#redacted lab notes

[thymodyke]

it's that time of year where i must take romanticizing blood to new extremes

[bunnightwing]

I'm going to write about these cells on my suicide note fr

[matcha3mochi]

GLASS BETWEEN US Pairing: Merman Rafayel x Scientist Reader

author note: ive been into love and deepspace recently, so here ya go hehe

wc: 4,870

chapter 1 | chapter 2 l chapter 3

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You took the job because you needed a way out.

It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t even particularly well-paid. But the offer came with minimal paperwork, restricted clearance, and one very clear instruction: ask no questions.

So you accepted.

The facility—remote, underground, heavily secured—was the kind of place not listed on maps. It didn’t exist according to the public record, and yet it buzzed with life: researchers, guards, engineers, medics. They all moved with the quiet, tense urgency of people doing work that couldn’t be acknowledged outside these walls.

Your first day was a blur of orientation. Non-disclosure clauses, retinal scans, and procedural briefings stacked with redacted pages. You caught glimpses of terms like “specimen,” “cognitive divergence,” “aquatic containment.”

No one told you what exactly was inside Lab C. Just that you’d be assisting with long-term observation. You assumed it would be another mutated marine species pulled up from some trench, something grotesque and territorial. Maybe even dangerous.

But the truth was stranger.

When they finally led you through the corridors and into the observation chamber, you expected cold steel and sharp smells.

Instead, the room was quiet. Dim. The tank was massive—more an aquarium than a cell—bathed in low light that shimmered across the walls like waves. The water inside was dark, cold, impossibly deep. You stepped forward, clutching your tablet, already preparing to log oxygen levels and salinity.

That was when you saw him.

Not a specimen.

Not a subject.

Something else.

Your breath caught before you even registered why.

And just like that, the job you took to escape your life became the one thing you couldn’t walk away from.

You didn’t know it then, but that first glance would mark the start of something irreversible. Something that would pull you under, inch by inch, breath by breath.

The moment you saw him, your surroundings blurred into static. The beeping monitors, murmuring technicians, even the weight of your data tablet—all of it fell away.

Inside the isolation tank, a living impossibility drifted in manufactured saltwater. Designed to emulate the hadal zone, the deepest part of the ocean, the containment system glowed softly under rows of harsh overhead lighting. The glass was nearly ten inches thick.

He floated at the bottom, not quite asleep but clearly subdued. His body was serpentine, a long and powerful tail coiled beneath him like an anchor. Its surface shimmered with deep cobalt and streaks of pearlescent silver, every movement creating subtle waves of reflected light. Even now, in apparent stillness, he seemed to shift with the current, his tail flicking faintly like a ribbon suspended in water.

The upper half of his body resembled a human form—broad shoulders, strong arms—but with a sleekness and symmetry that felt engineered rather than natural. It was hard not to stare. Harder still to assign him the term specimen, as though he were just another data point.

His face was unnerving in its beauty. Too elegant. Too calm. Dark purple hair floated around his head, surrounding him like a halo. Thin, branching scars ran near the gills along his neck—signs of struggle? Or surgery? You couldn’t tell. Around his wrists were red rings where restraints had dug in, proof that something here had gone very wrong before it got quiet.

You took one step closer to the glass.

His eyes opened.

Bright blue, slit-pupiled, and utterly alien, they fixed on yours with uncanny stillness. Not vague awareness—recognition. As if you were something known. Something expected.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until Dr. Havers spoke behind you.

“Sedated but semi-lucid,” he muttered. “You’ll get used to it.”

You doubted that.

You didn’t look away.

Neither did he.

Your formal role changed within forty-eight hours. A sudden shift, approved without ceremony. You were now responsible for the nocturnal observation cycle—Lab C, 2300 to 0400. Solo rotation. Minimal contact. Maximum discretion.

It wasn’t framed as special. If anything, it felt procedural. But there was an unspoken reason behind it. He responded to you—consistently, uniquely, and visibly. While other personnel were met with either silence or aggression, your presence generated stability. Lowered agitation. Reduced biomarker volatility.

“You’re not a risk variable,” Havers said, handing you a new clearance badge. “He recognizes that. Use it.”

That first night on shift, you sat alone behind the curved monitor console, tank lights dimmed to deep ocean blue. The lab echoed with the soft churn of water filters and the occasional mechanical click of the oxygen injectors. You opened a new file. Began a log.

SESSION 01 2303 HRS — Subject floats near lower quadrant. Motion minimal. Eyes open, tracking. 2317 HRS — Approaches glass at station-facing side. Remains within one meter. 0010 HRS — Mimics observer posture. Arms crossed. Head tilted. Intentional or coincidental?

The entries became more granular with each passing hour. You logged pupil dilation, fin twitching, shoulder alignment. The angle of his fingers against the glass. The way he followed the rhythm of your breathing when you leaned forward. Occasionally, he'd trace your silhouette on the other side of the glass, following your hand movements with uncanny precision.

He blinked less often when watching you, and more when others entered the lab—a strange, deliberate contrast. He began to tap his claws rhythmically against the tank wall when you wrote, a pattern that shifted in tempo depending on your pace. When you stood up, he rose. When you sat, he settled. A mirror, distorted by water and light, but growing clearer by the day.

