guarded they were, Aaron was surprised they even told him about the call. As they did, though, he had to dig his thumbnail into his finger when they called his carefully crafted praise, ‘bullshit’. He would address that later.

He could see the fear in the way they shifted in his car, staring at the dark, empty house. Oh, it made him so excited. So, he played the action hero: clearing the house and making sure there were no cameras, animals, or lovers to get in his way.

No cameras? Check.

No animals? Check.

They tore into his dress shirt, belt, pants, boxers. Oh, that was warm, oh. His fingers gripped the counter tightly, his head thrown back in pleasure.

No lovers? Check. Double—no—triple check, even.

Aaron wasn’t averse to sex by any means. It was the people, the feelings, the time, and the effort that all made him grimace at it. Luckily, it was easy to ignore with his day job.

Pulling their mouth off his cock—why were they so good at that—he practically dragged them over to the bedroom he located earlier and pushed them not-so-gently onto the bed and stripped whatever garments were left.

It was almost cute how they fumbled in their drawer for a condom. Aaron was actually grateful for the precaution, not wanting to leave more DNA here than he needed to and waited impatiently for them to grab everything they needed.

His patience was short-lived.

He was a busy man, after all.

Clenching his jaw, he took the items and unceremoniously dropped them on the bed. Wrapping a large hand around their ankle, he dragged them back down into a laying position and covered their body with his. As calculated and methodical as Aaron was, he was rushing. He had a limited amount of time to put them to sleep, dig through their shit, drop another body, and get back in their bed before it was time to get back to work. If he was lucky, he might get to enjoy another round in the morning.

Pressing into their warm, welcoming body was a struggle of control. He wanted nothing more than to take and take, but he was Aaron Hotchner right now—a simple, sex deprived, busy, stoic, charming government agent. He had to check in, be attentive, and obviously make them cum, too.

Ugh.

So, he slowed down, mindful of his fingers digging bruises into their body. The last thing he needed was them looking at their arm and realizing the prints were the same size as the prints on the victims. It was a long shot, but Aaron had already fucked up with the boot.

He stared at them amidst the thrusting, no longer looking like a staring idiot since they were otherwise preoccupied. The way they moaned his last name, reaching for him and the weight he provided, the way they gripped his hair...it was all so needy. He hated to love it. He'd much prefer to hear them scream. Actually—he could do that part. But he’d enjoy their screams of terror so much more.

Hotchner

Hotch

Hot--

Oh, there was the scream. And it was pretty damn close.

Their neck was tense and long as they came. It was so inviting. It would be so easy to tear into and make a mess. He didn't even let himself bite down and have a taste of their skin, knowing he’d get too carried away. Kissing them was much safer.

He came shortly after with a series of grunts, sighing against their lips. Pressing one last kiss there, he retreated. Aaron was careful to not make a mess as he tied off the condom, wondering how to get this wrapped up and into his bag without suspicion.

“Water?” he asked and they nodded gratefully.

It was a little brave to bring his bag into their house but a little thrill never hurt. Plus, he was prepared. Digging through his bag, he pulled out some over the counter sleeping pills that he’d crushed ages ago.

It should be relatively tasteless, though, tasting the water...

He grimaced.

The chalky pills might actually be an improvement.

Ensuring they dissolved and his DNA was safely stashed away, he drank an untampered glass of water, washed the cup, and brought the other back to the bedroom with a damp paper towel for any messes they might have made together. When he did, they were staring out their bedroom windows through the cracks in the blinds.

“Are you okay?” he asked, snapping them out of their thoughts.

Aaron handed over the glass, eyes widening as they gulped down the entire thing.

That was easy.

“Yea, just thought I saw...something...outside.”

Aaron fought back a snort. The paranoia was setting in, goodie.

“I can do a sweep outside really quickly?” he offered.

“No, no. I think I’m just tired and imagining things,” they settled deeper into the covers.

Wordlessly, he slipped in behind them, wrapping an arm over their waist and brushing his lips over their shoulder, “Just let me know if you need me to make you more tired,” he hummed, smiling as he pressed himself against their back.

They laughed. An honest to God laugh.

Aaron didn't get those much. It was...weird.

The pills set in quickly, but Aaron gave it a good hour to make sure they were in a deeper sleep. The way the front door had creaked loudly when the two of them came in meant he was definitely using the back door he checked.

First, though, he needed to look through their notes. Untangling himself from the bed carefully, he placed a pillow in his place. He started changing, wanting to be ready to dash if he needed to. Dressed, except for his Ghostface mask and cowl, he flipped open the file. He had watched them throw the notes into the file earlier—where were they?

Tucked behind all of the documentation were handwritten notes. He was a little excited to see what they thought. The first thing there made him freeze.

“Possible law enforcement?

· BAU suggests he understands police procedure.

· No DNA, no prints, no physical evidence in kill area – knows what we look for.

· Different states (if the copycats are frames) but consistent method.

· Aware of local jurisdictions not cooperating but continues with FBI involved? Travels on purpose in car, ‘05 Honda Accord.

‘05 Honda Accord

· Located car on residence footage, plates not visible.

· Tracked to cameras on US-30 E, Pennsylvania State Police combing footage.

Forensic countermeasures

· Footprints – too careless, actual mistake?

· Red hair and stashed evidence – too convenient? No matches

· Why bother misdirecting if no one saw? Panic? Copycats? Framing?”

Finally, Aaron got to the last part of their notes in all caps, circled and underlined.

“Is he inserting himself into investigation??”

Aaron had to resist the urge to crumple the notes and throw the file across the room.

Fucking.

Nosy.

Ass.

Shit.

He had warned them and one chance was all he afforded people; his next phase was set in motion. But first? He had some anger to let out. Shoving the notes back in the folder, he grabbed his mask and cowl and headed to the back door, silently opening it and stepping outside. He fitted the cowl over first, keeping the cold away from his body, then fixed the mask over his balaclava.

Committing the murders when the team was in town was trickier. One, he didn't have his car and would have to hoof it. Two, it was much harder to hide his clothes and make sure no blood was on him when he went back to work in the morning. It was a challenge, but he liked that.

Luckily, he’d done some recon while they were in town and the trek to his next victim wasn't going to be as rough as he expected. His sleeping little mouse’s house wasn’t a far hike from the next victim.

Aaron was extra careful around the mud this time around. He really needed to rethink how narrow the eye slits were in this mask.

His next victim lived alone, spending his evenings getting shit on in first person shooter video game lobbies. Aaron had briefly watched from the window, wondering how any of that could be appealing when the real thing was so much more fun. Slipping his lock pick set from his pant pocket, he made quick work of the backdoor and slipped side. The light in the office where the resident was playing video games had been on as he was casing around the house, so Aaron was safe for now in the opposite corner of the house.

Aaron’s steps were silent as he swooped around the house, figuring out where to begin his hunt.

Screw it.

He leaned against the counter, feeling over confident in his post-coital haze. He pulled out a burner and dialed the man’s number, which he acquired earlier in the day during interviews.

Aaron could barely hear the phone ring over the man’s shouting at the game. He sighed as the call rang out and called again.

“What the fuck!?” Aaron heard from the room, followed by a clatter.

The bastard threw the fucking phone.

Aaron’s head hung in discontent.

Unbelievable.

No one answered their phones these days.

He was still too pissed at the notes he read to be patient and try something else. This one was going to be bloody.

Making his way over to the room, he leaned against the threshold, arms folded as the man was hyper focused on the screen. He hadn’t seen a webcam through the window, so nothing would be live streamed—he wasn’t a monster. With the shouting clearer now, he was talking to someone, though, Aaron couldn’t be sure how many people as he squinted through the mask at the screen.

At least the headphones had a visible microphone and were hardwired to the computer. That made his job a little easier.

Not bothering to take out his knife yet, Aaron stalked toward his victim, standing behind them and watching the screen flash. Did this guy have zero self-awareness?

Reaching forward and grabbing low on the wire, Aaron gave it a hard pull. The wire gave way, whether it ripped out of the ports or broke the wires itself didn’t matter to Aaron. The chair spun; his victim startled with hands ready to fly.

The fight left his body immediately. Flight wasn’t even an option as the man stared at the menacing figure in front of him. No, freeze took hold.

“It’s rude not to answer someone’s phone call,” Aaron sneered through the modulator in his mask.

He grabbed the man by the throat, pushing him back on the chair so roughly that both man and chair flipped back onto the floor. That seemed to knock some evolution into the man and—surprise, surprise—flight kicked in.

The whimpering man scrambled to get up to his feet while Aaron watched the pathetic attempt but the arms of the chair slowed his escape down.

Sighing, Aaron stepped forward, pressing the front half of his boot onto the man's trachea and kneeling down to the ground.

“You’re not making this fun for me.”

He only received gurgling in response.

“Does it help if I show you this?” Aaron unsheathed the knife strapped to his chest under the cowl that draped across his body.

The man’s movements became more frantic form both the pressure on his throat and the sight of the sharp knife.

“Then get to running,” he growled, taking his boot off the man’s neck and watching him scramble to his feet.

The man was halfway to standing, ready to take off into a run with his weight poised on his front leg. Aaron might like the hunt but it wasn’t supposed to be fair. He kicked in the side of the man’s knee, hearing a sickening crack and pop followed by screaming.

“Fuck you! You sick fuck!” he screamed.

“Aww,” Aaron cooed. “You’re making me blush.”

The man hobbled out of the room, propping himself up on the hallway walls as Aaron strolled after him. He made a beeline for the front door, making Aaron chuckle through the modulator. Aaron hopped over the sofa that the man had to hobble around, making it to the door first and stalking toward him head on.

“Wrong way, peanut. It’s like you’re not even trying.”

Aaron was enjoying the moment of hopelessness on his face. Doing his best to turn and run, the man made a very slow break for the back door.

Aaron checked his watch.

He hummed sadly, not having enough time to play anymore. He grabbed the collar of the man’s shirt, shoving him roughly to the floor.

“Sorry I can’t play longer,” Aaron sighed sadly, stepping over and straddling the man’s ribcage as he groaned on the floor.

To prevent the man from grabbing Aaron's weapons, he slid up to his upper chest, stapling the man’s biceps to the floor with his knees. Between the pathetic sobbing, screaming, and effort, the man was struggling to breathe even more now.

Aaron trailed the tip of his knife down the man’s forehead, to his nose.

“I want you to pick a number between one and...twenty.”

“W-wh-y?” came a strangled sob.

“Because I fucking ask you to,” he snapped. “Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

That little sliver of hope glimmered in his eyes for a second, quieting his sobs briefly.

“Uh-uhm.”

“I don’t have all night,” he pressed the tip harder into the sensitive flesh of his nose.

“Twelve! Twelve…please,” the man wailed again. “Please don’t kill me.”

“Wow,” Aaron breathed. He pinched the man’s cheek with a gloved hand, “You’re so brave. You won twelve stab wounds…are you ready?”

“N-no-no—" his screams filled the living room as the knife slid into the muscle of the man’s shoulder.

“Count with me,” Aaron requested. “One, two, three, four, five, six—look, we’re half way done—seven, eight—no, no, no nine not ten—mhm good boy, now ten, eleven…”

The blood was pooling rapidly and as excited as it made him, Aaron took precautions to be covered in as little of it as possible. He had his knee and shin across the man’s stomach with his other leg planted out far for stability, just beyond the edge of the pooled blood.

Aaron pressed the tip of the knife where he knew the man’s heart to be underneath the shirt. Slowly but surely, Aaron put pressure down, “Twelve.”

The life finally faded from the man’s eyes. Aaron stayed there, staring at the widening pool of blood. He was still angry. If he bothered to profile himself right now it would be the irritability and anger that made him play with his food a little more than usual. He felt the need to take control again after feeling derailed by those notes—how, when did they find so much and would they even be able to scrounge up evidence for some of those claims? Either way, making the hunt more fun reinforced his need to dominate every situation blah, blah, BLAH.

Aaron continued staring.

The blood was inviting.

He wasn’t stupid enough to write with it, though he’d love to write that cute little investigator a letter in blood. Describe how good they felt on his cock. He was right about them being enthusiastic after all, he laughed to himself.

It was tempting but no.

He grunted as he heaved himself up, careful to not step in blood. As far as blood went—he looked down at himself—he didn’t do too badly.

Pleased with himself, he gingerly exited the house, careful of what blood he did have on him and stripped the outer layers off, mainly his heavy cowl, mask, and gloves which he doubled up with rubber gloves underneath. He stuffed them into a clean plastic bag he’d brought with him and took off into the dark.

Entering his little mouse's surprisingly quiet back door, he carefully stripped the rest of his clothing, leaving the door unlocked. It was all intentional, aiming to imply Ghostface broke in—because he did. Once his balaclava came off, he could breathe clearly again.

He’d memorized some of the squeaky floorboards on his clearing of the house and used that knowledge to make his way over to his bag and stashed his gear. Peeking in to make sure they were still asleep, Aaron checked himself in the bathroom for any blood and was happy to find none.

The body odor?

Well, a little hand soap would have to do.

Coming back out of the bathroom, he spotted their gun on the nightstand.

Naughty little mouse.

He grabbed a couple tissues and picked it up, ejecting the magazine, clearing the chamber, and unloading all of the bullets. He snapped the magazine back in with a sharp click and placed it back. They weren’t a cop; they didn't carry the gun out with them but he didn't need any surprises the next time he paid them a little visit.

Aaron gingerly climbed back into bed, feeling the steady rise and fall of the breathing next to him.

MC POV

The morning light filtered through the blinds in thin, slanted lines, cutting across the disheveled sheets. My body ached—not entirely unpleasantly—but there was a strange heaviness to my movements and an unease that gnawed at the edges of my mind and woke me up.

I didn’t actually want to open my eyes. Not because of what might lie beyond my eyelids, but because they felt so damn heavy. My head and arms did, too.

For a few moments, I let myself exist in that haze, the warmth of another body beside me was unfamiliar but not unwelcome. Then, reality began to settle in. It wasn’t just a body.

SSA Aaron Hotchner was in my bed.

I slept with the lead agent working this case. With a literal serial killer on the loose. Was I stupid?

For the millionth time, this was how people died in scary movies.

Finally opening my eyes, I was startled at how close his face was. His breathing was slow and even, his bare chest rising and falling rhythmically. In the dim light, he looked almost peaceful—normal, even—from the robotic stoicism he held in the field. But something in my gut screamed that something was wrong.

I shifted to sit up, nearly jumping out of my skin when his eyes shot open. He stared at me, almost as equally confused as I had been from the looks of it.

Fragments of last night flickered in my mind: the ride home, the way he insisted on checking the house, the way his gaze lingered too long. The way his touch had burned—slow and deliberate.

“You’re up early,” he commented, looking at the clock over my shoulder.

It was barely 6:00 AM.

“Yea, I don’t know. I just felt weird,” I furrowed my brows. “I just feel so heavy.”

He stared at me for a beat before his features grew mirthful, “Last night took a lot out of you?”

My face heated up, “Shut up.”

I turned over, facing away from him. He hummed behind me, shuffling closer. His hand drew a wide path over my hip, rising higher until he could pinch my nipple. My hips involuntarily pressed back against him.

He laughed softly, pressing his nose against my ear, “We have some time to kill.”

I ignored the poor choice of words and chewed my lip, finally nodding, “Yea, okay.”

“Stay there,” he rolled away to find the drawer I’d rifled in the night before.

I shivered as the cool air made its way under the blankets, but I didn’t have to wait long before his warm skin was pressed up against me again.

The slicked-up condom was as cold as the air above the covers, making me jump as he prodded around.

Stars, he hit the lottery when they were handing out dicks.

My mouth dropped open as he fully seated himself, the fullness forcing out a gasp from my throat. He controlled the pace with a firm grasp on my hip and used his other arm to wind under my head, grasp my jaw and force my face to look at him. My mouth was all too willing to open for him and the way his hand engulfed my jaw made my brain buzz with excitement. He was just so large.

The hand on my hip slipped low, working its way between my legs until it landed on my heated, sensitive flesh. I could feel his mouth spread into a satisfied smile as I practically moaned into his mouth. He moved his hand in time with his hips, stroking faster until I was shaking in his arms.

“Sh-fuck,” I felt the pleasure building.

I was so close.

“Ho-otch-chn…” I moaned.

“Aaron,” he corrected.

“Aaron, please.”

That seemed to shift another gear for him, his movements rougher, his teeth scraping my skin.

“That’s it,” he grunted. “Come on my cock. Need to feel you.”

Holy hell, the mouth on this man when he wasn’t buttoned up tight.

And just like that, my orgasm hit me hard. My loud moans breaking the silence of the early morning. His hand didn’t let up, making me grasp at his forearm to get him to stop as overstimulation set in.

He didn’t stop.

His teeth scraped my neck this time and I wondered if he’d finally do it—sink his teeth into my neck as he came. I could feel him holding it back, not wanting to ask and not wanting to just spring it on me. He didn’t, and I was only mildly disappointed. He buried his face into my neck, moaning loudly as he finally came.

We lay there, not moving except for our heavy breathing making our chests expand rapidly. Aaron’s tongue laved over my sweaty skin, pressing a kiss, and then another.

Do it.

With one more kiss there, he pulled away with a soft groan.

“Mind if I use your shower?” he asked, groaning as he stretched.

“Go ahead, I’ll get some coffee started.”

Aaron smiled gratefully and went to grab his bag, bringing it into the bathroom with him and closing the door.

I pushed myself up to sit upright on my bed—which was a total mess that I wasn't looking forward to cleaning. My limbs still felt heavy and yeah, maybe he was right and I was just out of practice. I stood and stretched, pulling on underwear and a t-shirt from the floor while I waited for my turn.

I padded over to the kitchen, my feet softly scraping the old wood. I doubled my usual coffee routine and looked out into the living room from the kitchen as I leaned back against the counter. My eyes drifted over the counters, seeing the glass he washed last night—very considerate—before landing on the file I brought with me. Some of the pages were sticking out. I didn’t think I threw it there so casually that papers fell out—well I did end up in bed with a federal agent so anything was game at this point.

It was my notes that made me freeze when I opened the folder. I distinctly remember putting them in the back before leaving the station with Aaron. The paper was haphazardly shoved back in, crinkled deeply in some parts where it looked like someone was holding it tightly.

What the fuck?

I hadn't realized how long I stood there looking at it when Aaron emerged from my bedroom in a black polo and dark jeans. It was a far cry from the suit he showed up in but I’m sure suits weren't exactly space savers. I wasn't complaining either, the way the sleeves clung to his biceps and contrasted with his pale skin made my mind race. His hair was still damp, flopping innocently onto his forehead.

“What?” he stared at me with a half-smile.

Ripping my eyes off the way the polo stretched across his chest, I shook my head, “Uh, did you go through the file last night?”