By your third shift, the notes had started to blur.

SESSION 03 2248 HRS — Subject at station wall prior to entry. Appears to anticipate schedule. 2350 HRS — Subject mirrors tablet tapping. When observer writes, subject responds with claw motions against tank interior. 0104 HRS — Sustained eye contact. Three full minutes. Observer initiated break. Subject remained locked in gaze.

You began categorizing his behaviors under new terms. Not hostile. Not adaptive. Instead: intentional. Self-directed. Curious.

And eventually: fixated.

There was a pattern now, undeniable and precise. Every time you entered the room, he was already waiting. Every time you left, he followed your departure with slow, measured turns around the glass, as though mapping your absence.

Your notes became less technical. More observational. And then, more personal.

You started writing things you didn’t submit to the shared logs. Quiet questions scrawled in the margins of your private notebook.

Why only me? How much does he understand? Is this intelligence, or attention? Or is it something else?

You didn’t know the answers. Not yet.

But you couldn’t stop asking.

You hadn’t planned to speak to him. You weren’t even sure he could comprehend language.

But on the sixth night, everything was too quiet. The hum of the facility, the subdued flicker of the monitors—it all pressed in like static. You were tired. Frustrated. Your head rested on your folded arms, your mind drifting.

“I hate this place,” you muttered.

The water stirred.

Your eyes shot up. He was near the glass. Closer than before. His hands hovered just beneath the surface, claws relaxed. He tilted his head, as if listening.

Then he repeated it.

“I… hate… this… place.”

His voice was strange—raspy, resonant, shaped by a throat unused to speech. But he’d matched your cadence. Your tone. Even the way you’d slurred the words.

You stood.

“You understood that?”

He moved his mouth again. Slower. Testing the rhythm of speech.

“You… are… different.”

The room felt suddenly warmer. Or maybe colder.

Maybe both.

From that night on, your interactions became more complex.

Every time you entered, he was already waiting. You’d sit. He’d drift toward the glass, his body weaving gently behind him, as if pulled by invisible threads.

He began to mimic you in increasingly specific ways. When you tapped on your tablet, he tapped the tank wall. When you shifted in your seat, he mirrored the motion, down to the tilt of your head.

Researchers noticed. They logged it as proof of successful imprinting.

But you knew the difference between mimicry and obsession.

There was an intensity in his gaze that couldn't be dismissed. It was full of purpose. Of attention. He was learning you—not just your behaviors, but your moods. Your microexpressions. He watched your fingers when they trembled. He watched your lips when you breathed.

You tried to maintain boundaries.

But then the dreams started.

The dreams began as fragments.

At first, they were flashes—flashes of cold, of water creeping into your lungs, of sound that wasn’t quite voice but still carried meaning. Pressure without pain. Depth without fear.

Then they became immersive.

You were no longer watching from behind glass. You were inside the tank—or somewhere like it. A vast ocean with no surface and no floor. Everything shimmered in gradients of blue and black, lit by pulses of distant light. You were floating, suspended, and something was circling you.

You felt it before you saw him.

His presence. Electric. Intentional. Like gravity made flesh.

In the dream, Rafayel didn’t speak with words. He moved closer with the slowness of a creature that knew time was irrelevant. His fingers brushed your shoulder, your wrist, your waist—not with heat but with a chill so profound it burned.

You were never afraid.

Sometimes he held you. Other times, he watched you from below, his eyes glowing brighter than the deep. Always silent. Always there.

And always, just before waking, he would place his hand against your chest and say:

You belong here.

You’d wake gasping. Covered in sweat. The room dry, your lungs aching with the ghost of imagined water. And you’d feel it: a residual pulse. As if part of you hadn’t returned.

It was nearly 3:00 a.m. when the emergency alarms shattered the stillness.

You were off-shift. Sleeping. Or trying to. The facility-issued cot in your quarters was thin, the recycled air too dry. But exhaustion didn’t matter—because when the klaxon blared and the lights above your bed pulsed red, your heart dropped into your stomach.

Containment breach — Lab C.

You didn’t stop to think. You didn’t change. You threw on your coat over your sleep shirt and sprinted barefoot through the corridors, barely registering the startled faces of guards and technicians scrambling toward lockdown protocols.

When you reached the lab, the glass was already webbed with cracks.

Inside, the tank churned like a storm-tossed sea. Rafayel was in full fury—no longer the silent, observant being from your shifts. He was something else now. Magnificent and terrifying. His tail whipped with bone-cracking force, slamming the reinforced walls, again and again. The steel supports groaned. Water frothed with foam and light. Machinery sparked along the edges. A lab tech screamed as a panel exploded.

Two guards aimed stun-rods at the tank. “We have to subdue him—!”

“No—!” You pushed past them, breathless. “Let me try first!”

They hesitated—just long enough.

You stepped into the observation chamber, doors sealing behind you. A protective barrier of glass separated you from the tank, but it felt far too thin. Rafayel turned—spun mid-air like a coil of silk and muscle—and slammed his claws into the tank wall right in front of you.

You didn’t flinch.

You raised your hand. Slowly. Palms open.

“Rafayel,” you said softly, almost whispering, “Stop.”

His body stilled, suspended in violent motion.

The roar of the alarms, the hum of the oxygen pumps, even the buzz of the failed lighting—all of it faded into the background.

His breath came in sharp, rapid bursts. His eyes glowed like deep-sea lanterns. He hovered there, inches from the glass, claws still pressed hard enough to screech against it. But he wasn’t attacking now. He was… watching.

You stepped closer, until you were nearly touching the tank wall. Your hand hovered where his claws had struck just moments before.

“It’s me,” you said.

He blinked.

Then, without a sound, he floated backward. A slow, deliberate motion. One hand slid down the tank’s interior, leaving a trail of pale bioluminescence behind it. His tail coiled gently beneath him. The water settled. Foam dissipated. The light in his eyes dimmed—not dulled, just… quieter.

And then, unbelievably, he pressed his forehead to the glass.

Directly across from yours.

The room held its breath.

He closed his eyes.

You mirrored him.

The silence stretched.

Behind you, through the speaker system, you barely caught Dr. Havers’ voice: “Subject de-escalated. Immediate threat withdrawn.”

The guards didn’t speak. They didn’t move. No one did.

Because they saw what you saw.

He hadn’t calmed because of sedatives. Or fear.

He had calmed because of you.

And something in your chest cracked—splintered under the weight of a realization you weren’t ready for.

Whatever Rafayel was…

He wasn’t just watching you.

He needed you.

After the incident, you were called in for multiple evaluations. The staff expressed concern. His reactions were too focused. Too specific.

“Forming a fixation,” they said. “You’re a variable he’s centering around. It might become dangerous.”

But you didn’t feel afraid.

Each night, he was waiting. Sometimes he pressed his hand to the glass, palm to palm. Sometimes he mirrored your face until it felt like looking into a distorted reflection.

You broke protocol.

“Why me?” you asked him softly.

He moved close.

“You… are mine.”

Your heart thudded. You stood frozen.

“You don’t know me.”

He smiled, faint but assured.

“I remember you.”

You shook your head.

“That’s impossible.”

He only repeated, quietly: “You were always coming here.”

You stopped sleeping.

Each night, your dreams blended into your shifts. You began bringing small things into the lab. A book. A ring. A scarf. He noticed all of them. Watched each object with careful interest.

One night, you left a pen on the console.

When you returned the next night, it was inside the tank—placed delicately in a shrine of coral, shells, and scavenged materials. A gift.

You didn’t say anything.

But your chest ached with something unnamed.

And he knew.

The lab was quiet when you arrived, as it always was during your late shifts. But tonight, something felt heavier in the air. As you keyed into the monitoring station, you sensed him waiting.

He was already pressed to the glass, body still, eyes glowing faintly in the dim blue light. His gaze locked on you the instant you stepped into the room. You hadn’t even set your tablet down before he moved—slowly, fluidly—closer, so close that his breath fogged the glass.

Your heart pounded.

You didn’t need to say anything. He already knew you were listening.

“Free me,” he said.

The words were clear. Measured. Spoken not as a plea, but as a promise.

You stared at him, your throat tightening. “I can’t.”

He didn’t move away. He simply watched you, eyes scanning your face like he could read what you didn’t say.

“You don’t belong here either,” he murmured, voice soft and steady. “Not with them.”

He pressed a hand to the glass, and instinctively, without thinking, you lifted yours. His fingers aligned with yours, claws brushing the barrier.

“They see a cage,” he whispered. “You see me.”

The words didn’t sound rehearsed. They sounded like something he’d been waiting to say for a long time.

You swallowed hard. “If I open that tank, they’ll—”

He tilted his head, interrupting gently. “They fear what they cannot hold.”

You felt the heat of your own breath fog the glass. Your hand stayed pressed to his.

“Take it away,” Rafayel whispered. “Let me show you what you already know.”

The glass vibrated faintly under your palm. Not from his strength. From something else. Something deeper. A resonance that pulsed in your bones.

Outside the tank, you were still an employee, a researcher, a name on a schedule.

Inside the tank, he was waiting.

And in that moment, the glass no longer felt like protection.

It felt like a wall you weren’t sure you wanted to keep.

[woniwontons]

dead end - CHAPTER THREE

bob reynolds x therapist!reader

summary: after being assigned to monitor bob reynolds’ recovery inside the new avengers tower, you try to keep your fears hidden. but between quiet training sessions and unsettling therapy logs, you start to realize he’s watching you more than he should—and that something inside him never stops whispering.

w.c: 3.7k

warnings: abuse by parent, psychological thriller, inaccurately depicted mental illness, emotional manipulation (by void), nightmares, slow burn, possessive themes, combat violence, unreliable realities, hallucinations, brief mention of suicidal thoughts (not reader's), domestic bob, gore/bloody void, like a lot of blood & violence

chapter nav: one | two | three | four | five | six

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You weren't supposed to be in Dr. Harding's office.

The door had been left ajar, just slightly. But something more than just curiosity consumed you, filling your impulses with walking inside.

"Dr. Harding?" you said quietly with a soft knock on the door.

No one.

The office was sterile, as always. White walls. Sleek silver fixtures. No personal items. No scent or warmth. Just the sound of the air vent and the soft click of the wall clock.

Then you noticed the screen on her tablet which was left open on the desk.

Still active, as if she had only stepped out for a moment.