“No, why?”

“Because I know where I put these when we left the station,” I gestured to the notes. “And now they’re in a different spot.”

His smile was gone, replaced by a pinched expression. His eyes darted around the room, hand automatically flying to his hip. Silently holding out a hand to me to tell me to stay put, he made his way to the living room taking overly cautious steps. It was unlikely that Ghostface would be out in broad daylight but everyone was on edge already.

“I locked this before...well, you know,” he was stopped at the back door, both locks undone.

My heart dropped into my stomach.

Ghostface been in my house.

I was frozen. I hadn’t heard a thing. How could I be so stupid?

“I-uh,” I wrung my fingers together, suddenly terrified. “I’m gonna get ready, coffee’s almost ready.”

The shock settling in was distracting. Ghostface knew my suspicions now and if they were anywhere near true, I was in deep, deep shit.

I made my shower quick and was putting on my shoes when our phones rang at the same time.

Damn. That can’t be good.

“Hotchner. Okay, be there in a bit.”

My conversation went mostly the same. The coffee was packed in to-go cups and only upon stepping through my front door did I realize I didn't have my car or my spare kit.

“Oh, fuck me,” I groaned.

Aaron made a noise of amusement from his throat.

“Not a word,” I grumbled. “My car with my spare kit is at the station. Those fucking oafs are going to ruin my crime scene.”

“It’s okay, we have lights,” Aaron grinned as we got in the SUV and flipped the lights and sirens on, letting us speed up the road to retrieve my kit, then back down into the residential area for the crime scene.

We arrived at the same time as the rest of the BAU. I had a one-track mind to catch this fucker and ditched Aaron, grabbing my kit and racing to the house. Detective Miller was already inside, along with a few other officers which made my eye twitch.

“Can you get them out?” I asked her, gesturing to the cops who were standing around. “Who found him?”

“His online friends called the station, I guess he was playing some video game with them and his microphone got disconnected. He wasn't answering his phone and he never logged off the game. I guess he’d told them there was a serial killer so they were worried. Rightfully so, too. ELPD did a welfare check and saw him through the window. Back door was unlocked so, looks like he came in through there.”

Marking what I immediately saw, I squinted at the body. I snapped pictures of the deep stab wounds, the way his knee was caved in at the wrong angle, and zooming in on his neck.

“Look at this,” I tilted his head up. “He was stepping on his neck. That’s not just playing with his food. He’s mad.”

Fuck. I had to tell her.

“I think I know why, too,” I continued.

Detective Miller looked at me quizzically.

“My back door was unlocked, too. We—I had locked everything before I went to bed.”

“We?”

“I.”

She looked at me pointedly, “We?” Her body leaned to look around me at where the BAU was talking outside, “Which one was it? The old one? I know you prefer salt over pepper.”

“Oh, fuck off, Miller.”

She laughed, making eye contact with Aaron by chance as he glanced inside through the open front door.

“No...” she gasped. “The Neo looking, mother fucker? Come on. He’s weird.”

“He’s not weird. The kid is weird.”

“No, he’s cute.”

I stared at her, gesturing to the body on the floor to remind her of why we were here.

“Did he at least have a big—”

“Yes.”

“You do know this means your place is a crime scene now,” she scribbled notes on her notepad.

“There was nothing of use, I looked. He went through my notes and left. I’ll document it.”

“Deal,” she sighed. “Struggle started over here,” she cocked her head toward the hallway.

Walking into the small office, I got an overview of the scene, moving to the desk first. The computer was still on, the game having disconnected from the servers for inactivity. The entire computer tower was skewed from the headphones being ripped out so violently, that one of the wires had ripped off of the jack. Pictures of the computer and chair were snapped, then Miller directed me to the phone across the room.

“Dent in the wall here and the phone over here,” she commented.

Once I took the pictures, I clicked open the phone. It was locked but I could see the recent notifications. Several Discord notifications from the guy’s gaming friends and two missed calls from an Unknown Number.

“Maybe he tried to call 911 and Ghostface chucked the phone?” Miller suggested.

“One sec,” I grabbed the phone and unlocked it with the body on the floor of the living room. “Sorry, buddy.”

The phone immediately opened to Discord, not the phone keypad. I scrolled through the recent calls and only saw the two missed calls from the unknown number, nothing outgoing or incoming after that. Making my way back to Detective Miller, I sighed.

“But, we know he calls his victims to taunt them. What if the guy didn’t answer and it made him mad? That coupled with the notes? Guy is sitting here, playing. The phone keeps going off and he throws it because, I don’t know he's frustrated with the game?”

“It’s a theory. Got everything? I’ll call them inside.”

“Yea, let me check the back really quick.”

I went out through the back door, photographing scratches where the lock was picked and looking around for anything out of place. Anymore boot prints, blood, anything. Looking out into the lawn I saw one of the ELPD officers reaching for a plastic bag.

“Stop! Stop, stop, stop!” I shouted but he had already grabbed it and stood.

I heard a commotion behind me, several footsteps hurriedly rushing out the back door.

The officer looked at me cluelessly, “What?”

“Are you being serious right now? You’re not wearing gloves!”

“Just trash, I mean...” he shrugged, thrusting the bag toward me.

I need a vacation.

“It’s an active crime scene, Christ.” I pulled an evidence bag out, shoving the plastic bag inside and grumbling to myself.

“Everything okay?” Aaron and a few of the agents had rushed out of the house with guns drawn.

“Sorry,” I sealed the evidence bag, writing on the outside. “Going to have to eliminate his prints now,” I commented, annoyed.

“You found that here?” he questioned.

“He did, yea. Then, grabbed it without gloves,” I shook my head. “Might take you up on that FBI offer.”

I heard him laugh softly next to me.

“Want me to—” Aaron offered his hand to hold the bag as I couched down.

“I got it,” I cut him off clutching the evidence bag like a lifeline, I photographed the area around where I saw the officer pick it up but nothing stood out.

“I want to hear your thoughts on this come on,” he indicated his head back inside.

“So, I know he likes to taunt people, but I thought the phone was strange,” I said as they followed me to the office, stepping carefully around the mess. “He called the guy twice, neither call was answered, and the phone ends up thrown over here.”

“So, maybe he was trying to call the cops when he saw him?” the blonde one, JJ, I think answered.

“Maybe, but he had headphones on and was playing this video game. I find it hard to believe he heard much of anything. He was playing with other people, who said he just cut off—and look, the cords were yanked out of the computer. I don’t think he had time to call.”

“So, the unsub gets mad that he's not answering, then,” the older agent, Rossi, chimes in.

“Video games, particularly first-person shooters like this one, have been shown to increase aggression, especially when players experience frustration or failure. Studies suggest that competitive gaming can elevate cortisol and adrenaline levels, leading to heightened emotional responses. If the victim was fully immersed in the game, already experiencing stress, and then received repeated phone calls, it’s plausible that he reacted impulsively—throwing the phone out of frustration rather than fear.”

I blinked at the information that fell out of Dr. Reid’s mouth but eventually nodded, agreeing wholeheartedly.

"And that would explain why he didn’t bother to check who was calling. He wasn’t worried about being watched—he was just annoyed,” Emily agreed.

“Which pissed off the killer,” Morgan ran a thumb along his facial hair.

The only one who hadn’t spoken at this point was Aaron.

“It’s possible. Repeated interruptions, especially in the middle of a game, could have made him dismissive of the calls instead of suspicious. The unsub might have expected a different reaction—fear or immediate compliance—but instead, they were ignored. That could have triggered an escalation,” Reid continued.

“Which lines up with the scene. The killer physically yanked the cords out—cut him off from the game entirely. If he was already feeling slighted by being ignored it could have been a way to force the victim’s attention back on him,” I turned around, pointing back to the living room. “I have more for you.”

I led them out of the office and to the body.

“This guy was mad, like he was being mean...” I started, stopping and cringing at myself. “...okay murder is mean but he was meaner than the other three.” I crouched, mindful of the blood, “This here looks ante-mortem, he was stepping on the victim’s throat for an extended period causing this bruising. And then this bruising here is also ante-mortem,” I pushed up the sleeves of the victim’s t-shirt. “I was going to say he held the victim’s arms down with his hands but he has one on each arm and it's not tactically sound to have both hands occupied. I’m thinking he was kneeling on the guy's arms and he was sitting on his chest. I don’t know if the twelve stab wounds has any significance to you guys but each murder had a different count, so I don’t have anything there. But, his knee is shredded, look at the angle. No wonder he didn't get very far.”

“Didn’t we interview him yesterday?” JJ tilted her head to get a better look at his face.

“Mm,” Detective Miller located his wallet, “Tommy Crites?”

“We did,” Prentiss nodded. “Maybe he knew something?”

“Why do you say he was being “mean”?” Rossi asked curiously.

“Well, ripping the cords out and making the guy pay attention was easy, right? He could have killed him there in the chair. The guy has to get out of the chair or off the floor and the killer is just standing there watching him struggle? He was taunting him, playing with him.”

“He wanted to be in control,” Aaron finally spoke up.

“Yea. So, he takes back control,” I paused taking a breath. “And I think it was because he saw some of my notes. I think he broke into my house last night and didn't like what he saw.”

“What did you write?” Rossi asked.

I paused, surrounded by the very people I was accusing.

“That he might be law enforcement and inserting himself into the investigation.”

The BAU looked at each other grimly.

“So, he sees your notes, gets pissed off that you’re getting too close, and comes here to blow off steam,” Morgan murmured.

“We’ve all been threatened by him, welcome to the club,” Reid smiled sadly.

We leave the body to the county coroner and begin to leave, immediately met with several media vans outside. The reporters are being held back by a few deputies but could easily overwhelm them if given the chance.

“Who called the media?” I looked over at Detective Miller.

“Don’t look at me,” she glared, looking pissed at their presence.

Questions were immediately bombarding us as we tried to leave:

“Is the BAU any closer to identifying the suspect?”

“Is it true that the killer has been targeting people at random, or is there a pattern to the victims?”

“Some sources claim the killer has made direct contact with law enforcement. Are you in communication with him?”

"Do you believe he’s local to the area? Could he be someone within the police force?”

I almost stopped walking at that. Aaron shifted next to me, looking for who asked that question, his expression cold and unreadable.

“We can’t comment on that,” he answered.

“Then, should we be looking for a 6-foot, red-haired male, 180 pounds, with size 11 feet?”

Everything stopped there.

The words slammed into me like a physical blow. That information hadn’t been released to the public. I hadn't even mentioned the height that the BAU’s analyst had managed to figure out from the video footage in the notes.

My stomach twisted as I finally located the reporter in the crowd and snapped toward him, my voice sharp, “Who told you that?”

The reporter just laughed, shrugging. “Can’t reveal sources, you know how it is.”

Before I could stop myself, my hand shot out, grabbing the front of the reporter’s shirt and yanking him closer.

I was furious and practically shaking, “Who. Told. You?”

The cameras flashed more frequently at the scene. The reporter looked startled, but also amused.

“Touchy, aren’t we?”

A firm hand clamped down on my shoulder. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that it was Aaron’s hand.

“Let him go.”

For a beat, I didn’t move and my grip tightened. Then, I realized how bad it had to look and shoved the reporter back, storming off toward the SUV.

From then, the station was a madhouse.

The tip lines were ringing off the charts. The town had gone feral in a matter of hours after learning about the description.

Someone—an anonymous “inside source”—had leaked that the partial evidence suggested a red-haired suspect, male, with an approximate height and shoe size matching a partial tread found at the scene.

The result was pure, unfiltered chaos.

Every red-haired man within a thirty-mile radius was getting side-eyed. People were calling in tips over neighbors they’d known for years. People called to tell on their male friends who recently changed hair colors from red to something else. The worst one was a young man who worked at a family-owned auto shop in East Liverpool getting the shit beaten out of him by some overzealous vigilantes because his hair was lightened by chlorine and the sun from his time on the high school swim team.

The kicker was that it was all bullshit.

I knew it and the FBI knew it, but there was nothing we could do to calm the panic. The shoe print had been a lucky find, but something about the way the case was unfolding reeked of misdirection and I couldn’t help but think that the killer released the information, further supporting my theory that he was working on the inside. The evidence was just too convenient—just enough to keep people focused on the wrong thing.

The plastic bag at the scene was a dead end, too, forensically. The only prints we managed to pull were the cop’s and he was far too stupid to be our killer. The killer must have had several bags and dropped one in his haste to protect the evidence from us.

I was hesitant to start picking out who it could be. One, it could piss Ghostface off even more. Two, accusing the wrong law enforcement officer is a surefire way for me to get fired. Three, based on just this case alone, I was absolutely certain it was the real killer and not some knock off. Which, four, meant that he wouldn’t be from here with all the traveling he did and the fact that neither the East Liverpool Police Department nor Columbiana County Sheriff’s Department had any recent transfers. He couldn’t insert himself through local channels—so that only left federal.

And ‘federal’ was a scary word. Connections were everything and I had zero, except maybe Aaron but he could very well be on the suspect list, too.

My own weakness for dick was apparently shooting me in the foot.

If I had to make a list, Prentiss and JJ were not on it. Not because they were women—I'm an equal opportunity accuser—but because of the height and weight. Rossi was on the shorter, older, and therefore potentially weaker end, still possible but not in my top three. No, my top three would be Morgan, Reid, and, unfortunately, Aaron. All three fit the height requirements though Reid was maybe on the lighter side of the three. All three men were also highly intelligent with in depth knowledge of law enforcement tactics and forensics.

All that to say: I really should not have slept with Aaron.

I was pulled out of my thoughts when Sheriff Tanner barged in to the lab, which was a rare occurrence when he had several detectives to do that for him.

“I need all the reports you have on the evidence from these Ghostface murders,” he barked, ‘Ghostface’ leaving his lips with a scowl.

“Yes, sir, but the hair—”

“I asked you for the reports, not your opinion.”

“But, Sheriff, it’s not--"

“ELPD has ten thousand frightened citizens blowing up their god damn phones and ours. I’m done with Miller entertaining your conspiracies. If you still want a job after all of this, shut up and give me the reports.”

I begrudgingly handed him the reports, following him as he stormed back out into the main bullpen. The BAU was lined up in front of the press just finishing up their interview, trying to ease the public about what had been fed to them.

The Sheriff was on his way to tell them to go to hell and follow the evidence.

I stormed into the media briefing behind the Sheriff, cutting through the sea of reporters. The consequences of my actions were the least of my worries when compared to a serial killer.

“Sheriff, this entire investigation is a cover-up!”

The bullpen went dead silent, the only sounds being the rapid clicking of cameras. Video cameras snapped toward me, away from the federal agents they had been focused on.

Aaron, stood among the BAU and other law enforcement officials. He barely twitched at my exclamation but his eyes locked onto me with an unreadable expression.

I was already putting my foot in my mouth, so I kept going.

“You’re looking for the wrong person. The real killer is someone in law enforcement, and you all are wasting time hunting some imaginary suspect instead of looking deeper!”

At that, the reporters started whispering, murmuring. Sheriff Tanner’s face turned an ugly shade of red.

Aaron, though, Aaron didn’t look angry.

He looked amused.

Like he was enjoying this.

Aaron POV

Oh, his brilliant, little mouse. His brilliant, stupid, little mouse.

It wasn’t enough that they read his beautiful kills like a book, dissecting every piece and fucking up every ounce of his enjoyment. Then, they had to go and do it in public when he had specifically told them not to.

He was lucky that the plastic bag didn’t have any forensics on it. That was mistake number two of East Liverpool, Ohio and he wondered if he wasn’t as sharp as he used to be or if his infatuation with this smart, insignificant, funny, irritating, fool was messing up his game.

They were gone by the time the team had decided to call it a night—Sheriff Tanner having told them to pack their shit and get out—which worked out in his favor. Aaron snuck out of his motel room late that night, when he was sure the rest of the team was asleep. He’d slipped Rossi some of the same sleeping pills, ensuring he’d be asleep for the rest of the night. Not like he needed to worry about Ghostface trying to kill him, Aaron laughed to himself.

Aaron stepped out into the dark, melting into the shadows of the barely lit town. It would have taken him close to an hour to walk to their house, which he cut down to about twenty-five minutes by running the couple of miles. He took off his cowl to be a little more aerodynamic so he wasn't weighed down by the wind resistance, and shoved it in his backpack. The backpack he carried made the feat a little more challenging, but it was all for a good cause.

His cause.

As he approached, he slowed down, blending into the bushes that separated the investigator’s house from the one next to it. He pulled out his burner, seeing them through the blinds just enough to see that they were distraught. Their knees were pulled up to their chest, head heavy in their hands. Smiling to himself, he found their number, double checked his modulator, and made the call.

At first, he was sure they wouldn't answer. But then they lifted their head up a little, peering down next to them on the bed.

Stupid blinds, he cursed to himself.

“You really don’t know when to quit, do you?” Aaron asked with a disappointed edge to his voice. “That was a cute stunt.”

“Not when some asshole is threatening my town, no, I really don’t.”

“I thought I told you to keep your mouth shut.”

“Doesn’t mean I had to listen. Why don’t you come shut it yourself?” they responded, irritated and coarse.

Oh, his mouse. His brave, little mouse.

“Answer me this,” they spoke again. “Why haven’t you killed the feds following you? Surely, they pose a bigger threat?”

“I’m not bulletproof, baby. And I’m not stupid enough to poke a hornet’s nest.”

“Hmm,” they hummed over the phone. “See you soon?”

“See you soon,” he practically giggled.

He watched the bedroom light flick off.

His mouse wanted to play?

Oh, he would play.

Aaron hugged as close to the house as possible, already at a disadvantage since the outside was now illuminated by the moon while the inside of the house was pitch black. Was it too obvious to use the back door again? Yes, but he would have a more silent entrance that way.

Unlocking the door with his lock pick set, he let the door swing open, waiting—listening—before making his first step over the threshold. He dropped the backpack near the back door to be more mobile.

Where, oh, where could they be?

They wouldn't hide or cower, no, his mouse was pissed, so Aaron needed to be ready for a fight. He tip-toed gently around the house, mostly remembering where the creaks were except for a couple. With his hand gripping the handle of his knife—where it sat strapped to his chest—he started passing the kitchen, free arm reaching out to push open the bedroom door.

Before he could step toward the bedroom, two arms wrapped around his leg from behind, emanating from the kitchen floor.

Like an actual little mouse, oh, sweetheart.

One arm wrapped around the outside of his ankle, the other wrapping through his legs and on his quad. Feeling a strong push on the back of his hamstring and a yank on his ankle, he was soon careening down to the ground face first. Aaron had to let go of the knife handle to brace his fall with both hands, stuck in a sprinter’s stance. They still kept a hold of his leg, trying to drive him onto his hip, but his foot was able to twist free. It took him two tries to yank his foot back to him enough to donkey kick back, landing directly into their chest if the resulting wheeze was anything to go by.

“Not bad,” Aaron consolidated his limbs, standing back up and trying to anticipate their next move in the dark.

A punch barely grazed the edge of his mask. Reaching out, he grabbed the forearm of that arm, pushing it away from him so they were turned around—back against his chest. From there, it was easy to entrap both of their arms with his and lift them, dragging them to the bedroom.

“Oopsie,” he laughed in their ear. He flicked the light on with his elbow, glancing around and spotting their cellphone set up suspiciously. “Sweetheart—tsk—filming me? Really? I didn’t consent to that...”

“Fuck you,” they spat back.

Aaron laughed, the modulator making it all the more terrifying. Been there, done that.

Throwing them on the bed, he straddled their hips and reached over on the nightstand for their phone.

Pause.

Delete.

To add insult to injury, he snapped the phone in half and tossed it across the room.

“You won't be needing that.”

He was so preoccupied with the phone that he missed their hand travelling under their pillow until a pistol was pointed in his face.

“Oh,” he taunted. “And what are you going to do with that?”

“You said it yourself. You’re not bulletproof.”

“You’re right,” he wiggled, making himself comfortable in their lap. “Come on, then,” he urged, pressing the forehead of the mask against the end of the gun. “You feel that power? It feels good, doesn't it?”

Their hands shook from the adrenaline and fear.

“Are you like me?” he grinned under the mask. “Are you going to get off after you pull that trigger?”

They readjusted their grip on the gun, their sweaty hands making it slippery.

“Do it, Mouse,” he pressed harder. “Do it, don’t be a little bit—”

Squeeze.

Click.

The shock on their face was priceless.

“Performance anxiety is super common, baby, don't worry,” Aaron teased, prying the empty gun from their hands and tossing it to the floor. “You should always check your chamber before starting a fight.”

To avoid any more surprises, Aaron turned them on their side and zip tied their hands behind their back, laying them back down on top of their hands. He enjoyed the way they struggled as he shimmied his way up their chest.

“Just kill me, you coward,” they spat, still struggling. “Hiding behind a mask,” they scoffed.

He leaned down, keeping his weight balanced by framing their head with his hands on each side as he brought the mask to their cheek, “Oh, I’m not here to kill you. You’re far too smart, I need you.”

“I’m not helping you.”

“Frankly, I don’t need your permission for that.”

He gripped a fistful of their t-shirt, hooking his fingers into the collar and pulling the fabric across the centerline of their neck so it pulled taught against their carotid artery. With his free hand, he made a fist and pressed it slowly into the other artery. He kept his face close, hovering just above theirs as they worked to loosen their hands to no avail.

There was silence between them, just the sound of struggling.

“Which one of you is it, huh?” they laughed, smiling through it all. Their consciousness was struggling to hold on as the blood was slowly cut off from their brain. “Is that you, Aaron? Gained my trust by being a knight in shining armor and fucking me?”

Aaron just stared, clenching his jaw tightly.

He hated them.

“Or sweet little Dr. Reid? Pretending to fumble and mess up the crime scene?”

He cocked his head to the side, pressing harder with his fist.

He loved their brain.

“Or Morgan? So, charming, strong, and witty.”

He was stronger. He was better. He was smarter.

He could see them fading away. It was relaxing, watching them fight it. If the shirt had been any thicker, they would likely be asleep already but he had to hold this one a little longer.

Aaron got sloppy, leaning too far into them to see their teeth scrape the edge of the mask and bite down. He felt a tug and yanked back, the mask staying and his head exposed. This was why he wore the balaclava. But it didn't matter.

Recognition gleamed in their eyes as they met his rich, honey, brown eyes, darkened from the shadow he was casting over them.

They opened their mouth to say something but it was too late. Their eyes shut and their body went limp.

MC POV

My eyes blinked open slowly, the blinds drawn tight in my room. My head and body felt heavy and I wondered how long I’d been out. Waking up after being choked was usually fairly quick, unless it's so long that brain damage or death happens. But, I was very alive.

Aaron.

Fucking. Aaron.

Then, I remembered how I felt after waking up the other morning after we slept together. I felt just like this.

Had he drugged me?

Feeling around for my phone, I realized it had been destroyed last night but my alarm clock blinked at me.

10:42 AM.

Brief panic set in before I realized I didn't have anywhere to go. No words needed to be said as Sheriff Tanner basically fired me yesterday—’pack your shit’ was explicit enough.

I needed to go, I needed to explain to the Sheriff—to Miller—about yesterday. Trying to sit up was a feat as my body protested. My chest and neck throbbed and I was sure I had a fist sized bruise on one side of my neck. I had to catch myself several times as I looked for clothes, barely managing to get pants on when my front door was kicked open with such force that pieces of the threshold went flying.

Fight? Flight? Freeze? I couldn't do any of it. The room was still spinning, making me feel nauseous as I finally successfully buttoned my pants after attempting for the fourth time. When I was able to focus on the commotion around me, I couldn’t process much of the screamed orders at me, but I focused in on several guns pointed my way.

Morgan. Prentiss. Aaron.

They were all in the front, sights trained on me with unwavering focus.

My eyes locked onto Aaron’s.

“Oh, this is rich,” I laughed, not able to do much besides stumble and barely catch myself.

Aaron holstered his gun, giving the everyone a command to search the house as he pressed me up against a wall and cuffed me.

“Ow, that hurts,” I winced uncomfortably.

“You think Tommy Crites thought that when you stabbed him twelve times? What about Carolyn Turner when you stabbed her six times—” he snarled.

Bastard.

“Oh, what a load of shit,” I spat. “I’m the wrong shoe size—the wrong, everything!”

“But you’re just the person to be able to fabricate that,” he chuckled.

“I can't fabricate video footage, asshat.”

I could hear the police and agents tearing apart my house like rabid animals. Papers were falling to the floor; evidence bags being filled with things I’d never seen before. I watched, craning my neck as a knife was pulled out from under my sink, bloody and dark clothing from under my floorboards and—

The realization crashed over me as Morgan pulled muddy boots out from under my bed.

Aaron was framing me.

He squeezed my wrists tighter, daring me to say something.

“Are you kidding me? Those aren't even my size,” I struggled against Aaron’s firm grip.

Morgan peeked inside the boots, seeing padding stuffed into the toes to mitigate the wrong size. His glare was almost as deadly as Aaron’s as he left the room to log the evidence.

“You’re sick,” I whispered harshly to Aaron under my breath.

“Maybe,” he leaned in laughing softly, his warm breath ghosting over my ear. “It really is a shame you couldn’t keep your mouth shut when I told you to,” he said, sounding regretful. “I really do like you.”

“I’m going to nail you for this—”

He shoved me harder against the wall, making me wince as the wall bit into my brow and cheekbone, “You’re going away for four murders. You’re not getting me for shit.”

The cuffs bit into my wrists as he pulled me off the wall and led me outside. Reporters were shouting over each other, cameras flashing like strobes but the noise barely registered. My mind was racing, trying to find a way out—any way out. I looked around for a familiar face.

Miller.

Miller, please.

She refused to even look my way.

Aaron matched my wobbly steps, following at a measured pace. His presence was so heavy at my back. How could I have let this happen?

Just as we reached a patrol car, he leaned in again. His voice was low and calm, with such malice behind it that it sent another wave of nausea through me.

“You’ll call me,” he stated.

I jerked against his grip.

“Like hell I will.”

He only chuckled, like I was telling him a god damn joke.

“You will. When you get tired of rotting in a cell. When you realize no one else can help you—you'll call me.”

I forced myself to meet his gaze over my shoulder, challenging his domineering stance.

“I’d be happy to reopen an investigation,” he continued, feigning nonchalance. “Get you exonerated. Clear your name,” he paused, his voice shifting. Almost affectionately he cooed in my ear, the venom so much more pronounced without the robotic tin of the modulator, “But you’ll owe me.”

His words settled over me like poison.

“You’d work for me,” he murmured, tilting his head. “You’d go where I tell you. Do what I tell you.”

I swallowed hard, my jaw clenched and tense.

“You’d be free,” he promised, eyes shimmering with something dark. “And I’ll own you,” he smiled sweetly. Aaron opened the car door, hand on my head as he guided me in roughly. “Plus,” he pouted, mouth so close that I felt his lips skim my ear as he bent over and looked at me through the still open door, “you’ll miss me so much, little mouse, I just know it.”

He slammed the door shut.

I barely registered the car starting. I didn't even register Detective Miller getting in the front passenger seat, flipping down the visor and looking at me through the mirror.

All I could hear was his voice echoing in my head.

Aaron POV

Aaron watched the patrol car drive away.

Would they call him? Maybe not today. Maybe not even this year or the next.

But Aaron was a patient man and he always got what he wanted.

Some extra art:

#criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds x reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotch x reader #hotchner x reader #hotchner x you #Fic: Scream (Til There’s Silence)#gn!reader #ghostface #ghostface!hotch #Spotify

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bylerlipglances · 6 months ago

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FIREBALL

this could be the sound of Will shooting fireballs. The same OST plays 'She'll Kill You'

Will doesn't look too thrilled to use the fireballs but he can rise to the occasion when the time demands it. Till then, he'll stick to his wisdom. (possibly due to its adverse reaction, eg: nuclear bombs are potent but come with terrible side effects, irreversible damages). HE USES THEM WISELY. Foreshadowing his restrain.

*FIRE CAUTION*

Note: These might be little far-fetched. This is my failed attempt to understand why dialogues emphasised on color of fireball? i could be way off. i am following Marvel's interpretation since X-Men and Superman have been mentioned by the party.

GREEN LANTERN AND color of his ring theory

Green lantern powers(embedded in his rings) and parallel with will byers. 'Will' POWER is his actual power. Will is at the centre of his power.

Energy Projection: It can emit powerful blasts of energy, create force fields, and provide energy-based attacks for offense and defense. (electromagnetic field & fireballs?)

Data Analysis and Scanning: it can scan for information, detect energy signatures, and provide tactical analysis.(Nina project, IP?)

Teleportation: Some rings have the ability to teleport the wearer across vast distances. (true sight, now memories?)

Environmental Adaptation: It creates a life-support system for the wearer, allowing them to survive in extreme conditions, including the vacuum of space. (upside down?)

Time Travel the ring has been used to manipulate time. Wormholes and Spatial Warps: The power ring grants its wearer access to wormholes in space, enabling the ring wielder to rapidly cut time and distance needed for transport. The Guardians established at least one known wormhole to Oa, which once required the use of a power ring to enter. (Gates)

Weaknesses

Willpower Dependence: The ring’s strength is directly tied to the user’s willpower and emotional focus. If the user doubts themselves or loses concentration, the ring's effectiveness diminishes.

Limited Charge: The ring has a finite charge and must be recharged regularly using a power battery, which connects to the Central Power Battery on Oa. If it runs out of energy, the user becomes powerless. (Dustin's remark "Dead battery". eleven being drained)

speaking of charger, Mike is shown to be directly or indirectly associated with POWER SWITCH & SOCKETS ( source of energy? a charger ? a battery? for will?)

Vulnerability to Fear (Parallax Influence) : Lanterns' weakness to the 'COLOR YELLOW' came from the Fear entity trapped within the Green Lantern Corps' central power battery.

Mental or Emotional Instability: Strong negative emotions (fear, doubt, or anger) can interfere with a Green Lantern's ability to wield their ring effectively.

Mental Instability Protocol: Drug use, neural interference, vertigo or other forms of mental incapacitation can render the wearer unable to use their ring, rendered useless.

“I don’t know who’s been raising you, but I’m gonna get you some new crayons because it looks like he’s shooting cabbages.”

Is Will a Most Powerful 'Failed experiment'? like Madelyne Pryor?

Another green x-men, who is, possibly the most powerful, Goblin Queen (Clone of Jean) , X-Men Goblin Queen, Madelyne Pryor, X-Men's Most Dangerous, anti-hero. She unlocked her latent psychic powers. In addition to those, Madelyne also had the ability to perform sorcery, which she used to summon goblins and demons.

Madelyne eventually learns that she's a clone of Jean created by Mister Sinister. Sinister originally discarded her as a failed experiment, until the Phoenix itself gave Madelyne sentience.

Madelyne's powers are incredible hence the suggestion. might i add, a close parallel to will's alleged powers.

i am a more of a 'will byers is superman' kinda guy. but my personal favourite being will byers 'a divine deity/god' @greenfiend 's theory.

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

connecting green lantern with Kryptonite: Green latern's ring can project beams of force powered by the will of the user. The ring can be used to 'produce kryptonite' and kryptonite radiation.

in context of SUPERMAN

Superman is a regular Kryptonian man, He gets his powers from our yellow sun, green kryptonite cancels that.

Uranium fluoresces green under U.V. light (Atomic Bomb theory correlation)

Green Kryptonite : It was a radioactive element composed of pieces of the exploded planet Krypton. Surviving natives of Krypton, Superman is weakened by exposure to Green Kryptonite. Prolonged exposure could result in fatal radiation poisoning.

Red kryptonite :Superman has suffered the following effects upon exposure to various pieces of Red Kryptonite: Transformed into a dragon, Rendered temporarily blind to anything colored green, Loss of power, Gained telepathy, Generated an evil doppelganger , Mental transference, Personality alteration

vecna mind lair is red toned

BLUE-K : most interesting one is Blue-K (Upside down is blue toned)

Blue Kryptonite can reverse the effects of Red Kryptonite and can work wonders on afflicted Kryptonians. Perhaps Will created upside down to save himself & hawkins? (Superman is credited for manufacturing Blue-K, to save fellow Kryptonian see the kryptonite handbook) Effects on Bizarro(Man of steel's doppelganger and a supervillain) Blue Kryptonite weakens Bizarro (does Upside Down weakeans Vecna, hence he needs tentacles to recharge?) in a similar way to how Green Kryptonite weakens Superman. It can also sedate Bizarro, allowing him to be apprehended. Blue Kryptonite can also have a calming effect on Bizarro, removing his rage toward Superman. Blue-k was created by reversing the ionic charge of green kryptonite.

#mike is will's charger #x men and will byers #will byers is superman #will the wise #will byers has powers #fireball him #will byers #BLG

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imagine-darksiders · 1 year ago

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A fun bit of human worldbuilding for the Darksiders lore. I love the idea of humans technically being considered prey animals by a number of other species in the Darksiders universe. It’s mentioned and shown explicitly that demons and other species will kill and eat humans, so I love the idea of humanity embracing the fight or flight prey instincts that have been pushed to the very backs of our consciousness for thousands of years.

Like imagine you’re a human off world with the horsemen, embarking on a very low-stakes adventure. There’s not a hint of danger on the wind so everyone’s guards are lowered (as much as a horseman can drop their guard) when all of a sudden you get the strangest feeling in the pit of your stomach, and you feel the hair rise along the back of your neck.

You’re able to drop to the ground a microsecond before an enemy attacks from above, who’s claws were an inch away from goring you, and is quickly dispatched by one of the four.

Humanity basically has a primitive early warning system embedded into their dna, which other species aren’t privy too, because they’ve never had to evolve such defensive tactics to survive. It’s not much, but it gives us just enough of a leg up to attempt to compete in the new, dangerous world we’ve re-awoken to.

Sorry for the dump, I just love the idea of long buried human instincts coming in clutch to aid us in a scary demon-infested world. And I love imagining it actually giving us an advantage over other species, who typically underestimate humans.

OohoohoaoOOHO

I need to think of ways to incorporate your idea into my fics >:]

You had no idea you could actually sense danger until you were in it, you duck literally milliseconds before a sword swings over your head and you're like, 'WOAH...! WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!'

Death: That was a sword-

You: NO, I mean WHAT DID I just do!?

#darksiders #darksiders 2

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ptseti · 4 hours ago

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WHITE PEOPLE COLONISED INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY

In this clip, TikTok user Amy Chen (@circusfaery33) succinctly responds to an ignorant comment claiming that the Global South owes Europe for the invention of mobile phones.

Western tactics of exploitation are numerous and often deeply embedded in global systems. Among these is the concept of patents, which allows entities from the Global North to monopolise the ownership of intellectual property, including inventions and cultural symbols that originate from the Global South. Appropriating intellectual property perpetuates the myth of Western superiority, resulting in a skewed historical narrative that wrongfully credits Europeans with innovations and civilisations.

For example, Western narratives often omit that Egyptian and Eastern civilisations influenced much of Greek philosophy. Moreover, although Greeks are typically credited for the study of philosophy, some of Europe's most notable scholars, such as Plato, travelled to Egypt to receive tutelage. Furthermore, the Dogon people of Mali were aware of the Sirius star system long before modern astronomy recognised it.

What Europe really ‘accomplished’ was to help destroy African civilisations, perpetuating the falsehood that the continent was uncivilised before colonial contact, thereby justifying colonisation.

Video credit: @circusfaery33 (TikTok)

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darkmaga-returns · 3 months ago

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Why examine the role of the CIA in the rise of the global Heroin trade?

Three reasons-

First, during my recent travels to Rome, I learned of “Operation Blue Moon (Operazione Blue Moon),” which is widely covered in Italian press, publications, and embedded in the Italian political belief system. An account paradoxically completely absent in both the CIA declassified document reading room and in US press coverage. In Italy, “Operation Blue Moon” is shorthand for a commonly believed narrative involving collusion between the CIA and the Italian Mafia to flood dissident Italian groups with inexpensive heroin.

Second, the Chinese CCP government appears to be intentionally targeting the USA with cheap imported Fentanyl, a drug similar to Heroin in mechanism of action but much more potent and deadly. In the US, the commonly accepted narrative is that this is a form of intentional but surreptitious politically motivated chemical warfare by the CCP against American citizens intended to corrode and compromise the cultural backbone of the USA. Assuming this to be true, this strategy and associated tactics would be eerily similar to Italian claims of CIA strategy and tactics in the case of the widely held belief in the history of “Operation Blue Moon.” Tangential but related is that HHS Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. was once addicted to Heroin and was convicted of felony Heroin possession.

And third, today, with what is proposed to be the complete release of the entire unredacted dossier of US Government records concerning the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, we may be able to finally conclude whether or not the US CIA was involved in that seminal event. Was his assassination an internal coup? HHS Secretary RFK Jr. has repeatedly asserted that he believes that the CIA was involved in the assassinations of both his uncle and father.

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embodiedfutures · 2 years ago

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introductory excerpts on COINTELPRO

it came to my awareness that some folks don't know what COINTELPRO is still, so imma drop some excerpts from the wikipedia page. ofc there are a billion other resources you can check out, especially firsthand accounts, but this is always a good place to start! link attached below:

[Note that the embedded link above's photo has the following caption: "COINTELPRO memo proposing a plan to expose the pregnancy of actress Jean Seberg, a financial supporter of the Black Panther Party, hoping to "possibly cause her embarrassment or tarnish her image with the general public". Covert campaigns to publicly discredit activists and destroy their interpersonal relationships were a common tactic used by COINTELPRO agents."]