It was a biometric scan. Heart rate, neural activity, baseline data.

The subject ID was redacted. But the image attached wasn’t.

It was you.

"What the hell is going on?" Nothing made sense anymore, but the pieces were starting to come together. This new assignment was so much more than it seemed.

Your breath caught as you leaned in slowly, squinting your eyes in disbelief. There were notes below the scan -- coded abbreviations, but none of them you were able to recognize from previous research.

And one highlighted phrase:

Subject displays high tolerance to --

"Dr. Charles! How was your conference?"

Hearing her voice down the hall nearly sent you into cardiac arrest as you scrambled away from the desk. "Shit," you whispered crudely, smoothing out your lab coat before sliding out of the office door. Rushing down the corridor towards your sleeping quarters.

And not a single human eye caught the sight of it.

You couldn't sleep at all that night.

Your stomach felt as though it were doing backflips in your gut, concave from not being able to eat all day.

You rolled over in bed for the fourth time, staring at the wall where your reflection barely showed in the dark glass. The silence was heavy. Not peaceful.

Just full.

Of things unsaid and dreams you refused to have.

You ran your fingers through your hair and sighed, pushing the blanket aside. Sleep was out of reach, but rest felt impossible too. It wasn’t just your body that was tense—it was your mind. Your thoughts. That strange hum behind your ribs you’d started to recognize as something other than your own.

Eventually, you gave in.

You padded barefoot to the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the hot water fill the room with fog. The sound drowned out the silence in your head for a little while.

You stepped in and stood still beneath the stream for a long time, letting it sting your shoulders. When you finally reached for the shampoo, your hands shook slightly.

As water ran down your scalp and face, something that had seeped in under your skin. The scent of your body wash filled the space, eucalyptus and chamomile. It should have been comforting. But the heat on your scalp only made you feel more aware of yourself. Of your body. Of the fact that you didn't feel alone, even when you were.

When you stepped out, towel wrapped tightly around you, the mirror was already fogged.

You wiped your palm across the glass.

And then, just for a moment, you saw it.

A reflection that wasn’t yours.

It flickered at the edge of the mirror—his shape. His shadow. Gold eyes where yours should have been.

You blinked, and it was gone. But your skin was still cold where he’d touched your arm in that attic dream.

You looked down. Nothing there.

No bruises. No marks.

But you felt it.

The presence.

Your hands shakily reached out for the knob of your sink, glancing down as you shut it.

c o m e t o m e

The letter spelled out on the mirror in cast shadows had struck you motionless. You stood frozen, your breath catching sharp in your throat. The room suddenly felt colder, like the air had been pulled out and replaced with something heavier. Thicker. Pressed close to your skin.

You stepped forward slowly, unsure why. Instinct told you to back away. Logic screamed to dismiss it as a stress hallucination.

But part of you didn’t want to.

Part of you was listening.

You reached out and pressed your fingertips to the glass. The words didn’t smear. Didn’t fog.

They just stared back at you.

You blinked. It was gone.

A hard swallow makes its way down your throat. "Leave me alone, let me sleep," you begged, "I can't handle this forever."

You jerked your hand back and turned away from the mirror, suddenly aware of how alone you were. How watched.

You tried to breathe evenly, to quiet the rising panic.

You didn’t look back. After drying your hands and turning off the light, you walked out of the bathroom like you hadn’t just seen a ghost.

Hunger hit you again, plaguing you for your decision to skip dinner that night. A sigh of resignation escaped you as you slid your clothing and slippers on. Any leftover fruits inside the cafeteria kitchens would have to suffice for tonight.

Peaking side to side in the dimly lit hallway outside your door, heart still racing from your recent encounter, you quietly closed your door behind you.

The hallways were still, lit only by the pale emergency lights that hung overhead. You hadn’t planned on leaving your sleeping quarters, but the pangs of hunger wouldn't settle long enough to be able to sleep.

However, you hadn't expected the kitchen lights to be on. You half expected to grab something from the leftover tray and leave unnoticed.

You paused just inside the doorway, head tilting.

Behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration, stood Bob.

A pan sizzled in front of him, and a bag of sliced cheese sat half-opened on the counter. You watched as he meticulously layered a slice of cheddar over the bread already crisping in butter.

It was so disarming to watch him outside of his normal environment of doom and gloom. To see him at such peace all alone.

"I guess we're all trespassing today?” you called softly.

Bob startled, nearly dropping his spatula before turning quickly in your direction. He blinked at you, caught mid-sandwich flip.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he replied after a beat, voice low and warm. “Late-night for you?”

“Just starving,” you shrugged. “Didn’t know you were an overnight chef.”

He gestured toward the stove. "Well you get really good at making greasy food when you've worked at every fast food chain that'd hire you."

You walked up to the counter and leaned on it. “That smells really good though."

He smiled at you sheepishly, and your heart melted a bit at how sweet it looked when that smile was for you. “I can make another.”

You raised a brow. “You offering?”

He was already reaching for more bread. “Well since you've made the idea so tempting...”

You sat on a stool across from him, arms resting on the counter. “So this is your rebellious streak? Ditching security to make grilled cheeses at midnight?”

Bob glanced at the door, then back at you. “They won’t find me for another five minutes. I timed it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Seriously?”

“I’ve been testing their rounds for weeks. Figured out the weak spot on Thursdays.” He gave you a little shrug. “Sometimes I just want to feel normal. Get hungry. Make something. Sit somewhere that doesn’t beep at me."

Your smile faded at the edges, softened by the truth in his voice.

“You do this often?”

“Only when I can’t sleep.” He finished buttering your sandwich and dropped it into the pan beside his. “Which is most nights.”

You wondered where else he snuck off to at night.

You quietly watched him cook with your chin in your hand, leaned against the counter with your elbow. He took his time despite making something so simple, making sure he buttered both sides. Sprinkled parmesan over the top for an extra crisp. It struck then you how much of his life must have been spent feeling watched. Or worse, restrained.

He slid your sandwich onto a plate and set it in front of you with a proud smile.

“Try it. I dare you to say it’s not the best grilled cheese you've eaten past bedtime.”

You took a bite.

It was the best grilled cheese you've probably ever had.

He waited, eyebrows raised.

“Okay,” you said through a mouthful, “I hate to admit it, but your sneaky midnight grilled cheese is really good."

He grinned and took a bite of his own, mumbling, “At least you know why I go through so much effort to come down here.”

You both ate in comfortable silence for a few moments, the kind that doesn’t need filling. You glanced at him between bites, watching how he smiled after each mouthful, how he seemed so… human right now.

No glowing eyes. No flickering hands. No Void.

Just a guy, maybe a friend sitting across from you. You couldn't imagine how scared you were of him before when you felt so weirdly close to him now.

“What’s it like?” you asked gently. “Being in control one minute… and not the next?”

He raised his eyebrow at you questionably before you realized your mistake.

"Off the record, of course. No clipboard, see?" you explained quickly, holding up your free hand as you took another bite of your sandwich.

Bob set his sandwich down slowly, eyes on the plate.

“Like I’m renting space in my own head,” he said. “Most days, I can push him into the corner. Pretend he’s not there. But he’s always listening. Always waiting. And when people look at me, I can tell they’re waiting for him appear too."

You didn’t respond right away.

“I don’t think that’s what I see anymore,” you said quietly.

Bob looked up at you through his lashes, confused and surprised at once. It made you feel warm and guilty all at once.

"I like the guy in front of me, Bob seems like a really cool person."

His throat bobbed, but he didn’t speak at first. Then, softly, “Thank you.”

You both fell silent again, this time heavier. Not awkward, just full.

He didn’t finish his sandwich.

Just left the last bite on the plate as footsteps echoed in the hallways behind him. When the cafeteria doors hissed open behind you, neither of you moved right away.

Two security agents entered, frowning the moment they spotted him.

“Mr. Reynolds,” one said firmly. “Time to return.”

Bob sighed and stood, brushing the crumbs off his hands. “Knew I was cutting it close.”

He looked at you as he turned to leave. "It was nice talking to you, off the record."

You gave him a smile, even if it wobbled a little. “Make me another grilled cheese sometime.”

His grin was soft, and this time, sad. “I can arrange that. Thank you for coming and joining me."

He left quietly, flanked by his silent escort.

You sat alone at the counter, staring down at the half-eaten sandwich he left behind.

That single, untouched corner.

And something in your chest twisted with guilt and something deeper.

You didn’t know what scared you more:

The Void that became him and haunted your dreams.

Or the good patient you found yourself so attracted to.

You didn't have any dreams that night.

ANONYMOUS POV

Transcript Log | INTERNAL FILE [REDACTED] Access Level: TOP SECRET - NEED TO KNOW Date: [REDACTED] Location: Off-site - Audio Transcript Only

Scientist 1: The subject isn’t reporting ▇▇ ▇▇▇▇.

Scientist 2: ▇▇ ▇▇▇▇. ▇▇▇▇ to display ▇▇▇ signs ▇▇ disobedience as ▇▇ others.

Scientist 1: Then she’s further along than expected. We haven’t even introduced ▇▇ ▇▇▇▇▇▇t yet.

Scientist 2: ▇▇ ▇oid’s adapting. Faster than the ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ▇▇ model projected.

Scientist 1: That’s not supposed to be possible. It’s not supposed to form preference.

Scientist 2: Then explain the new side effect.

Scientist 2: “Come to me.” We wouldn't be able to see it if it was her hallucination. It was spatially reactive. Infrared resonance picked it up for six seconds before it dissipated.

Scientist 1: …It’s communicating directly in reality?

Scientist 2: Or claiming ▇▇▇▇.

Scientist 1: Then we’re running out of time. If Reynolds becomes aware of the ▇▇▇▇, or worse, ▇▇▇▇ finds out. The whole operation is blown.

Scientist 2: We'll shut it down soon.

Scientist 1: Meaning her?

Scientist 2: ▇▇▇▇ ▇▇ ▇▇▇▇.

Scientist 1: ▇▇ ▇▇ think ▇▇ the ▇▇▇▇?

Scientist 1: ▇▇ her ▇▇▇. But initiate passive ▇▇ testing.

Scientist 2: Copy. We’ll see how far she can get before we inevitably have to find a replacement again.

End of File

Dr. Harding was already waiting for you when you entered the hallway outside the therapy wing.