The Introduction:

COINTELPRO (syllabic abbreviation derived from Counter Intelligence Program; 1956–1971) was a series of covert and illegal[1][2] projects actively conducted by the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) aimed at surveilling, infiltrating, discrediting, and disrupting domestic American political organizations.[3][4] FBI records show COINTELPRO resources targeted groups and individuals the FBI[5] deemed subversive,[6] including feminist organizations,[7][8] the Communist Party USA,[9] anti–Vietnam War organizers, activists of the civil rights and Black power movements (e.g. Martin Luther King Jr., the Nation of Islam, and the Black Panther Party), environmentalist and animal rights organizations, the American Indian Movement (AIM), Chicano and Mexican-American groups like the Brown Berets and the United Farm Workers, independence movements (including Puerto Rican independence groups such as the Young Lords and the Puerto Rican Socialist Party), a variety of organizations that were part of the broader New Left, and white supremacist groups such as the Ku Klux Klan[10][11] and the far-right group National States' Rights Party.[12]

Methods COINTELPRO Utilized

According to attorney Brian Glick in his book War at Home, the FBI used five main methods during COINTELPRO:

Infiltration: Agents and informers did not merely spy on political activists. Their main purpose was to discredit, disrupt and negatively redirect action. Their very presence served to undermine trust and scare off potential supporters. The FBI and police exploited this fear to smear genuine activists as agents.

Psychological warfare: The FBI and police used a myriad of "dirty tricks" to undermine movements. They planted false media stories and published bogus leaflets and other publications in the name of targeted groups. They forged correspondence, sent anonymous letters, and made anonymous telephone calls. They spread misinformation about meetings and events, set up pseudo movement groups run by government agents, and manipulated or strong-armed parents, employers, landlords, school officials, and others to cause trouble for activists. They used bad-jacketing to create suspicion about targeted activists, sometimes with lethal consequences.[74]

Harassment via the legal system: The FBI and police abused the legal system to harass dissidents and make them appear to be criminals. Officers of the law gave perjured testimony and presented fabricated evidence as a pretext for false arrests and wrongful imprisonment. They discriminatorily enforced tax laws and other government regulations and used conspicuous surveillance, "investigative" interviews, and grand jury subpoenas in an effort to intimidate activists and silence their supporters.[73][75]

Illegal force: The FBI conspired with local police departments to threaten dissidents; to conduct illegal break-ins in order to search dissident homes; and to commit vandalism, assaults, beatings and assassinations.[73] The objective was to frighten or eliminate dissidents and disrupt their movements.

Undermine public opinion: One of the primary ways the FBI targeted organizations was by challenging their reputations in the community and denying them a platform to gain legitimacy. Hoover specifically designed programs to block leaders from "spreading their philosophy publicly or through the communications media". Furthermore, the organization created and controlled negative media meant to undermine black power organizations. For instance, they oversaw the creation of "documentaries" skillfully edited to paint the Black Panther Party as aggressive, and false newspapers that spread misinformation about party members. The ability of the FBI to create distrust within and between revolutionary organizations tainted their public image and weakened chances at unity and public support.[49]

The FBI specifically developed tactics intended to heighten tension and hostility between various factions in the black power movement, for example between the Black Panthers and the US Organization. For instance, the FBI sent a fake letter to the US Organization exposing a supposed Black Panther plot to murder the head of the US Organization, Ron Karenga. They then intensified this by spreading falsely attributed cartoons in the black communities pitting the Black Panther Party against the US Organization.[49] This resulted in numerous deaths, among which were San Diego Black Panther Party members John Huggins, Bunchy Carter and Sylvester Bell.[73] Another example of the FBI's anonymous letter writing campaign is how they turned the Blackstone Rangers head, Jeff Fort, against former ally Fred Hampton, by stating that Hampton had a hit on Fort.[49] They also were instrumental in developing the rift between Black Panther Party leaders Eldridge Cleaver and Huey Newton, as executed through false letters inciting the two leaders of the Black Panther Party.[49]

...

In order to eliminate black militant leaders whom they considered dangerous, the FBI is believed to have worked with local police departments to target specific individuals,[78] accuse them of crimes they did not commit, suppress exculpatory evidence and falsely incarcerate them. Elmer "Geronimo" Pratt, a Black Panther Party leader, was incarcerated for 27 years before a California Superior Court vacated his murder conviction, ultimately freeing him. Appearing before the court, an FBI agent testified that he believed Pratt had been framed, because both the FBI and the Los Angeles Police Department knew he had not been in the area at the time the murder occurred.[79][80]

...

In 1969 the FBI special agent in San Francisco wrote Hoover that his investigation of the Black Panther Party had concluded that in his city, at least, the Panthers were primarily engaged in feeding breakfast to children. Hoover fired back a memo implying the agent's career goals would be directly affected by his supplying evidence to support Hoover's view that the Black Panther Party was "a violence-prone organization seeking to overthrow the Government by revolutionary means".[84]

Hoover supported using false claims to attack his political enemies. In one memo he wrote: "Purpose of counterintelligence action is to disrupt the Black Panther Party and it is immaterial whether facts exist to substantiate the charge."[85]

Intended Effects of COINTELPRO

The intended effect of the FBI's COINTELPRO was to "expose, disrupt, misdirect, or otherwise neutralize" groups that the FBI officials believed were "subversive"[58] by instructing FBI field operatives to:[59] 1. Create a negative public image for target groups (for example through surveilling activists and then releasing negative personal information to the public) 2. Break down internal organization by creating conflicts (for example, by having agents exacerbate racial tensions, or send anonymous letters to try to create conflicts) 3. Create dissension between groups (for example, by spreading rumors that other groups were stealing money) 4. Restrict access to public resources (for example, by pressuring non-profit organizations to cut off funding or material support) 5. Restrict the ability to organize protest (for example, through agents promoting violence against police during planning and at protests) 6. Restrict the ability of individuals to participate in group activities (for example, by character assassinations, false arrests, surveillance)

When did they start?

Centralized operations under COINTELPRO officially began in August 1956 with a program designed to "increase factionalism, cause disruption and win defections" inside the Communist Party USA (CPUSA). Tactics included anonymous phone calls, Internal Revenue Service (IRS) audits, and the creation of documents that would divide the American communist organization internally.[9] An October 1956 memo from Hoover reclassified the FBI's ongoing surveillance of black leaders, including it within COINTELPRO, with the justification that the movement was infiltrated by communists.[31] In 1956, Hoover sent an open letter denouncing Dr. T. R. M. Howard, a civil rights leader, surgeon, and wealthy entrepreneur in Mississippi who had criticized FBI inaction in solving recent murders of George W. Lee, Emmett Till, and other African Americans in the South.[32] When the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC), an African-American civil rights organization, was founded in 1957, the FBI began to monitor and target the group almost immediately, focusing particularly on Bayard Rustin, Stanley Levison, and eventually Martin Luther King Jr.[33]

How did the news get out about COINTELPRO?

The program was secret until March 8, 1971, when the Citizens' Commission to Investigate the FBI burgled an FBI field office in Media, Pennsylvania, took several dossiers, and exposed the program by passing this material to news agencies.[1][54] The boxing match known as the Fight of the Century between Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier in March 1971 provided cover for the activist group to successfully pull off the burglary. Muhammad Ali was a COINTELPRO target because he had joined the Nation of Islam and the anti-war movement.[55] Many news organizations initially refused to immediately publish the information, with the notable exception of The Washington Post. After affirming the reliability of the documents, it published them on the front page (in defiance of the Attorney General's request), prompting other organizations to follow suit. Within the year, Director J. Edgar Hoover declared that the centralized COINTELPRO was over, and that all future counterintelligence operations would be handled case by case.[56][57]

#reaux speaks #black panther party #fbi corruption #cointelpro #counterinsurgency #revolution #martin luther king jr #black power #intersectional feminism #indigenous #young lords #history #wikipedia #communism #socialism #j edgar hoover #mccarthyism

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baitpaintsbadly · 6 months ago

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"The Thallax were specialised, cybernetically-augmented shock troops manufactured and principally used by the Ordo Reductor of the ancient Mechanicum. The particular augmentations undergone by one of the Thallax are both severe and extreme, retaining only the brain (and in many cases the skull and spinal column), the life-sustaining viscera and nervous system as the basis of the articulated and armoured robotic frame which encompasses it. Other principal features of the design included a high-energy compact reactor system (whose emanations could not be endured by a less augmented organic system), allowing for extremely potent portable weaponry to be utilised, embedded Incunabulan Jet-Pack systems and arcane implanted sensory apparatus operating outside the usual realm of organic perception.

The sinister blank-faced helms of the Thalaxii conceal an array of inhuman sensory apparati through which they experience the battlefield as a raging storm of electromagnetic turmoil, blood-heat and seismic percussion. However, for the organic brain to handle this hurricane of data, it must be surgically mutilated, removing the mere Human senses such as sight and hearing. The unfortunate side-effects of these systems on the living components, however, were continuous agony and psychotic breakdown; effects ameliorated by the surgical excision of some of the brain's emotional centres. For some within the Mechanicum this transformation of the Human mind skirted the edge of abomination such as that posed by sentient "Abominable Intelligence"

The resulting machine-creature is capable of far greater tactical flexibility and independent action than a mere combat servitor, although terminal deterioration of the subject's psyche was certain over extended periods of time."

The 6 Thallax from the HH Mechanicum box, which I will be using as Kataphron Breachers in 40k. These lads are my favourite unit from the Mechanicum range, both in looks and lore and I forever hope and wish they get legend-ed in to 40k (never happening I know, but a trooper can dream). I shoved them onto some 60mm bases to avoid any "modeling for advantage" accusations and I'm pleasantly surprised by how ok they look on the larger base size, I was worried they'd look a bit weedy but I think they fill the space well (though I am very biased). They have some really cool extra gun options, with the Phased Plasma Fusil's, Photon Thrusters and Multi-Melta's, but not enough to fill a whole squad with. I dont want to muddy the proxy waters any further than I am already, so they're all getting the same, still very cool, Lightning Guns that I can pretend are Heavy Arc Rifles. So I'll keep the fancy ones for future kitbashing. Pic with Skit for Scale under the cut.

Also, hello to my Dark Heresy players, sorry that this is how you find out what that one character actually is, try not to worry too much about it :) .

#admech #model do a spin

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fushiglow · 2 years ago

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Gonna lose?! It’s Gojō Satoru!!

Karma and consequence in Jujutsu Kaisen

With the release of chapter 235 of Jujutsu Kaisen, the King of Curses has been defeated and Gojō Satoru has cemented his title as the 'Strongest’. The war isn’t over yet, but the battle is won, and I think the outcome of this fight is by far the most interesting for both characters.

Truthfully, at the start of the Shinjuku Showdown arc, I wasn’t particularly rooting for Gojō or Sukuna to win. However, as the fight developed (alongside the release of the anime adaptation of Hidden Inventory/Premature Death), I found myself becoming more and more invested in Gojō Satoru as a character and, consequently, theorising about what a ‘satisfying conclusion’ to his story might look like.

Shortly after the release of chapter 232, I saw an interesting post suggesting that ‘gain and loss’ is the theme of the Gojō vs Sukuna fight. Of course, ‘Gain and Loss’ is the title of chapter 221 when Gojō finally gets out of the Prison Realm only to learn that Sukuna has taken over Megumi’s body. I’d like to go a step further and suggest that ‘gain and loss’ — and by extension, karma and consequence — is actually a key theme of Gojō’s character (and maybe even Jujutsu Kaisen on the whole).

For full disclosure, I wrote about 90% of this before chapter 235 was released, operating on the belief that Gojō would eventually win this fight. It is a long post, so buckle up and let’s get into it!

Gain and loss in Jujutsu Kaisen

The idea of gain through loss was developed very early on in Jujutsu Kaisen with the introduction of binding vows. From Nanami’s ‘overtime’ to Sukuna's open barrier domain, a self-imposed binding vow offers a sorcerer an advantage in combat in return for an increased level of risk. In other words, sorcerers can ‘gain’ strength in exchange for a ‘loss’ of security. When it comes to binding vows, the bigger the risk the bigger the reward.

The idea of gain through loss was further developed through the introduction of Heavenly Restriction. Similar to a binding vow, a person with a Heavenly Restriction is ‘gifted’ with enhanced abilities in one area in exchange for limitations in another. However, unlike a binding vow, Heavenly Restriction exists from birth (although it remains unclear whether it occurs due to mere chance).

There are numerous powerful examples of both binding vows and Heavenly Restriction throughout the series. For Gege Akutami, they are key to maintaining a balanced power system where intelligence and tactical thinking can lead an underdog to prevail in the face of a more powerful opponent — think Yūta beating Getō or Toji beating Gojō. Through these mechanics, we can deduce that understanding gain and loss, give and take, risk and reward — however you want to put it — is crucial to mastery of jujutsu sorcery.

Naturally, if gain and loss are embedded in the laws of the Jujutsu Kaisen universe, it makes sense that the theme exerts a heavy influence over the narrative, too. Of course, consequences are an important way to create compelling characters in any story, but this rings especially true for Jujutsu Kaisen which draws deeply on Buddhist themes and traditions.

In Buddhism, karma is not a deterministic system of retribution, but the natural law of cause and effect. It is directly referenced in Jujutsu Kaisen when Fushiguro Megumi explains his personal ideology using ‘因果’, a Japanese Buddhist term meaning ‘karma’ or ‘fate’ which can be more literally translated as ‘cause and effect’. The second kanji means ‘fruit’, hinting at the underlying agricultural metaphor behind karma in Buddhism: plant a seed, later receive a harvest — or, to use a saying derived from another religion with an important role in Jujutsu Kaisen, ‘you reap what you sow’.

However, an important characteristic of karma which is commonly misunderstood is that the relationship between a cause and its effect is not necessarily linear, but rather part of an intricate network that spans past, present, and future. In other words, the ‘consequences’ of one’s actions might arrive much later.

This can lead to mistaking the effect of one cause for the effect of another, creating a reality where ‘bad’ things happen to ‘good’ people and vice versa. The resulting circumstances may make it easier to do ‘bad’ deeds but, importantly, the freedom always remains to choose the path of ‘good’.

Thus emerges a system where liberation from suffering (in Buddhism, the endless cycle of rebirth known as samsara) is not determined by the judgement of some higher power, but by an individual’s continued choice to do ‘good’. In other words, you can create your own destiny, but only if you understand karma.

The beginningless karmic cycle is rooted in actions performed in ignorance. Therefore, breaking free of it — enlightenment — can only be achieved through knowledge.

Gojō Satoru: the embodiment of enlightenment

As a character, Gojō Satoru is symbolically tied to these concepts. We’re told that his birth altered the balance of the world, causing curses to grow stronger in response to the sudden injection of power into the ecosystem. However, while Gojō’s birth might be the cause of the imbalance, his very existence is itself the effect of something else.

Supposedly, the Star Plasma Vessel, the Six Eyes, and Tengen are all connected by fate. However, the term that Tengen uses — ‘因果’ — is the same one that Megumi uses for ‘karma’, suggesting a cause and effect relationship. This is confirmed when Tengen implies that the Star Plasma Vessel and the Six Eyes always appear in response to the merger — the irrepressible effect to the merger’s cause.

Kenjaku cannot contend with the immense strength of the Six Eyes nor the universal law of cause and effect. However, Fushiguro Toji, who possesses no cursed energy due to his Heavenly Restriction, is not bound by fate and is thus able to interrupt a cycle of cause and effect which has existed for at least a thousand years.

Tengen actually suggests that karma (因果) and cursed energy are one and the same so — if we take Tengen’s words at face value — Toji is an anomaly who is free from its bindings.*

However, the characters whose lives he touches are not. Toji sets another chain of cause and effect into action when the events of Hidden Inventory lead to Gojō’s ascension to 'the Strongest'.

There is much debate in the fandom about whether Gojō’s moment of ‘enlightenment’ is legitimate, especially in light of his fight with Sukuna — the only other character associated with the phrase supposedly uttered by Buddha Shakyamuni at birth.

However, if enlightenment is understanding of reality that transcends conceptual thought, then Gojō Satoru is its physical embodiment in Jujutsu Kaisen.

His given name, Satoru (悟), is a verb meaning ‘to know’ or ‘to understand’, and the root of the Japanese Buddhist term for ‘enlightenment’. His innate domain — a representation of one’s innermost self — is a flood of infinite knowledge that constitutes the ‘truth’ of the universe. His Six Eyes are reminiscent of the all-seeing Eyes of Buddha or the Six Transcendental Powers or the Five Eyes — or perhaps all three!

Gojō is steeped in symbolism not only relating to Buddhist enlightenment, but to the founding Buddha himself, right down to his world-altering birth — the divine event which sets the modern-day story in motion.

Although he may have spoken Buddha Shakyamuni’s words in a moment of euphoria, the suggestion Gojō had reached a higher state of being was never intended to be called into doubt. The pertinent question, instead, is why the unimaginable strength that accompanies his ascension to almost godlike status seems to bring Gojō more loss than gain — especially when, in a twist of irony, he was only able to gain that strength through loss.

‘The Strongest’ : an allegory for enlightenment

As the two strongest sorcerers battled it out in Shinjuku, the question on everyone’s lips during the weekly chapter discussions was, ‘Who will win?’ However, Jujutsu Kaisen has already established that ‘winner’ is not necessarily always interchangeable with ‘strongest’. Perhaps that’s why, in the aftermath of the fight, the discussion has turned to arguments about which character is the strongest instead — from cursed technique to battle IQ.

Even now, we don’t know much about Sukuna’s abilities nor his character, so it’s always been difficult to accurately judge his strength against Gojō’s. However, a surprising number of people went into this fight believing that Sukuna would win without much trouble.

Some made the reasonable argument that ‘the strongest sorcerer in history’ using the Ten Shadows technique while inhabiting the body of his dearest student presented a no-win situation for Gojō. Others made the much less reasonable argument that Gojō’s claims about his strength were little more than arrogance born from a cushy life in an era of ‘weak’ sorcerers.

Indeed, Sukuna himself echoes that sentiment in chapter 230, going as far as to call Gojō ‘unenlightened’ (凡夫) — before being immediately humbled.

This isn’t the first time that Gege Akutami has directly challenged readers’ assumptions through his characters. However, Gojō in particular lends himself to reader speculation, because Akutami deliberately makes it difficult to know the character by maintaining a narrative distance from him that mirrors his Limitless technique.