Her posture was perfectly composed, one hand gripping a tablet, the other loosely tapping a pen against her palm. She smiled when she saw you, but there was no warmth in it. Just courtesy.

“Morning,” she said. “You slept well?”

You nodded automatically, though you weren’t sure if you had. Your dreamless nights felt emptier now, instead of the relief you should feel. Something about your nights had become harder to measure.

Harding didn’t wait for an answer anyway. She clicked something on her screen and walked ahead, expecting you to follow.

But halfway to the session room, she slowed—just a little—and said:

“If you start to feel... weird, I want you to say something.”

You frowned. “Weird?”

Harding glanced at you from over her shoulder, eyes cool. “Cognitively. Emotionally. Things can blur when we’re in long-term exposure to unknown powers, especially with patients like Reynolds.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “You think I’m going to get effected by his presence?"

She stopped, turned. “Not yet.”

“But everyone reaches their threshold eventually.”

She smiled again, as if she hadn’t just implied the strangest thing.

Then she turned and keyed the door open without another word.

Bob was already seated on the mat.

His eyes lifted as you entered, immediately landing on you, not looking in Harding's direction. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t look away either. You followed Harding to the observation chair and sat, clipboard in hand, pen uncapped but still.

Bob’s hands rested on his knees, eyes neutral as Harding began the session with her usual line of sterile questioning.

“Any changes in suicidal ideation?” “Any intrusive thoughts or impulses?”

Bob answered calmly, giving the perfect answer for each one.

You wrote the words down, but they felt less real than the pen in your hand.

When Harding asked a follow-up question about emotional suppression, Bob didn’t respond immediately. He just looked at you again, quietly. Like he wanted to say something else.

And then Harding’s comm buzzed at her hip.

She huffed, checked it, and stood.

“Emergency from the upper psych wing,” she muttered. “I’ll be back shortly.”

And then she was gone.

The door sealed behind her with a sound that echoed.

Bob’s shoulders dropped almost instantly. A breath left him like a valve finally released. “She always make people feel like they're being dissected alive?” he asked.

You gave a faint, knowing smile. “Something like that.”

Bob stretched his legs out slightly, his posture loosening into something more natural. Still guarded, but no longer braced for impact.

“I don’t think she likes when I talk too much,” he added.

You hesitated, then asked: “Has she always been your lead psychologist?”

“Yes and no,” he said, eyes drifting upward to the mirror on the far wall. “I would see her before, but I had a rotation of different psychologist. But after the last assistant left, it's just Harding now.”

That made you pause. “Left?”

Bob glanced at you. “There were a few before you, but they didn’t last long,” he continued. “The last one, she actually started getting sick. Headaches, panic attacks, you name it. Like her brain was shutting itself off."

You didn’t speak. Your fingers twitched against the edge of your clipboard.

“They said it was stress. Too much exposure to the shadows, from before I could control it better.” He tilted his head. “I didn't think she was that afraid of me though. All the assistants before her had similar symptoms, but nothing nearly as bad.”

Your throat felt dry. Images of your face on Harding's tablet flashed in your mind as you started to think paranoid thoughts.

Bob looked at you, eyes darker than before. “You don’t feel sick, do you?”

You shook your head. Slowly.

“That's good,” he said, "the last thing I'd ever want is to hurt someone else again. Especially you."

The stillness inside you was too heavy to push back. "I don't think you're the one causing it," you whispered, so quietly you barely exhausted an entire breath.

Bob leaned forward slightly. “Who else could be causing it?"

You raised your finger to your lips, urging him to be quieter. Glancing at the observation room to ensure it was empty.

Bob’s expression changed, something knowing, something careful.

“You think they’re doing this on purpose?” he whispered.

You couldn’t breathe for a moment, but you nodded your head, pretending to write down notes for the camera. Your pen scratched softly across the page. You weren’t writing words. Just shapes.

Circles.

"I don't know exact what's going on, but I know I'm the subject of some kind of test they're running. I saw it on Harding's tablet," you revealed, wringing your hands together in stress.

Bob's face darkened with confusion and annoyance. "What?"

A short laugh escaped you as you adjusted on your seat, throwing you ankle over the other. "I can't believe I'm even telling you this, but I think you're the only person I trust right now."

"The others have to know something, you should speak to Bucky or Yelena, they'll tell you the truth," he said earnestly, "I just can't believe they didn't tell me if they do know."

You nodded before checking your tablet, faking the responses to the questions you were supposed to ask him.

Shadows flickered on around Bob's seated figure and his fingertips as he sat in contemplation, wondering where everything went wrong. Wishing he had met such a beautiful, kind person in different circumstances than this one.

But in his presence, everything always went wrong.

"Bob?"

He settled, looking up at you. "Yes?"

"Thank you for talking with me, but we should wrap this up before someone notices how much time has passed."

"Anything for a friend."

In Your Nightmares

You were running, but the hallway wouldn’t end.

Steel walls. Fluorescent lights overhead, flickering like dying stars. Every door you passed was marked with your name. Over and over again:

SUBJECT: Y/L/N STATUS: FAILURE IMMINENT

You tried to scream but sound wouldn't escape from your mouth. All you could hear was the thoughts inside your own head crying out for help. You didn't even know what you were running from, only that it wasn’t very far behind.