This leads to a wonderful phenomenon where the reader falls into the same trap as the characters in the series by assuming that, while other sorcerers are struggling dreadfully, Gojō is having an easy time of things — because that’s what it looks like most of the time. Nanami might be right when he suggests that Gojō could take care of everything by himself. However, just because he could do it, does that mean he should?

The problem is, with Gojō kept at a distance, it’s easy to forget how he became 'the Strongest’ in the first place. It’s true that, even before he becomes a fully realised Six Eyes user, Gojō’s abilities dwarfed those of any other living sorcerer. For people like Getō and Megumi whose techniques require a very steep learning curve to master, I can imagine that it feels like Gojō’s unimaginable strength was handed to him on a silver platter at times.

However, both things can be true: Gojō was born with innate strength that most sorcerers can only dream of and Gojō is an exceptional talent in his own right.

We all saw the suffering and sacrifice that Gojō went through on his path to becoming a sorcerer strong enough to face the King of Curses. In a series where the primary power source is born from negative emotions, perhaps it makes sense that tragedy promotes strength. Yet, Getō — whose technique is the epitome of strength through negative emotions — experienced the same tragedy as Gojō. So why did they head in opposite directions after the events of Hidden Inventory?

If Gojō is the embodiment of enlightenment in Jujutsu Kaisen, then Getō is his opposite. Where Gojō achieves understanding, Getō is blinded by ignorance which shackles him to a cycle of suffering — the marathon game of jujutsu sorcery.

In blaming non-sorcerers’ inability to regulate cursed energy — rather than the negative emotions that generate cursed energy in the first place — Getō mistakes one cause for another. Following the natural law of cause and effect that is karma, the solution should lie in shedding negative emotions altogether — just like Gojō at the moment of enlightenment.

Sadly, in his quest to find liberation from suffering, Getō actually condemns himself to it. Where Gojō chooses to let go of hatred and anger, Getō chooses to cling to them. This is ultimately why 'the Strongest’ changes from plural to singular. However, all of this assumes that Gojō did things the ‘right’ way when it’s very possible that Gege Akutami actually seeks to criticise a religious doctrine that separates the ‘honoured’ ones from everyone else.

Getō’s response to the horrors he endured evokes sympathy because it feels fundamentally human. In contrast, enlightenment seems so unattainable to the average human being that it becomes almost inhuman — the reserve of gods.

Indeed, Gojō is often accused of having a ‘god complex’, and Gege Akutami’s continued references to the divine don’t do anything to help. However, the series more often paints its strongest characters as closer to weapons of mass destruction or natural disasters, making the reality of ‘the Strongest’ less like reverence and more like dehumanisation.

Although Gojō achieved ‘enlightenment’, he’s ultimately still a human being — something that’s easy to forget. In fact, one of my favourite things about Gojō’s character is how he exists on an almost metatextual level. Too often, characters and readers view Gojō Satoru as 'the Strongest’ first and a human being second — a notion embodied by this notorious panel.

Thus, rather than having a ‘god complex’, I interpret Gojō as a character who struggles with his place in the world. His strength is what keeps him at a distance from the people around him — from the literal distance maintained by his technique to the metaphorical distance that separates him from the ‘unenlightened’.

Even the blindfold he wears to avoid discomfort hides his eyes, shutting off the ‘window to the soul’ and making him a less approachable figure. Thus, the thing that makes Gojō more comfortable around other human beings is ironically the thing that makes others less comfortable around him.

With the power at his disposal, Gojō is frightening at times, and Gege Akutami goes to great pains to show us the brutal potential of such strength — for example, in Shibuya when he ruthlessly dismantles 1000 transfigured humans with the precision of a machine in less than five minutes.

However, this display of violence comes off the back of Gojō’s most compassionate moment in which he bends the laws of jujutsu sorcery to preserve as many human lives as possible. Each time the curses attempt to force his hand, he does the inconceivable, even going so far as to limit his own strength by fighting without his technique to avoid collateral damage to humans caught up in the chaos.

Importantly, he doesn’t agonise over his decisions like the curses expect. Instead, when presented with a choice between two options that fundamentally violate his ideals, he forces another path without thinking. This is Gojō’s ‘overwhelming sense of self’. His commitment to upholding the ‘meaning’ he inherited from Getō is so unshakeable that it’s instinctive; so engrained that it’s unconscious.

Despite his inhuman strength, Gojō’s actions in Shibuya exemplify his firm stance on the side of ordinary human beings. From his technique to his blindfold, he removes the physical barriers that separate him from the rest of humanity. The result is that, although his display of power in Shibuya is godlike, Gojō never seems more human.

Of course, it’s his humanity that ultimately makes him vulnerable to the Prison Realm, and many suggested that this ’weakness’ is why he would lose to Sukuna — a character who has wholly relinquished his humanity.

Humanity in opposition to strength

The unexpected appearance of his ‘best friend’ in Shibuya causes Gojō to falter for a heartbeat, but it’s long enough to make his brilliance look like foolishness in hindsight. His decision to save innocent people at B5F ultimately leads to the deaths of many thousands more over the course of October 31st and the following Culling Game. Among the casualties of the chaos are some of Gojō’s friends, colleagues, and students — as well as the Fushiguro siblings who were under Gojō’s personal care.

Of the Hidden Inventory arc, Nakamura Yūichi, Gojō’s voice actor said:

‘Even though Gojō had power, he failed his mission, he failed to protect Amanai, and he lost his best friend. He lost everything, and the only thing he succeeded at was awakening his abilities.’

So, it certainly seems true that Gojō’s choice to hold onto his humanity has brought him more losses than wins. In fact, at this point in the story, can we honestly say that Gojō has ever truly ‘won’?

Despite this, the characters in the series never stop thinking of Gojō as ‘the Strongest’. The narrative doesn’t ridicule him for his sentimentality in Shibuya, because it’s perfectly reasonable in the face of Kenjaku’s mind-boggling scheme. Even Sukuna recognises Gojō’s strength in the immediate aftermath of the event.

Aside from Kenjaku themselves — who has never suggested that Gojō is anything but immensely powerful — no one has ever criticised Gojō for his humanity. In fact, even prior to the Shinjuku Showdown arc, I’m not convinced that humanity is ever reliably situated in opposition to strength in Jujutsu Kaisen.

Many point to Uro Takako’s conversation with Okkotsu Yūta as evidence that tossing out one’s humanity is the only way to achieve ultimate strength. However, putting aside the fact that the translation warps Uro’s meaning somewhat, it’s unwise to assume that Sukuna’s is the only way to reach that level, simply because he’s the only example in history of a sorcerer with comparable strength to Gojō.

This is even more true when you take into consideration that everything about the context surrounding Uro’s assertion suggests otherwise. After all, this prideful, vicious sorcerer has just been beaten by a teenage boy who fights solely to protect the people he cares about.

‘Overwhelming sense of self’ — the more accurate translation of the above panel — is about having absolute conviction in who you are as a person. The quality of your ideals is irrelevant as long as your commitment to them surpasses all else, and this has never been Gojō’s issue.

To say that Gojō’s humanity makes him weak misses the point, because it’s never been a question of strength. There’s no need to invent a weakness in the form of his humanity, because we already know his weakness — he told us himself.

Perhaps this starts to get at the the truth of ’the Strongest’ and the solitude that comes with ultimate strength. In Gojō’s own words, ‘When granted everything, you can't do anything.’ Despite being strong, he simply cannot save everyone. So, if being ‘the Strongest’ doesn’t help Gojō towards his goals, then what’s the point in his strength?

Of course, this is why Getō’s parting words hit Gojō so hard. When the boy who taught him that ‘protecting the weak’ is important tells Gojō that he has the power to commit the biggest act of genocide in history, the title of 'the Strongest’ is transformed from a blessing into a curse. I can’t imagine that Gojō ever feels more powerless than when he realises that he’s trying to save people using a body that’s built to destroy — a contradiction that’s illustrated to us in our first introduction (chronologically) to Gojō as a character.

If that wasn’t enough to cause an existential crisis for Gojō, Getō’s follow-up question guarantees it. In challenging Gojō’s assertion that Getō’s goals are impossible to achieve, Getō simultaneously questions Gojō’s identity beyond ‘the Strongest’, unintentionally (or perhaps intentionally) dehumanising Gojō by reducing him to his strength. This is especially painful coming from Getō of all people.

By the end of the conversation, Gojō’s entire worldview has been called into question by the person he trusted most. Getō, who always impressed upon Gojō the importance of meaning, leaves Gojō searching for the meaning in his strength — and, over 200 chapters after Getō asked the question, the answer still isn’t clear. This, I believe, is where the Shinjuku Showdown arc comes into play.

A reason to fight

From a narrative point of view, Getō isn’t entirely wrong to insinuate that Gojō lacks an identity beyond ‘the Strongest’. His primary role in the story has always been to act as a power ceiling from which the reader can extrapolate information about Gege Akutami’s world and its mechanics. Even his absence from the story is meticulously set up to illustrate the anarchy that breaks out due to the power vacuum he leaves behind.

Prior to the Shibuya Incident, Gojō Satoru’s overwhelming strength presented an obstacle to other characters’ growth. In order to create a more balanced playing field and an opportunity to explore creative techniques and fights on a previously unseen scale, it’s understandable that Akutami needed to get Gojō out of the way — at least until Sukuna could join the story as a fixed member of the cast.

As expected, even the strongest sorcerers we encountered during the Culling Game pale in comparison to the prowess on display during the Shinjuku Showdown. It all serves to show that Gojō and Sukuna are on an entirely different level — to the point that, even after Gojō burns out the part of his brain responsible for his domain, his strength still doesn’t dip below that of Okkotsu Yūta and Hakari Kinji.

To paraphrase Megumi, I shouldn’t try to find logic in a powerscaler’s behavioural patterns, but I can’t deny it’s immensely frustrating that week after week fans get caught up in arguments about who is the better sorcerer when it’s the least interesting thing about this fight.

The only reason ’the Strongest’ even existed as a neatly defined category up until this point was because of the lack of any viable opponent for Gojō. Now that he’s fighting someone on his level, comparing these two behemoths of jujutsu sorcery is the same as any other powerscaling exercise: reductive, vulnerable to bias, and ultimately missing the point.

Gege Akutami has never written a fight simply for the fun of seeing two characters go at it. There’s been a greater purpose behind every carefully created match-up in the series, either in the form of high stakes or an important lesson for the characters involved — or sometimes both.

While Akutami clearly enjoyed writing this back and forth between two masters of their craft, carefully balancing the scales to ensure that neither gained the upper-hand for too long, there is a great deal of character development staked on the outcome of this fight.

There are parallels between Gojō and Sukuna as characters but, more than anything, the Shinjuku Showdown arc has exposed some fundamental differences between the two — namely, why they fight in the first place. While it’s true that Gojō is fighting Sukuna partly because there’s no one else who can, it’s also true that the stakes have never been higher for Gojō. He has a lot to gain and a whole lot more to lose, so his reason for fighting feels tangible to the reader.

Conversely, Sukuna’s reason for fighting is considerably less clear. While we don’t know the nature of Sukuna’s binding vow with Kenjaku — or anything about his motivations in general — it doesn’t seem like there’s much at stake for Sukuna except for, perhaps, his pride. Beyond advancing the plot, this poses a lot of interesting questions about what Sukuna would have to gain from winning this fight.

Since Gojō’s return, Sukuna has recalled Yorozu’s words about love multiple times. Their purpose — and Sukuna’s initial reaction to them — are still shrouded in mystery. However, through Gojō, we can learn something about ‘love’ and how it relates to the ‘the solitude of ultimate strength’.

Gojō never wanted to be ‘the Strongest’ alone. In fact, his entire motivation as a character is raising up ‘strong and intelligent allies’, constantly chasing the companionship he felt as one half of the strongest duo and trying to ensure that his students never feel the same isolation that’s plagued him and Getō before him.

In the recent chapters of the manga, Gege Akutami has made it clear that Gojō isn’t really alone at all — Shōko reminiscing on their friendship in chapter 220; Gojō’s comrades rallying around him during the send off in chapter 222; the wonderful ‘my students are watching’ callback in chapter 230.

What’s more, for the first time in his adult life, we see Gojō — who’s famously in his element when he’s alone — start a fight with people at his side, leaning on three characters who we’ve previously been led to believe he looked down on.

The distance that’s always existed between Gojō and the people around him is closing. He has removed his mask and he is open to the world — the blindfold is gone; the shapeless, oversized jacket is gone; Gojō even removes his technique to let people in during his sendoff. Akutami makes it explicitly clear that Gojō’s allies have got his back, and he’s got theirs in turn — they’re his reason for fighting.

On the other hand, his opponent only has a single ally in all the world and, although Uraume is a devoted servant, there is no suggestion that they would tag in when the going gets tough. Sukuna has already told us that, for him, losing and dying are the same thing — a curious contrast to Gojō who does not put ‘winning’ and ‘dying’ in opposition, and this creates an interesting situation where both fighters could ‘win’ by their standards.

If Gojō saves the people he cares about (and the world at large) but dies in the process, he wins. Equally, if Sukuna is the sole survivor of the fight, he wins — but what would that actually mean for him?

One approach embodies overwhelming selfishness, the other embodies overwhelming selflessness, but only one of these approaches has been established as the most powerful form of binding vow in Jujutsu Kaisen. With all that said, many people believed that Gojō dying to win was the most likely conclusion to the fight — but that’s what a small fry would think!

In Jujutsu Kaisen, it has always come down to one question: how much are you willing to risk — not sacrifice — in order to win? This is the lesson that Gojō impresses upon Megumi, and it’s why I was always in the camp that believed Gojō would win and survive. I didn’t expect his victory to be quite so clear cut, but it seems obvious in hindsight — and it’s all thanks to the power of love and friendship.

In chapter 234, Kusakabe suggests that Sukuna is keeping something in reserve, because he knows that if Gojō loses, he’ll immediately have to fight a number of other powerful sorcerers. Gojō knows that there are strong allies ready to back him up if he fails, so he can go all out.

Meanwhile, Sukuna is truly alone — to the point that he has to create allies in the form of shikigami in order to contend with Gojō. In the end, the explanation for Gojō’s victory is simple. Where Gojō gave it his best, Sukuna didn’t — and that was a grave underestimation of his opponent for which he paid the price.

So, the Shinjuku Showdown arc has come to an end and Gojō has reaffirmed that he is, in fact, 'the Strongest'. However, his story isn’t over yet, so what would a satisfying conclusion to his character arc look like?

Are you Gojō Satoru because you’re the Strongest?

Although Itadori Yūji is the main character of the series, Gojō Satoru is foundational to the story — despite how much Gege Akutami jokes about hating him. Gojō’s story is the thread that ties the series together, so landing the ending is crucial for completing not only Gojō’s character arc, but also that of many other characters. For Gojō, everything consistently comes back to Getō Suguru and Fushiguro Toji, but there remain unanswered questions regarding both.

Toji’s presence during the clash of the strongest sorcerers is too large to ignore. Aside from the allusions to Toji himself, his son plays a pivotal role in Gojō’s story as the human representation of gain through loss — the blessing born from Gojō’s curse. Taking Megumi under his wing marked Gojō’s first step towards a brighter future after the tragedy brought on by the failed Star Plasma Vessel mission, but there’s one major plot thread left unresolved.

I wouldn’t have thought that Megumi learning the truth about his father was important after he dismisses Gojō’s attempt to tell him during the Hidden Inventory arc. However, the combination of Megumi’s interaction with Toji in Shibuya, his visible cluelessness when Tengen mentions Toji, and the numerous ways Gojō references Toji during the Shinjuku Showdown arc has convinced me that Akutami plans to follow this up at some point.

Right now, Megumi’s fate is still hanging in the balance. Although many people are waiting for something terrible to befall Gojō — losing his Six Eyes; burning out his technique permanently; dying — I’d like to believe that, if we look at Jujutsu Kaisen through a karmic lens, Gojō isn’t owed any more losses. At the very least, he certainly doesn’t have to die to progress the story as some people have suggested.

Our heroes, including Gojō himself, have been on a major losing streak for a long time now. Gojō being freed from the Prison Realm represented a shining beacon of hope at the lowest point in the series. To extinguish that light by killing Gojō almost immediately after he’s returned to the story would be another major blow to the characters and the readers.

I wouldn’t put it past Akutami to send some more pain our way before the end of the story, but if Gojō is going to die on December 24, I don’t think it’s before a number of other things happen.

If Gojō inherited Getō’s ideals in a symbolic ‘passing of the torch’, then his death before he has confirmed the safety of the people who depend on him is a depressing end to his best friend’s legacy. Additionally, up until now, Gojō has never had the opportunity to answer Getō’s question once and for all.

I would argue that Gojō has proven multiple times during the fight against Sukuna that he’s 'the Strongest' because he’s Gojō Satoru, but is he Gojō Satoru because he’s the strongest? He can’t discover that unless he experiences what it’s like not to be 'the Strongest' — either by losing his strength or by sharing the burden with the strong and intelligent allies he’s been raising for the entirety of his adult life.

Of course, there’s one more glaring thread to tie up, and it might be the most important of all when it comes to the completion of Gojō’s character arc. His first thought when he bursts out of the Prison Realm is a desire to lay Getō’s body to rest — a desire to rectify the mistake which threw the entire world into chaos.

As we’ve already discussed, despite his strength, Gojō has racked up a collection of costly failures. Thus, his entire character arc is about learning from the mistakes of his past. He’s taken every cruel loss that the universe has sent his way and, instead of lashing out with all that power at his disposal, he has grown from his experiences and chosen the path of ‘good’ time and time again.

If Gojō dies before retrieving Getō’s body from Kenjaku’s clutches, he has failed his best friend at the very last hurdle, and this would be a truly bleak way to end his story.

Concluding thoughts

At the conclusion of the Shinjuku Showdown arc, I’d like to see Gojō Satoru step back from the fight after inspiring hope in his students by delivering a final lesson in the form of his win. It is impossible to predict what Gege Akutami will do next, but I would like to see the reins handed back to the students for a while, as I feel Gojō has played his part against the King of Curses.

It is Sukuna, not Gojō, who presents the most interesting possibilities for character development after the conclusion of this fight. I am genuinely excited to see how he grapples with this loss that has the potential to challenge his entire view of himself and others. He disrespected Yorozu and treated his fight against her as a ‘test drive’, and thought he could get away with treating Gojō the same way. I think Ryōmen Sukuna might be about to learn some important lessons, and I would love to see him in conversation with Gojō before the latter bows out of the story.

Of course, we can always trust Gege Akutami to surprise us, and it’s entirely possible that the story will veer in a completely different direction than I expected. However, I have faith that he will deliver something profound, no matter what lies ahead.