Each door you had tried was locked, twisting just a centimeter before clicking in resistance as you dragged the skin of your palm around the knob.

The floor shifted then.

You fell—hard—into a room that wasn’t there a moment ago. The tiles turned to concrete. Wet. Dark. Sticky with blood. You scrambled to your feet, but your hand slipped in something warm. A sound echoed through the space—something like wet breathing. Something like chewing.

And then you saw it.

Yourself.

Not a mirror image, a second you in the room. Face slashed with tears, skin gray and twitching. She wore your clothes, but they were soaked in black. Her mouth opened too wide, face sunken in too deeply.

She lunged at you with impossible speed.

You fought back on instinct, elbowing her face, feeling bone crunch beneath your palm. Blood splattered your arms. Her fingers clawed at your face, your throat, her eyes wide and weeping as she screamed in your own voice.

"Please, please," she cried in agony, attempting her best to overpower your resistance.

You slammed her to the ground, but she twisted with monstrous strength, flipping you onto your back. Concrete met your skull with a thunderclap.

CRACK.

Your vision exploded in white.

You tasted blood as your head opened to a splitting ache.

She grabbed your hair at the root, squeezing tightly as she slammed your head down again.

CRACK.

Again.

CRACK.

Again. Again. Again.

Your scream tore free, raw and useless. It was all you could think or hear was to wail in pain. You felt the warmth of it spilling from your nose, your mouth, your ears. Your elbows slipping in the gore pooling beneath you each time you attempted to push back.

And just as your fingers lost their strength, just as the edges of your mind began to slip, he appeared as your second self stopped.

He emerged from the wall behind your double, blacker than anything your eyes could process. As if it was so dark, it could not reflect any light. Gold eyes gleamed like lit oil beneath water, searing into your bones as his presence pulled the air from your lungs.

Your copy stilled, her last look as hollow stare, then crumbled.

Her body peeled away like smoke, revealing you. Just you. Broken. Drenched in blood.

You lay there, staring up at him, ribs heaving. Vision swimming and your lids dipping slowly.

He crouched beside you, head tilted with something like admiration.

“I am the inevitable horrid truth of everything, little one,” he said, voice silk and rot at once. “I am where everything goes to die, I am the end of all lies.”

His fingers brushed your jaw. Gentle. Reverent. “It’s no wonder I scare you so…” His mouth moved closer to your ear, gold eyes never blinking, “little lying goddess mine.”

You whimpered, barely conscious.

Coming to a kneel, his bloodied finger tips continued past your jaw until it touched the side of your neck. His hand pushed lightly onto your throat until the connection between his pointer and thumb hit your esophagus. "Perfect," he whispered, caressing smeared stains of blood down the length of your throat with the gentle pad of his thumb.

You couldn't summon the strength to move or speak.

Blink. Open. Blink. Open.

Then he smiled, "Wake up."

Blink. Closed.

This slow burn train is starting to pick up speed here, huh? This chapter was hard to write for me, but it was necessary for what is about to hit the fan in the next chapter. I hope you all enjoyed how this one ended, a little twisted but sweet.

Also, I must give credit here! The quote said by The Void in this chapter: "I am the inevitable horrid truth of everything, little one. I am where everything goes to die. I am the end of all lies." This quote is one written in the comics for Sentry, and something that really inspired the vision for this chapter's ending! The quote can be found in "Doctor Strange Vol 1 #385" written by Donny Cates.

ALSO: if you are not currently on the taglist, please comment down below if you want to be! if you already commented on chapter 1 or 2, don't worry because i've already added you :)

link to chapter four

[uyinq]

THE CONTAINMENT INITIATIVE ☆ B.R

chapter 1 — incomprehensible

[bob reynolds x AFAB! reader, psychic!reader, empath?reader,slow burn,fluff,angst,slow burn,eventual smut, messy co-dependent relationships]

❱❱ WORD COUNT ﹕4,652

❱❱ SUMMARY���

The Thunderbolts need the Sentry, but they can’t have him without the Void. No matter how hard Bob Reynolds tries to hold himself together, he comes apart again and again, like a runaway train on decaying tracks. Unstable. Unstoppable. Dangerous. They decide he needs an anchor. Valentina finds you by accident, a psychic empath barely holding yourself together, broken in all the right ways to be useful. Your job is simple on paper: connect with Bob before and after each mission. Keep him calm. Keep him grounded. Keep the Void at bay. But the deeper you go, the more blurred the lines become– between Sentry and Void, between duty and feeling, between who’s saving who.

❱❱ WARNINGS ﹕ profanity, violence, trauma, eventual smut, psychological horror, mentions of: needles, injections, torture, and human testing

❱❱ NOTES ﹕ this is such an amalgamation of ideas lord help me

(divider from uzmacchiato)

★ chapters ﹒﹒ masterlist

★ tags - empty for now (ask to be tagged!)

CONTAINMENT INITIATIVE : SENTRY PROJECT  —  SUBJECT FILE 08L

Designation: [REDACTED]

Classification: Psychic Empath

Status: Operational

Assignment: Psychological support for Sentry [Reynolds, Robert]

Notes:

Subject displays high neural receptivity with touch and proximity to others. Side effects on the Subject have not yet been quantified.