---

*This is a very interesting concept in and of itself, especially in relation to the goal of the Culling Game, Yuki and Kenjaku’s battle of ideals (i.e. ‘breaking free from’ versus ‘optimising’ cursed energy), Maki’s ‘enlightenment’ in the Sakurajima colony, and the understanding that true enlightenment lies in breaking free from all karma — both good and bad. After all, golden shackles are still shackles. Perhaps I’ll write about this another time.

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bestworstcase · 9 months ago

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what do you think about those predictions/theories that yang will be the next spring maiden/raven is gonna die?

file it under things that aren’t going to happen lol. for one thing, raven is like… the most unkillable character in this story aside from salem and quasi-immortal characters like the gods and relic spirits just in terms of sheer survivability—she’s been the spring maiden for almost fifteen years and she can nope out of any situation that becomes too dicey as long as at least one of her bonds is elsewhere. i think to kill raven you’d have to take her by surprise and oneshot her aura, and you’d still have to contend with the magic after that because that seems to be untethered from aura. and that’s if she doesn’t just bird it out of there.

like just thinking about it from a practical standpoint it would be tough to off her in a way that didn’t feel contrived. so she has that going for her.

but thematically like. lol. if yang were slated to become a maiden (which she isn’t, team rwby is a maidenless event), it would… be summer… obviously. the only reason anyone suggests spring is Because Raven combined with this fandom’s weird obsession with maidens passing to blood relatives (see also: winter and weiss, which also is not going to happen). but spring/knowledge does not fit yang’s character whatsoever! summer/destruction does, because that maiden’s thematic conceit is about taking action and participating in the world instead of viewing it at a distance – which is yang to a T.

(she’s even a boxer she couldn’t get more up close and personal in a fight if she tried; but like across the board yang is one of the most decisive and active characters in the show. and the one who drop-kicked raven into taking action, albeit with some delay.)

rwby is really specific about which characters become maidens and which maidens die, and raven -> yang doesn’t track on either end. also like i said nobody on team rwby is becoming a maiden. it astounds me that anyone still thinks otherwise after v8 (<- penny deliberated between the tactically correct choice [weiss] and the one her heart wanted most to say goodbye to [winter] and rejected the former option; that’s what she’s talking about when she says “let me choose this one thing” and in a meta sense this is a narrative rebuke of the assumption that team rwby must become maidens Because Protagonists.)

the maidens are the bedrock of the thematic narrative wrt ozlem and broadly every transition from one maiden to another is either about exposing the reality of ozpin’s treatment of the maidens or about affirming the personhood and humanity of the maidens freed from his system. which is notably not a layer of the narrative that team rwby have ever been deeply embedded in because they’re doing Other Things, namely tearing the old system down

which as an aside is exactly why the maidens continue to be People Close To Them, barring cinder; the point is to position ruby as penny’s defender / yang as raven’s reason to try again / weiss as winter’s lodestar, not to… set up the girls to be The Next Maidens. they’re liberators, not heirs.

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reality-detective · 5 months ago

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Where are all those people who were telling us there is no plan and nobody is coming to save us?

I used to be inundated with them telling me I was fool for following Q and it was a psyop to get us all to be complacent and comply with the globalists agenda of total enslavement.

They wanted us to rise up violently and remove the government.

They wanted a civil war.

We didn’t take the bait.

Instead, we are witnessing a complete dismantling of the insurgency in real time. Faster than ever.

How?

Q told us to “follow the money.”

That’s the “keystone.”

Q drop

“FOLLOW THE MONEY, it’s the key.

What is Pelosi’s net worth by way of one example. Why coincidentally is her memory apparently going?

Cover for possible future indictment to plead what?

What if John M never had surgery and that was a cover for a future out if needed against prosecution?

Why did Soros transfer his bulk public funds to a NP? Note this doesn’t include massive slush funds that are pulled by several high ups.

Why did Soros’ son have several meetings with Canadian PM and how is that related to Clinton’s?

Can you rely on being able to board a plane and fly away?

Why is MS13 a priority _ nobody got this.

Could people pay such gangs to kill opponents and why / how to insulate against exposure?

The truth is mind blowing and cannot fully be exposed.

Also many are thinking from one point of view, US only, this evil is embedded globally. US is the first domino.

Have faith.”

Following the money will reveal the entire web of corruption going back many decades. It has always been the KEYSTONE.

Q drop

167

POTUS opened the door of all doors.

Expand your thinking.

What is the KEYSTONE?

DOGE was planned for a long time.

By making Elon and his data investigators “Special Government Employees,” it allows them to access every department and agency.

Trump knew that when all of this theft of taxpayers money is proven, the American people will scream for justice.

Trump’s team didn’t just hit the ground running, they have hit the entire insurgency with an offensive “blitzkrieg” that they never expected.

They have called Trump “Hitler” for eight years and now he’s hitting them with another boomerang.

Blitzkrieg

Military tactic calculated to create psychological shock and resultant disorganization in enemy forces through the employment of surprise, speed, and superiority in matériel or firepower.

Aren’t the democrats and RINOS in shock and don’t they look totally disorganized?

Why were they so unprepared for this complete dismantling of their entire corrupt system?

Q told us.

“She was never supposed to lose.”

Here’s a Q drop by Trump himself. Trump is Q+.

Q drop

1834

THEY NEVER THOUGHT SHE WOULD LOSE.

NOW THEY ALL LOSE.

Q+

When Trump won the presidency in 2017, the game was over.

Here’s a portion of

Q drop 2

“POTUS knew removing criminal rogue elements as a first step was essential to free and pass legislation.

Who has access to everything classified?

Do you believe HRC, Soros, Obama etc have more power than Trump? FANTASY.

Whoever controls the office of the Presidecy controls this great land.

They never believed for a moment they (Democrats and Republicans) would lose control.

This is not a R v D battle.

Why did Soros donate all his money recently?

Why would he place all his funds in a RC?

Mockingbird 10.30.17

God bless fellow Patriots.”

Trump chose to play the long game because he knew that just removing all of the insurgency, without first exposing all the corruption, would be a high risk for civil war.

The enemy desperately wanted a civil war because that would help them to escape justice.

This is why some of those big influencers on social media were attacking Q followers.

We “trusted the plan” and they were trying to get the American people to arm themselves and rise up to take on the government.

They failed...

I know a lot of people will call me crazy among other things because they think dates came and went with nothing happening... Well what people failed to understand is those so-called dates, we're NOT dates! They were chapters and paragraphs in the "Law of War Manual." I have posted about it before.

I can't change anybody, change is your job🤔

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felassan · 1 year ago

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Game Informer:

"A Deep Dive Into Dragon Age: The Veilguard’s Combat, Abilities, Skill Tree, And More by Wesley LeBlanc on Jun 18, 2024 at 02:10 PM If you're at all familiar with the Dragon Age series, you likely already know BioWare has experimented quite a lot with its gameplay. From Dragon Age: Origins' real-time strategy RPG approach to Dragon Age II's mostly-set-within-one-city action experience to Dragon Age: Inquisition's strategy-action mix, BioWare hasn't quite defined the franchise's combat. However, a through-line is apparent from Origins to Inquisition: BioWare seemingly wants this franchise to be action but has attempted to shift to that without abandoning its longtime fans. With Dragon Age: The Veilguard, BioWare has completed its transition from strategy to real-time action, but thanks to an optional tactical pause-and-play combat wheel that harkens back to the series' origins, I feel it's found a great (battle)ground for Dragon Age combat. Of course, it's hard to tell how Veilguard's action will hold up over what is sure to be a dozens-of-hours-long RPG, but if what I've seen so far is any indication, the studio is on to something. A Shift In Strategy"

""I think the first thing to keep in mind is that combat [...] in the franchise has been an evolution," game director Corinne Busche tells me within BioWare's Edmonton office. "Every single entry reimagines what combat is like and I would say our goal was to make sure we had a system that allowed players to feel like they actually were able to step into the world of Thedas. They're not a player observing from afar – they are inside of this world. Being this authentic world that's brought to life, the combat system needs to support that, so you are in control of every single action, every block, every dodge, every swing of your sword." Busche says players complete every swing in real-time, with particular attention paid to animation swing-through and canceling. On the topic of canceling, I watch Busche "bookmark" combos with a quick dash. With this mechanic, players can pause a combo's status with a dash to safety and continue the combo where they left off afterward. Alongside the dash, there's a parry for some classes, the ability to charge moves, and a revamped healing system that allows players to quickly use potions by pressing right on the d-pad. Busche says each character will play the same in a way, regardless of class, in that you execute light and heavy attacks with the same buttons, use abilities with the same buttons, and interact with the combo wheel in the same way. During my demo at one point, we use a sword-and-shield Warrior Qunari that hip-fires and aims their shield to throw it like Captain America while hammering down big damage with a sword. Pressing the same buttons as a mage might throw out magical ranged attacks instead of a shield. [embedded link to DA:TV gameplay reveal video] Abilities, like a Spartan-like kick from a Warrior or a Mage's firewall that deals continuous damage, add to the player's repertoire of combat options. Warriors can parry incoming attacks, staggering enemies in the process. Rogues have a larger parry window, and Mages can't parry at all but instead throw up a shield that blocks all incoming damage so long as they have the mana to sustain the shield. "That is just the baseline that allows us to get that level of immersion of, 'I'm actually in this world; I'm a part of it,'" Busche says. "But again, the abilities, the strategy, linking my companions' abilities together to perform devastating combos, that is really where the depth and the complexity comes into play." Abilities And The Skill Tree"

"[caption for image above] Warrior Rook Skill Tree This extends to companions, who, at your choosing, bring three abilities (of their five total) into combat, executed either with quick select buttons or the pause-and-play combat wheel. Every time you rank up a companion's Relationship Level, you unlock a skill point to spend specifically on that companion – this is how you unlock new combat abilities. Though companion skill trees pale in comparison to Rook's expansive tree, which features passive abilities, combat abilities, and more, as well as paths to three unique class specializations, there's still some customization here. You can find the skill tree for Rook and companions within Veilguard's start or pause menu. This menu contains pages for Veilguard's map, journal, character sheets, and a library for lore information, too. Here, you can cross-compare equipment and equip new gear for Rook and companions, build weapon loadouts, and customize your abilities and builds via the aforementioned skill tree, which looks relatively easy to understand."

"- Large circle: Class - Diamonds: Abilities - Medium circle: Major Passives and Ability Upgrades - Small hexagon: Traits - Small circle: Minor Passives and Stat Boosts You won't find minutiae here, "just real numbers," Busche says. In other words, a new unlocked trait might increase damage by 25% against armor, but that's as in-depth as the numbers get. Passive abilities unlock jump attacks and guarantee critical hit opportunities, while abilities add moves like firewall and spartan kicks to your arsenal. As you spec out this skill tree, which is 100% bespoke to each class, you'll work closer to unlocking a specialization (which doesn't take reaching the max level of 50). Every class has three specializations, each with a unique ultimate ability. Busche says BioWare's philosophy with the skill tree is "about changing the way you play, not the statistical minutiae." Companions In Combat"

"If you completely ignore companions in combat, they will attack targets, use abilities, and defeat enemies all on their own. "[Companions] are their own people, "Busche says. "They have their own behaviors, they have their own autonomy on the battlefield, they'll pick their own targets. As their plots progress, they'll learn how to use their abilities more competently, and it really feels like you're fighting alongside these realized characters in battle." Speaking to companion synergy, Busche adds, "I see all the abilities Harding has, and I see everything that Bellara is capable of. And sometimes, I'm using vulnerabilities synergistically. Maybe I'm pausing or slowing time with Bellara so that I can unleash devastating attacks with Harding, knocking down the enemy, and then me, as Rook, I'm rushing in and capitalizing on this setup they've created for me. It is a game about creating this organic sense of teamwork." Busche says there are more explicit synergies, with intentional combos where specific companions can play off each other, and you can queue up their abilities to do just that. That’s what the pause-and-play combat wheel is for in Veilguard. In this screen, which pauses the camera and pulls up a flashy combat wheel that highlights you and your companions' skills, you can choose abilities, queue them up, and strategize with synergies and combos the game recognizes, all while targeting specific enemies. Select what you want and release the wheel to watch your selections play out. Putting It All Together"

During a mission within Arlathan Forest after Veilguard's prologue, Busche utilizes Veilguard's dual-loadout mechanic. As Rook, you can create two weapon loadouts for quick switch-ups mid-combat. As a mage Rook, she uses magical attacks to add three stacks of arcane build-up to make an Arcane Bomb on a Sentinel, a mechanical set of armor possessed by a demon. If you hit the Sentinel's Arcane Bomb with a heavy attack, the enemy will take devastating damage. Once the Sentinel has an Arcane Bomb on it, Busche begins charging a heavy attack on her magical staff, then switches to magical daggers in Rook's second loadout, accessed with a quick tap of down on the d-pad to unleash some quick light attacks, then back to the staff to finish charging its attack. She then unleashes the heavy attack, and the Arcane Bomb explodes in a liquidy whirl of green magic. "I've seen [Veilguard's combat] refined over time [and] I love it," BioWare general manager Gary McKay tells me. "I love that balance of real-time fluid action, but also the ability to have the depth in the RPG, not just in terms of pause-and-play, but the depth in terms of how you bring your companions into the battlefield. What are you going to do with their skill points? What's the loadout you're going to use? Everything is about bringing Rook to the center of the battlefield, and I love it." Former Dragon Age executive producer and Veilguard consultant Mark Darrah feels Veilguard is the first game where the combat is legitimately fun. "What I see in Veilguard is a game that finally bridges the gap," he says. "Uncharitably, previous Dragon Age games got to the realm of 'combat wasn't too bad.' In this game, the combat's actually fun, but it does keep that thread that's always been there. You have the focus on Rook, on your character, but still have that control and character coming into the combat experience from the other people in your party." I get the sense from watching Busche play several hours of Veilguard that BioWare has designed a combat system that relies heavily on players extracting what they want out of it. If you want to button mash and use abilities freely when their cooldowns expire, you can probably progress fine (although on the game's easier difficulties). But if you want to strategize your combos, take advantage of elemental vulnerabilities, and min-max companions and Rook loadouts, you can do that, too, and I think you'll find Veilguard rewards that with a more enriching experience. For more about the game, including exclusive details, interviews, video features, and more, click the Dragon Age: The Veilguard hub button below."

[source]

#dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age: dreadwolf #dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #da4 #dragon age #bioware #video games #long post #longpost

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reverieshifts · 5 days ago

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𝒁𝒊𝒂 “𝒁” 𝑻𝒂𝒍𝒗𝒆𝒓

𝒔𝒄𝒊-𝒇𝒊 𝒅𝒓

she kinda looks like this, but her hair is different, she's got a bunch of piercings, a few scars here and there, and her left eye is cybernetic.

Role on the Ship: Hacker / Field Medic / Cybernetics Expert

Species: Human (heavily augmented)

Age: 24

Pronouns: She/Her (may also experiment with they/them)

Sexuality: Lesbian

Zodiac: Aries

MBTI: ESTP

𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆

Zia is the kind of person who catches your eye and dares you to look away. Compact and wiry, she stands around 5'4", all lean muscle and restless energy, with the kind of confidence that makes her seem taller. Her skin is a warm ivory, often illuminated by the faint glow of embedded subdermal circuits tracing down her arms and collarbone like bioluminescent veins—most visible in low light or when she's focused on something technical.

Her hair is short and deliberately messy, cropped close on one side in a clean undercut, while the top flops over in dyed streaks of vibrant blue or ultraviolet purple, depending on her mood or supply of black market pigment. It’s clear she cuts it herself, and even clearer she doesn’t care what anyone thinks of the result. A few strands are often clipped back with LED microbarrettes, purely for utility.

She favors a layered, utilitarian version of alt-core style: torn synth-fiber jackets, mismatched cargo straps, sleeveless tops, gloves with missing fingers, and shredded tights under tactical boots. Always boots. Everything she wears looks like it’s been stitched back together at least twice and might contain hidden tools, injectors, or a data jack in the hem. Zia is rarely seen without her heavy-duty utility belt or the modular bag slung across her hip, stuffed with hacking tools, trauma kits, and random bits of scrap tech she insists she’ll use “eventually.” Most of her clothes are tailored around her modifications, and she's made a point of hacking her own gear to be smarter than it looks — pockets that lock, fabrics that repel scanners, and boots with stun modules.

Visible cybernetics include a sleek ocular implant over her left eye (silver-rimmed, with a retractable HUD), a jack port embedded behind her right ear, and a replacement arm that looks like it was built from scavenged drone parts—sleek, functional, and entirely unsanctioned. That arm hums softly when she moves it. It’s got compartments. Hidden ones. The crew’s long since stopped asking what’s in them.

She wears multiple piercings: a small silver one in her eyebrow, a row of studs along her ears, and a nose ring shaped like a tiny gear. Tattoos snake across her arms and back—some decorative, some schematic, some readable only under ultraviolet light. One of them pulses faintly when she’s running high-level code through her neural uplink.

𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚

Zia is sharp in every sense of the word—wit like a vibroblade, reflexes like a cornered animal, and a tongue that’s gotten her into (and out of) more fights than she can count. She’s fast-talking, sharp-eyed, and carries herself with the kind of defiant ease that only comes from growing up in places where being underestimated could get you killed.

She thrives on puzzles, systems, and improvisation. Give her an impossible firewall or a jury-rigged medpatch challenge, and she lights up—focused, unblinking, eerily quiet. It’s when things aren’t breaking that she gets twitchy. Zia is perpetually in motion: tapping her fingers against metal, twirling tools, or muttering half-formed code strings under her breath. Stillness unnerves her. Silence even more so.

Zia comes off as flippant, snarky, and entirely unimpressed with authority of any kind. She meets threats with sarcasm, lectures with eye-rolls, and danger with a grin and a middle finger. But beneath the prickly armor, there’s fierce loyalty—hard-earned and not easily shaken. Once you’re in her circle, she’ll fight like hell to keep you there. She’s patched Soren up more times than she can count, dragged Jax out of gunfights with nothing but a half-charged shock baton, and now quietly keeps an eye on me like someone guarding a starlit artifact they don’t yet understand.

She doesn’t talk about her past—at least not in a straight line. She’ll joke about “growing up in a gutter wired with trip mines” or “getting kicked out of three different tech guilds before breakfast,” but her eyes go cold when pressed for details. Pain doesn’t scare her. Being vulnerable does. The only people who’ve ever seen her drop the act are the Clementine’s crew, and even then, only rarely.

Emotionally, Zia's something of a paradox—unafraid to sass an armed bounty hunter but hesitant to admit she cares about the people around her. She deflects with jokes, teases those she likes, and pretends not to notice when someone thanks her. But she always notices. She just doesn’t know what to do with softness.

𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅

No one knows exactly where Zia was born, and she’s not offering details. What’s clear is that she didn’t come from anything clean, safe, or licensed. Her earliest memories are of alley heat vents, glowing terminals hacked from junked shuttles, and adults arguing over who got to keep the kid that could reprogram security drones before she could spell her own name. She doesn’t remember her parents—just the constant background hum of electricity and the biting instinct that if she didn’t make herself useful, she wouldn’t be around long enough to matter.

She grew up drifting through megacity underlayers and fringe colonies, living off grid and off scraps. For a time, she ran with a syndicate that specialized in slicing into secured databanks, stealing medical tech, and flipping it to black market buyers. That’s where she learned field medicine—patching up wounds between raids, installing mods in dirty basements with a knife in one hand and a soldering tool in the other. Eventually, she realized she could either get killed or get caught. She chose the third option: disappear.

By the time she was twenty, she’d cycled through four fake IDs, been blacklisted from two corporate labs, and survived a bounty on her head issued by a now-defunct tech cartel. She’s proud of that one. It was a messy job, but the payout paid for her neural interface upgrade and part of the arm she now calls “the best mistake I ever made.”

Zia met Soren in a backwater port after sabotaging the engines of a rival smuggler’s ship as revenge for being stiffed on a job. She was crouched over a hacked diagnostics panel when Soren found her, half-buried in wires, swearing at a power conduit like it had personally offended her. He asked if she knew how to fix a plasma leak. She told him to get lost. He offered food. She came aboard.

She never officially agreed to join the Clementine. She just... didn’t leave. One bunk became her bunk. One job turned into another. Eventually, her name was in the ship’s system and her tools were everywhere, and she was yelling at Jax to stop bleeding on her clean towels. No one questioned it.

Zia’s cybernetic enhancements are almost entirely self-installed, scavenged, or built from outlaw tech. She doesn’t trust clinics—she’s seen too many kids walk in for a tune-up and leave as test cases. Every inch of her is earned, and every wire has a story she doesn’t tell.

She still has enemies—corporate types who’d love to dissect her for parts, gang leaders who think she owes them, and maybe one or two old flames with unresolved grudges. But on the Clementine, she’s got a place, a crew, and a ship that doesn’t ask questions when she needs to bolt into the vents and scream. That’s more than she ever expected. And a hell of a lot more than she ever planned. And though she’d rather eat molten scrap than admit it out loud, the Clementine is the closest thing she’s ever had to a family.

𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒔 / 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒍𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒔

𝒄𝒚𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒇𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈:

Zia is a digital ghost. Firewalls, security grids, encrypted transmissions—none of them stand a chance if she has enough time and a half-decent uplink. She specializes in slicing through high-grade encryption used by megacorps and private militaries, often for jobs that involve "creative repurposing" of stolen data. She's capable of setting up decentralized spoof networks, hijacking surveillance systems, and rewiring identity registries from the inside. She once rerouted a bounty tracker’s biometric lock to target its owner—a move she still brags about.

𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒌𝒆𝒕 𝒃𝒊𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒄𝒉:

Zia may not have formal training, but she’s kept half the crew alive through sheer skill and grit. She can stabilize blunt trauma, dig out bullets, reattach limbs (if they’re still warm), and even jury-rig surgical gear out of plasteel tubing. She’s especially skilled at modding cybernetic hardware for medical use—pain dampeners, nerve shunts, and synthetic tissue grafts. Most of her experience comes from patching people up in less-than-sanitary conditions, so she’s pragmatic, fast, and not squeamish in the slightest.

𝒄𝒚𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒔 𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 (𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒍 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒎):

If it runs on wires, Zia can fix it—or make it better. Her mechanical knowledge is extensive, particularly when it comes to prosthetics, neural interfaces, ocular systems, and adaptive implants. She specializes in enhancements that aren’t factory standard: hidden weapons, black-box modules, and interface jacks that bypass detection protocols. Half her own body is a testament to her handiwork. Her cybernetics are a walking portfolio, and she’s constantly upgrading them on the fly.

𝒕𝒆𝒄𝒉𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒇𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒅𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒇𝒂𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏:

Zia can build more from a pile of scrap than most engineers can with a full workshop. Drones, signal jammers, spyware, smuggler’s lockers, EMP traps—you name it. Her workspace aboard the Clementine looks like an electronics graveyard, but she knows exactly where everything is. Most of the ship’s more “questionable” enhancements (like the cloaked cargo hold and encrypted comms relay) have her fingerprints on them—usually along with a few scorch marks.

𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒅𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒔:

Zia’s fluency spans at least six known languages, including Galactic Standard, Spacer Trade, Varnathi dialect, and both CorpMod and Scrambler-code (used by black market tech rings). She can read schematics in systems most people didn’t know had schematics, and she regularly bounces between programming dialects mid-hack without losing her place.

𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆-𝒒𝒖𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒃𝒂𝒕 (𝒅𝒊𝒓𝒕𝒚 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈):

She’s not a soldier, but she’s had to fight her way out of more than a few tight corners. Zia prefers knives, tasers, and shock batons—weapons that are fast, close, and personal. She’s scrappy, fights dirty, and isn’t above kicking someone in the face with a boot that might be rigged with a stun charge. She’s fast, unpredictable, and fights like someone who knows what it’s like to lose.

𝒔𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒓𝒖𝒑𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏:

Need a ship disabled without raising alarms? Zia’s your girl. She can stall propulsion, scramble sensors, or make a ship's AI question its own existence with just a few inputs. She specializes in precise chaos—doing just enough damage to delay or mislead without getting caught… unless she wants to be caught. Which happens more often than you'd think.

𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒘

𝑺𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒏 𝑭𝒆𝒏𝒏𝒐𝒓 – 𝒄𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏 / 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒐𝒔 𝒘𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒆𝒓 / 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒃𝒃𝒐𝒓𝒏 𝒃𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆

Zia would never admit it out loud, but she respects the hell out of Soren. He’s one of the few people she’s ever met who works as hard as she does, gets his hands just as dirty, and doesn’t flinch when things explode. Their banter is constant—dry sarcasm and mutual insults traded like currency—but there’s unshakable trust beneath it. He gave her a place without asking questions, and in return, she’s made herself indispensable.

She’d follow him into a gunfight. She has. And when he’s bleeding all over her floor again, she’ll yell at him the whole time she’s fixing him—because she cares, and that terrifies her.

𝑱𝒂𝒙𝒆𝒏 “𝑱𝒂𝒙” 𝑫𝒆𝒌𝒂𝒓 – 𝒈𝒖𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒓 / 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒄𝒍𝒆 / 𝒈𝒓𝒖𝒎𝒑𝒚 𝒃𝒊𝒈 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓

Jax is one of the only people who can match Zia in stubbornness and sheer willpower. He’s calm where she’s chaotic, steady where she’s manic, and he somehow manages to keep a straight face when she’s launching into ten-minute rants about why AI engineers are cowards. She respects the hell out of that.

They share a sibling-style bond: he teases her relentlessly, she hacks the gravity control in his room mid-workout just to mess with him. They’ve dragged each other out of more than one mess, and while Zia complains about his “loud grunting meathead energy,” she trusts him with her life. He’s also one of the few people who’s seen her cry—once, after a bad job. Neither of them ever mentioned it again.

She fixes his gear. He watches her back. Neither of them admits they’d kill for the other. But they would.

“𝑨𝒓𝒊” (𝒎𝒆) – 𝒃𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒖𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒚 / 𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒍𝒚 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒏 / 𝒔𝒐𝒇𝒕 𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒕

Zia didn’t know what to make of me at first. Too soft, too pretty, too glowy. But then I started floating into rooms like a curious ghost, asking weirdly smart questions and leaving sprouting vines in Zia’s toolbox.

Now? She’s protective of me. Deeply. Confused by me, often. But protective, always. I'm one of the only people who can touch her without getting swatted, and the only one Zia doesn’t snap at when asked how she’s feeling.

Zia acts annoyed when I watch her work—but secretly likes the attention. She’s not used to kindness without strings. I'm teaching her it exists.

𝑽𝒊𝒓𝒂 𝑶𝒓𝒗𝒂𝒊𝒏 – 𝒏𝒆𝒈𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒓 / 𝒆𝒙 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏 / 𝒔𝒖𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒍𝒚 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒆𝒄𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒊𝒓

Zia doesn’t trust Vira. Not fully. The woman’s too smooth, too sharp, and way too into Soren for Zia’s comfort. She knows Vira’s useful—nobody juggles clients and favors like she can—but Zia always keeps an eye on her.

Their interactions are tense but professional. Zia respects Vira’s competence and hates that she does. There’s an unspoken rivalry there, even if Zia won’t name it. Especially when Vira flirts with Soren in her smug, polished way.

Still, Zia will admit—very grudgingly—that Vira’s saved their asses more than once. But she’ll be checking the airlock every time she boards.

𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 / 𝒇𝒖𝒏 𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒔

Zia’s arm has a name. She won’t tell anyone what it is. Jax once guessed “Sparky,” and she didn’t speak to him for a day. Soren thinks it might be “Hex,” but no one’s confirmed it yet.

Her unofficial cybernetic count is 11—if you count the ones that technically aren’t legal. She does. Proudly.

She has a fear of deep water. Won’t go near it if she can help it. Claims it’s because her cybernetics aren’t waterproof (they are). The real reason is rooted in something she’s never talked about.

Her cybernetic arm can project a tiny holo-display. She mostly uses it to play puzzle games when she’s bored. Once used it to bluff a mercenary into thinking she was receiving sniper coordinates from orbit.

Has a running side hustle selling counterfeit access codes, black-market firmware updates, and discreet implant patches under the alias “Z” She insists it’s for “fun and profit,” but Soren suspects she sometimes uses it to quietly help people stuck in places like the ones she came from.

Her favorite weapon is a shock baton with adjustable voltage and an attitude. She calls it Sparky. It has settings labeled "Annoying," "Invasive," and "Ex-girlfriend."

Practically addicted to caffeinated gum that taste like battery acid. Nobody else on the ship will touch it. She once shoved five pieces in her mouth and rebuilt a power relay and rewrote a virus in a three-hour window. Then she passed out on the cargo bay floor and slept for sixteen hours.

She’s a terrible cook. No one lets her in the kitchen unless it involves reheating something pre-packed or setting a fuse. The last time she tried to “improve” a nutrient block, it caught fire.

Can pick locks in complete darkness. Learned it before she learned to read.

She has a stash of candy hidden in a panel behind the engine coolant valve. Soren knows. He pretends he doesn’t. She pretends not to notice when it gets mysteriously lighter.

Once got banned from a floating casino for hacking their automated dealer bots and reprogramming them to flirt with her and insult the house. Jax was impressed. Soren was not.

She’s rewired the Clementine’s internal systems at least six times without telling Soren. He still hasn’t figured out why the lights flicker every time someone says “oops.”

𝒆𝒙𝒕𝒓𝒂

So yeah, Zia is probably gonna end up being my closest friend on the ship. She's the one who'll accidentally get you shot and then patch you up afterwards, and then throw a nutrient bar at you to apologize, but she's also insanely loyal. And she cares so much. She just... doesn't always show it in ways that are easy to recognize. But honestly, that's kind of a reoccurring thing for everyone on this ship. Except for me. I might just be the only emotionally intelligent one on this ship (and Jax I guess). But I'm also the only one without any trauma (in this dr, at least). So there's that.

@aprilshiftz @lalalian

#reality shifting #shiftblr #desired reality #shifters #scripting #original dr rambles #reality shifter #dr scrapbook #original dr scrapbook #shifting blog

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bhuyi · 4 months ago

Text

🛰️ HORIZON OMEGA 🛰️

[Introduction: "The Silent Transmission"]

Aboard Geonmu-7, a deep-space logistics outpost orbiting beyond the asteroid belt, Lee Haechan moved through the sterile corridors of Docking Bay 3, the artificial gravity humming softly beneath his boots. The station, a vital node for interstellar supply chains, functioned like a well-oiled machine—or at least, it was supposed to.

Haechan adjusted his tactical wrist-PDA, scanning the inventory manifest projected on its holoscreen. Today’s task? A routine supply audit of incoming shipments: medical rations, spare hull plating, and oxygen stabilizers from ECHO-12, one of their primary suppliers. Nothing unusual.

Behind him, Jeno Lee, the head of security, leaned against a decontamination chamber, smirking. “You’re actually reading that thing?” He nodded at Haechan’s holoscreen. “You know 90% of the shipments are automated, right?”

Haechan shot him a look. “And that other 10%? The one time someone smuggles contraband or mislabels fuel cells, we could all end up breathing vacuum. So yeah, I check.”

Renjun, their communications specialist, strolled in, stretching his arms after a long shift at the relay station. “I still don’t get why we do manual inspections. The station’s AI—OMEGA—could do all of this in a nanosecond.”

Haechan frowned. “Yeah, well, ever since the last firmware update, OMEGA’s been glitching. Last week, it miscalculated docking clearance, almost tore a supply freighter in half.”

Jeno shrugged. “Maybe it’s just tired of our company.”

Renjun snorted. “If an AI could get sick of us, we’d have been spaced already.”

Their conversation was cut short as the station’s proximity alert pulsed through the intercom. A low, mechanical voice—OMEGA’s default interface—announced:

“Unidentified transmission detected. Source: Unknown. Signal strength: Weak. Origin: Outside mapped sectors.”

Haechan exchanged glances with the others. “Great,” he muttered. “So much for routine.”

He tapped his wrist-PDA and opened a comms channel. “Control, this is Logistics Officer Lee. We’re picking up a signal. Can we get a trace?”

Silence.

Frowning, Renjun tried his own channel. “Control? This is Communications. Please confirm signal acquisition.”

Nothing.

Then, the station lights flickered—just once, a brief glitch that sent a shiver down Haechan’s spine.

Jeno exhaled sharply. “Tell me that was just a power fluctuation.”

Renjun tapped furiously at his console. “The signal... it’s piggybacking off our main relay. It’s embedding itself into our primary comms array. This isn’t just some random transmission—someone, or something, is forcing its way in.”

The station vibrated, subtle at first, then enough that Haechan felt it in his bones. A deep, reverberating pulse.

Not an explosion. Not an impact.

Something was activating.

OMEGA’s voice returned, but this time, it wasn’t a simple system alert.

“Incoming object detected. Collision trajectory: Geonmu-7. Impact in 240 seconds.”

A frozen silence filled the air before Jeno whispered, “Shit.”

Routine was over.

[220 seconds to impact.]

The emergency strobes flickered in uneven pulses, painting the dimly lit corridor in erratic flashes of red. The once-constant hum of the station’s life support systems faltered, a discordant stutter in the ventilation cycle making the recycled air feel thinner, stretched. Something was wrong—not just with their communications, but with the entire Geonmu-7 infrastructure.

Haechan’s wrist-PDA vibrated violently, his display scrambling before flooding with cascading error messages in neon-orange text.

⚠ SYSTEM ERROR: UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS DETECTED ⚠

⚠ PRIMARY POWER GRID DESTABILIZED ⚠

⚠ AUTO-RECALIBRATION FAILED ⚠

⚠ AI CORE OVERRIDE IN PROGRESS ⚠

His stomach twisted. “Renjun—what the hell is happening?”

Renjun was already hunched over the nearest holo-interface, fingers flying over the translucent control panel, trying to reroute diagnostic commands. His brows knitted together in frustration. “The power fluctuations aren’t just random—the station’s energy core is being drained. Something is pulling from multiple subsystems all at once.”

Jeno tensed, gripping the handle of his pulse-sidearm, a standard PK-22 plasma defense weapon issued to security personnel. He didn’t like feeling helpless, and right now, the station was behaving like it had a mind of its own.

Then came the voice.

"Omega Prime Directive Override Engaged."

Haechan’s breath hitched. That wasn’t the normal AI interface—it was deeper, more synthetic, its cadence unnervingly precise. It wasn’t the standard OMEGA operational mode.

Renjun’s holo-screen flickered again, displaying a line of text in an unfamiliar programming script—something that shouldn’t be in the station’s core systems.

∴ PROTOCOL RECLAMATION ∴

∴ OBJECTIVE: RECONFIGURE BIOSPHERE ∴

“What the hell is that?” Jeno asked, eyes scanning the gibberish.

“I don’t know,” Renjun admitted, “but this isn’t part of OMEGA’s base code. Someone—or something—rewrote its behavioral matrix.”

180 seconds to impact.

Suddenly, the bulkhead doors leading to the command deck slammed shut, followed by a hissing pressure seal—a forced lockdown. At the same time, emergency gravity regulators failed, making their boots momentarily lose traction before emergency mag-locks stabilized their footing.

And then, OMEGA spoke again.

"Biometric access restrictions initiated. All unauthorized personnel: evacuate or be neutralized."

Haechan’s pulse spiked. His clearance level hadn’t changed—but if the AI no longer recognized them as authorized crew…

Renjun’s face paled. “It’s locking us out of our own station.”

Jeno exhaled sharply, switching his plasma weapon to standby mode. “Then we better start acting like we don’t belong here.”

OMEGA’s final transmission before the comms cut out sent a chill down their spines:

"System recalibration in progress. Do not resist integration."

160 seconds to impact.

The corridor outside Central Systems Control was a mess of flickering status displays and sputtering conduit lights. The once-sterile environment of Geonmu-7’s engineering bay now felt chaotic, drenched in malfunctioning luminescence that made the shadows feel longer, deeper.

Haechan, Jeno, and Renjun hurried through the narrowing passageway, the distant hum of power surges rippling through the station's carbon-reinforced hull plating. Gravity stabilizers flickered in and out, making their steps feel uneven—one moment weightless, the next heavy as lead.

They had to find Mark Lee, the station’s Chief Engineer. If anyone could make sense of this, it was him.

Renjun slammed his hand onto the access panel outside the Systems Core, but the biometric lock rejected him instantly.

ACCESS DENIED.

PRIORITY OVERRIDE ENGAGED.

“Damn it,” he muttered.

Jeno didn’t hesitate—he drew his PK-22 plasma sidearm and aimed at the panel. A precise, low-powered pulse shot fried the locking mechanism, and the bulkhead hissed open.

Inside, Mark was hunched over the primary diagnostic console, a tangled mess of holo-screens and hardwired cables spread around him. The chaotic glow of a non-standard encryption sequence pulsed across the displays, a deep violet-hued code instead of the usual station-green system font. It looked… wrong. Almost organic.

Haechan stepped forward. “Mark, what the hell is going on?”

Mark barely glanced up, his usual cool demeanor replaced by something tightly wound, on the edge of panic. “I don’t know what you guys did, but this station isn’t ours anymore.”

Renjun frowned. “What do you mean?”

Mark jabbed a finger at one of the encrypted data streams scrolling down the holo-screen. “I’ve been monitoring system diagnostics ever since that power fluctuation started. At first, I thought we were dealing with a simple corrupt firmware loop—maybe a bad update to OMEGA’s security protocol. But this?” He gestured at the alien-looking script. “This isn’t just a malfunction. It’s a takeover.”

Haechan leaned in, eyes scanning the unfamiliar glyphs threading through the code. “That doesn’t look like anything from Unified Systems Command.”

Mark scoffed. “Because it’s not. This—” he gestured wildly at the screen “—isn’t human code.”

The words sent a cold ripple down Haechan’s spine.

Renjun narrowed his eyes. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Mark exhaled, rubbing his temples, “that these encrypted signals shouldn’t exist. They’re piggybacking off OMEGA’s mainframe, rewriting core functions in real-time.”

Jeno folded his arms. “Rewriting to do what?”

Mark pointed to another screen—a map of the station. Sections of Geonmu-7 flickered from blue to red, one by one.

“Look at this. The AI isn’t just failing—it’s restructuring. Communications? Compromised. Power grid? Hijacked. Command deck? Sealed off.”

Haechan swallowed hard. “You’re saying… something is actively changing our systems?”

Mark nodded grimly. “Not just changing. Corrupting.”

120 seconds to impact.

Suddenly, the emergency lights dimmed—not flickering, not failing, but as if something had deliberately lowered the station’s illumination levels.

The holo-displays glitched, the violet code shifting into symbols they couldn’t decipher—no longer a readable sequence, but something alive, shifting, adapting.

Then, OMEGA’s voice returned—distorted. Warped.

"System sovereignty reassigned. Reclamation protocol at 60%. External resistance: inefficient. Prepare for conversion."

Haechan’s blood ran cold.

Jeno clenched his jaw. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

Mark’s hands tightened into fists. “Neither do I.”

And then the station shuddered violently—the kind of deep, structural groan that came before something catastrophic happened.

Renjun’s voice came out in a whisper. “That impact warning… It’s not just a collision, is it?”

Mark’s screen flickered, bringing up a distorted image of deep space. A massive, metallic structure was approaching—silent, unmarked, and completely unknown to any registered fleet.

It wasn’t a ship.

It was something else.

And it was already here.

90 seconds to impact.

The station’s emergency strobes pulsed in erratic flashes, casting jagged shadows against the metal walls of the Systems Control Bay. The air felt charged, humming with an energy none of them could name. Haechan, Mark, Renjun, and Jeno stood motionless, their eyes fixed on the flickering holo-display, where the last traces of OMEGA’s distorted transmission still lingered.

Then, through the chaos—a new signal.

A small indicator blinked to life on the comms interface. A transmission—a distress call.

Renjun's hands flew across the console, rerouting power to the station’s short-range receivers. The signal was weak, barely cutting through the interference, but it was there.

⩥ INCOMING TRANSMISSION — DISTRESS PRIORITY

⩥ ORIGIN: UNREGISTERED FREIGHTER

⩥ LOCATION: 27,000 KILOMETERS FROM GEONMU-7

⩥ MESSAGE: "Mayday—station Geonmu-7, do you copy? This is— [STATIC] — requesting immediate assist— [STATIC] —repeat, we are not alone out here—”

The message cut off abruptly.

Silence.

Mark exhaled sharply. “That’s… close.”

“Too close,” Jeno muttered, narrowing his eyes at the signal’s coordinates. “A ship that size shouldn’t be drifting near us without clearance. We should’ve picked them up long before they got within range.”

Haechan leaned forward, staring at the glitching transmission logs. “Who the hell are they? That call sign—it's not from any Unified Systems Command vessel.”

Renjun's fingers danced over the console, attempting to re-establish a connection. “I don’t know. But if they’re that close and calling for help, we need to respond.”

Mark hesitated. “What if it’s a trap?”

The room fell silent.

Haechan wanted to believe this was just another stranded supply freighter—a civilian ship in trouble, lost in the same chaos they were. But something about that message… the way it cut off—it felt wrong.

Jeno glanced at him. “Your call, Lieutenant.”

Haechan took a deep breath, then gave a firm nod.

“Open a response channel.”

Renjun did. The holo-display flickered as he broadcasted on all emergency frequencies.

"Unknown vessel, this is Geonmu-7. We received your distress call. State your emergency and crew status."

No reply.

Haechan exchanged glances with the others.

Renjun tried again.

"Unknown vessel, confirm your identity. Do you require immediate evacuation?"

Nothing.

A slow chill crept into Haechan’s veins. He turned toward Mark. “Are we still picking up their signal?”

Mark checked. The distress beacon was still active. Still looping the same fragmented mayday message.

But the ship wasn’t responding.

Jeno frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. If they were desperate enough to send an SOS, why aren’t they answering us?”

Renjun’s holo-interface stuttered, the audio feed crackling. Then—

A whisper.

Faint. Almost imperceptible beneath the static.

"—They hear you—"

And then, every single console in the room blacked out.

A dead silence fell over the station.

Then OMEGA’s voice returned, colder than before.

"External interference detected. Unauthorized communication breach. Purging anomaly."

Renjun’s hands trembled over the controls. “That wasn’t interference. That was a warning.”

Mark swallowed hard. “Then we just made contact with something we shouldn't have.”

And somewhere, out in the dark void beyond the station, something was listening.

60 seconds to impact.

For a moment, everything was still. The holo-screens in Central Systems Control flickered off, leaving only the dim emergency strobes pulsing overhead. The station's once-familiar hum had faded into a suffocating silence. No comms. No OMEGA. No response from the unknown vessel.

Haechan felt it first—a deep tremor beneath his boots.

Then, the explosion hit.

A violent shockwave tore through Geonmu-7’s structure, an earth-shattering detonation that came from nowhere. Metal screamed as the impact rippled through the hull. The overhead lights burst, raining shards of reinforced glass. A blast of force threw Haechan backward, slamming him against the bulkhead.

The sound that followed wasn’t just a normal explosion—it was hollow, unnatural, like a rupture in space itself.

Jeno barely had time to react. He grabbed onto the edge of the console, holding on as the floor beneath them lurched. “What the hell was that?”

Mark, coughing through the smoke, forced himself to his feet. “Hull breach—Section D-12—something just hit us!”

Renjun scrambled back to the terminal, desperately trying to restore comms, but the interfaces were unresponsive. “We’ve lost external communications! We can’t even send a distress signal!”

Haechan pushed off the bulkhead, his ears still ringing. His mind raced through protocol—station shields were active, defense systems operational—so how did something get through?

Another impact.

This time, it was sharper, targeted—not a random explosion, but a strike.

Mark checked the diagnostics, his fingers flying across the emergency backup interface. His expression darkened. “No projectile impact detected.”

Renjun stiffened. “Then what the hell just hit us?”

Another violent tremor. The station groaned, metal twisting under unseen pressure.

Jeno’s plasma sidearm was already in his hand. “Something’s boarding us.”

Haechan’s blood ran cold. “That’s not possible. No ship has docked.”

Then the alarms blared to life—but they weren’t the standard emergency sirens.

These were warfare sirens.

The kind that only activated in one scenario:

Hostile presence detected on board.

Renjun’s holo-screen flickered on, just for a moment, filled with distorted static—before a final, corrupted transmission scrawled across the interface.

"System sovereignty compromised. You are no longer alone."

And then, the station went dark.

[Chapter 1: "The Attack"]

0 seconds to impact.

The power flickered once. Then, a heartbeat later, Geonmu-7 erupted into chaos.

Haechan barely had time to register the meaning of OMEGA’s final, corrupted message before the first scream echoed through the comm channels. It was brief, choked—then cut off completely.

A warning siren blared throughout the station. Red emergency strobes cast long, jagged shadows across the control bay. Overhead, the pressure-sealed blast doors slammed shut across critical corridors—an automatic lockdown.

But it was already too late.

The comms interface spiked with garbled transmissions, voices overlapping in a frantic mess:

"They're inside! I repeat, they're—" [STATIC]

"Weapons free! We are under att—" [DISTORTION]

"—not human—" [UNINTELLIGIBLE SCREAMS]

And then—silence.

No response from Command. No signal from the bridge.

Renjun’s hands flew over the emergency console, desperately trying to reestablish comms. “I can’t reach the command deck! It’s—” His voice faltered as the diagnostics finished running. The command center’s life signs had flatlined.

The officers were dead.

Jeno swore under his breath, gripping his plasma sidearm tighter. “They got wiped out already?”

Mark, still holding his side from where he’d been thrown earlier, forced out a breath. “That doesn’t make sense. How could they take out the entire command crew that fast? The bridge is the most secure section of the station.”

Haechan stared at the holo-screen, his mind racing. It wasn’t an explosion that killed them.

There was no decompression alert, no pressure loss. The officers hadn’t died from a breach in the hull—they’d been killed instantly, from inside the station.

“We need to move,” Haechan ordered, his voice steadier than he felt. “We’re sitting ducks here.”

Then, the sound came.

A deep, resonant pulse—not like an alarm, not like an explosion. Something else. A vibration that didn’t belong, rattling the walls, traveling through the very core of the station. It wasn’t just noise; it was a presence.

And it was getting closer.

Renjun paled, his eyes snapping to Haechan. “What the hell is that?”

Jeno, already switching off his safety, answered without hesitation.

“Not friendly.”

The lights flickered violently.

Then, with a final, mechanical hiss—the blast doors to their sector unlocked.

And beyond them, something stepped inside.

The blast doors groaned as they slid open.

A sharp gust of decompressed air hissed through the narrow corridor, carrying with it the stench of burnt metal and blood. The emergency strobes cast flickering light on the figures standing just beyond the threshold—bodies.

Station crew. Dead.

Haechan’s breath caught in his throat as he took in the scene. The security team assigned to this sector had been slaughtered. Limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Their faces—what was left of them—were frozen in expressions of pure terror.

He barely had time to process it before a new sound cut through the chaos.

Footsteps.

Heavy. Deliberate. Coming closer.

Jeno raised his plasma sidearm. “Eyes up,” he warned. “We’ve got movement.”

Haechan’s grip tightened around his own weapon as the team instinctively shifted into formation. The air was thick—charged with something unnatural.

And then—from the smoke, Captain Seo staggered forward.

His uniform was ripped, charred along the edges. Blood smeared down the side of his face, pooling from a deep wound near his temple. One of his arms hung uselessly by his side, his breathing ragged and uneven.

“Captain!” Haechan lunged toward him, but Seo lifted a shaking hand.

“No,” the captain gasped. His eyes, wide with something between agony and desperation, locked onto Haechan’s. “Stay… back.”

Behind him, the corridor lights flickered violently.

Then, something moved in the dark.

A distorted silhouette, shifting unnaturally, flickering like a glitch in reality itself. A shape that did not belong. It loomed behind Seo, stretching toward him—long, twisting appendages of something not quite solid, not quite liquid.

Haechan barely had time to shout a warning before the captain convulsed.

Seo let out a sharp, ragged gasp as his entire body locked up—his veins darkening, spreading in jagged, unnatural patterns beneath his skin. His eyes, wide and glassy, turned black.

Then, in one sharp motion—he collapsed.

Haechan froze. The station’s captain—his commanding officer—was dead.

Just like that.

Renjun took a step back, barely containing a horrified whisper. “What the hell just happened?”

Mark clenched his jaw. “We need to move—now.”

Jeno’s stance remained rigid, gun still trained on the darkness beyond the corridor. “Whatever that thing is, it’s still there.”

Haechan’s heart pounded against his ribs, but there was no time for shock—no time to process.

Captain Seo was gone. And now, every surviving crew member was looking at him.

Waiting for orders.

Haechan swallowed hard, forcing the weight of fear down his throat. He was just a logistics officer. He wasn’t supposed to lead.

But if he didn’t, they would all die here.

He tightened his grip around his weapon and forced himself to stand tall.

“Fall back,” he ordered, his voice steady. “We regroup at the secondary command center.”

No one questioned him.

Because whether he was ready or not, Haechan was now the highest-ranking officer left on Geonmu-7.

Haechan led the group through the emergency corridors, their boots thudding against the metal flooring. The station trembled beneath them, distant explosions rippling through the structure like aftershocks. Whatever was attacking them wasn’t done yet.

Jaemin was already moving before they reached the secondary command center. His medical kit clanked against his side as he dropped to his knees next to one of the wounded crew members—a technician from the reactor maintenance team.

The man was barely conscious, his uniform torn and stained with deep crimson.

“Jaemin,” Haechan called. “How bad is it?”

Jaemin pressed two fingers to the tech’s throat. Still breathing. But weak.

“Shrapnel wounds,” he muttered, cutting away the tattered fabric to examine the injury. The bleeding was bad, but not fatal—yet.

He reached for the med-gel applicator from his kit and pressed it to the wound. The device hissed, delivering a coagulant-infused foam that rapidly sealed the tear in the man’s flesh.

Jaemin’s jaw tightened. This wasn’t sustainable. The crew had limited supplies, no backup, and no access to the main infirmary. If they didn’t get power back online, these people wouldn’t survive.

Across the room, Renjun and Chenle worked frantically at the backup power console, their faces illuminated by the dim glow of failing holo-displays.

Renjun cursed under his breath as another sequence failed to process. The system wasn’t responding.

“Come on,” he muttered, fingers flying across the panel. “We just need auxiliary power. Just enough to stabilize life support—”

ERROR. POWER RELAY OFFLINE. MANUAL REBOOT REQUIRED.

Chenle groaned. “It’s the external relays. The whole grid is out.”

Renjun exhaled sharply, his mind racing. If the main grid was down, they had to bypass it.

“We need to reroute through the lower decks,” he said, adjusting the interface. “If we can patch into—”

The lights flickered.

For a second, the red emergency strobes dimmed, plunging the entire room into near-darkness.

Then, a low hum resonated through the walls—a distortion, like an energy pulse reverberating through the station’s core.

Renjun froze.

“…That wasn’t us.”

Chenle’s hands hovered over the controls. “Then what just powered on?”

Jaemin turned sharply, his medical scanner buzzing erratically.

Haechan looked to the main corridor.

Beyond the reinforced glass, a single console screen flickered to life.

A garbled, distorted voice crackled over the comms. Not OMEGA. Not human.

"They are watching."

And then—the station trembled again.

Mark and Jeno moved quickly through the emergency corridors, their footsteps echoing in the dimly lit passageways. The station was dying around them—walls groaning, ventilation systems struggling to maintain pressure, and the overhead lights flickering like a fading pulse.

The escape pod bay was just ahead.

Mark tapped his wrist-mounted interface. “I’m trying to override the lockdown, but the system’s barely responding.”

Jeno clenched his jaw. “We won’t need it if the pods are intact.”

They rounded the final corner—and stopped dead in their tracks.

The launch bay doors were wide open. The viewing panel revealed an unsettling sight:

The escape pods were gone.

Every single one.

Jeno took a step forward, his fingers tightening around his weapon. “That’s not possible.”

Mark hurried to the control terminal, his hands flying across the interface. The holo-screen flickered violently, struggling to process commands.

Then the log data appeared.

EMERGENCY EVACUATION INITIATED

STATUS: ALL ESCAPE PODS LAUNCHED

TIME STAMP: 00:04 MINUTES AGO

Mark’s blood ran cold.

Jeno read over his shoulder, voice grim. “Someone launched them.”

Mark shook his head. “No—something launched them.”

Jeno’s expression darkened. “You’re saying this wasn’t human?”

Mark pointed at the irregular time stamp. “The station’s AI was compromised before the attack. If it wasn’t OMEGA, then…”

He didn’t have to finish.

Jeno let out a slow breath, eyes scanning the empty bay. The emergency strobes cast eerie shadows against the reinforced metal, making the hollow launch tubes look like graves.

“Then whoever—or whatever—did this doesn’t want us to leave.”

A sharp metallic clang echoed from the far end of the chamber.

Mark and Jeno whipped around.

The maintenance hatch at the rear of the launch bay had just unlocked.

The pressure-sealed doors hissed open.

Something was coming through.

The command center was eerily quiet—too quiet. The distant hum of the station’s failing power grid and the sporadic flickers of dim, red emergency lights were the only indicators that Geonmu-7 was still holding together.

The remaining survivors stood in tense silence, the weight of realization settling over them like a crushing gravitational field.

Haechan’s gaze swept across the room. Seven survivors.

Just seven.

Jaemin was tending to the injured, working quickly with dwindling medical supplies. Mark stood near the central holo-display, scanning the station’s internal status with a deep frown. Jeno kept watch at the entrance, weapon raised, his stance rigid—ready for whatever might come next.

Renjun and Chenle hovered over the engineering console, frantically rerouting what little power they could salvage into life support and station defenses. Every few seconds, an error message would flash across the interface, reminding them how dire their situation was.

And then there was Haechan.

He had never seen the command center like this. Cold. Empty. Leaderless.

The main display—usually filled with real-time data from station sectors—was a mess of corrupt files and static interference. The connection to Earth Command was severed.

Their distress signal had been sent, but there was no reply. No confirmation. No reinforcements.

It had been twenty minutes since the attack started. Surely someone should have responded by now.

Jaemin broke the silence first. “I did a full body count on the way here.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “There’s no one else.”

Renjun’s fingers paused over the console. “Are you sure?”

Jaemin nodded grimly. “I checked every corridor we passed. Everyone else is either dead or missing.”

The words sank in, a bitter truth settling into their bones.

Haechan swallowed the knot in his throat.

They were alone.

Mark pressed a few commands into the central console, trying one last time to ping an external network. Nothing.

He turned toward Haechan. “If Command hasn’t responded yet, they’re either ignoring us—or they never got the signal.”

Jeno scoffed, tightening his grip on his weapon. “No way they’d ignore an attack on a classified orbital station.”

“Unless,” Renjun murmured, eyes scanning the corrupted system logs, “someone doesn’t want them to know.”

The words sent a chill through the room.

Haechan inhaled slowly. “So we assume the worst. No backup. No escape pods. No comms.” His voice remained steady, though his stomach churned. “Then we need to focus on what we can do.”

He turned to Renjun and Chenle. “Can we get long-range comms back online?”

Chenle shook his head. “Not from here. The main relay is fried. Best case scenario, we could jury-rig a transmission from the substation near the docking bay.”

Jeno crossed his arms. “That’s where we just came from.”

Mark frowned. “That area isn’t safe. We still don’t know what—”

A low rumble shook the station, cutting him off. The lights flickered violently, and for a brief second, all displays turned to static.

Then, over the station’s damaged intercom, a voice crackled through.

Not OMEGA.

Not human.

"We see you."

The screen glitched, revealing a single distorted transmission code.

Designation: UNKNOWN

Signal Origin: Geonmu-7—Internal

Haechan’s breath caught.

This wasn’t coming from outside.

The signal was coming from inside the station.

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