Directive: Maintain controlled contact. Under no circumstances is Subject to engage the Void directly.

— END LOG —

You were lost when Valentina found you.

Living above a dingy laundromat in a 500-square-foot apartment that was far too small to count as a home. She let herself in, turning her nose up at the… quaintness of it all. She plastered on her deceptive little smirk when you poked your head out of the bathroom, furrowing your brows.

“Am I getting evicted or something?” 

You remember saying, watching the way her eyes widened as she burst into condescending laughter. 

“No, no. Not really. Something much better than that.”

Then she handed you the file. A plain manila folder, “CLASSIFIED” stamped across the front in red. You flicked it open as she spoke, scanning military jargon and vague test logs–  impersonal language meant to describe you.

You remember glancing up at her, downright terrified, with a worried crease on your forehead. You thought you kept your head down once you were free from captivity, after Prometheon Labs was outed for genetically tampering with humans and their minds. You thought you could stay unnoticed.

You thought she’d come to kill you. Or blackmail you. Or worse– send you back.

But she gave you that fake motherly smile and touched your shoulder gently.

“We need someone emotionally resilient,” she said. “Someone who can handle the weight.”

You didn’t say yes.

You just didn’t say no.

The more you read, the worse it gets. 

His file is thick. Heavy. Dense with information you’re not sure you want, even if you need it.

“A victim of domestic abuse throughout his childhood… was addicted to orally-administered morphine during middle school… history of drug-related arrests for nonviolent crimes…” 

You groan at the fine print, even though you’re in the back of a moving cab. The whole thing reads like a warning sign duct-taped over a power plant.

No wonder he went full nightmare-mode and turned New York into a psychic hellscape. You’ll never forget that day– because for a solid hour, you were right back where you started. Clawing at restraints. Crying in silence. Begging for it to end.

When the driver lurches to a stop, you gasp and slap the file shut. The driver gives you a look in the rearview. You mutter a quick apology and pass crumpled bills through the divider before stepping out into sunlight and steel.

The newly renovated Avengers Tower looms overhead — bigger, sleeker, colder than you'd imagined. It feels less like a monument and more like judgment. It’s bustling with activity, analysts and interns buzzing around like bees in a hive. 

You scan your temporary keycard– the one Valentina gave you a few days ago – and the elevator dings open. Warm light. Brushed chrome. Sterile peace.

You hesitate.

But your feet don’t.

You step in.

You press the button for the top floor.

Whatever's waiting for you up there, bright future or dark end, you’ll meet it head-on.

When the doors slide open again, your breath catches in your chest. A quiet hallway stretches out ahead. You take one cautious step, then another, until your gut takes over and you start walking with more purpose.

A sharp left turn, and there it is.

A massive steel door, sealed with a gleaming “A,” stands between you and whatever this job actually is.

You scan your card. The center twists counterclockwise with a mechanical groan, and the door yawns open to reveal the newly renovated penthouse.

You know you’re in the right place the moment you feel it– that crushing weight that settles into your bones. The weight of being at the top of the food chain. At the top of the Tower.

You move quietly, footsteps soft as you enter, peeking around corners, instinctively cautious. A few steps down into the sunken center of the room, and you’re already planning your retreat. 

You're halfway to turning around when–

“Look who made it!”

Valentina’s voice cracks through the silence like a gunshot.

You jolt, whip around. Her heels clack across the floor as she emerges from a hallway you hadn’t noticed before, all polished smiles and cruel charm.

She’s beaming, arms wide, practically glowing with smug satisfaction, and she’s not alone.

Behind her, the new team follows in her wake.

The Thunderbolts.

It’s not as grand as you expected. They all look vaguely uncomfortable, like Valentina just dragged her children into the living room to show them off to her guests. 

You offer a polite smile. A nod. Valentina sweeps through introductions with a breezy indifference, rattling off names and blurting some oversimplified version of their abilities and feats.

Then she grabs someone lurking near the back by the arm.

You hadn’t seen him at first.

He looks… different than he did in the file. Still emotionally wrecked, still carrying that buried-glass kind of tension– but not quite the same. His hair is a sun-warmed shade of gold-brown, catching the light that spills through the penthouse windows.

And there’s something distant in his eyes. Like he’s here, but not really.

Valentina gives his arm a little tug and announces, all cheer:

“And this ball of anxiety is Bob.”

You’d chuckle at his introduction if he didn’t look so confused and uncomfortable.

Matter of fact… they all look confused.

Finally, someone says it. 

“And who the hell is this?” 

The voice belongs to the petite blonde with a thick accent, Yelena. She’s waving a dismissive hand in your direction like you’re someone’s plus-one at a funeral.

Honestly, it tracks. Very on-brand for Valentina Allegra de Fontaine to make secret plans, to neglect filling anyone in, especially at someone else’s expense. 

She just laughs it off, breezy as ever, letting go of Bob only to drape an arm awkwardly around you instead.

“Oh, did I not tell you? Seriously?”

She grins. You brace yourself.

“This is your new team member.”

The groan that echoes around the room is unanimous. A blond man throws his head back dramatically, while someone with a mop of dark hair just shakes his head in defeat. Yelena scoffs in disbelief– and you’re really starting to wish Valentina had maybe run this whole idea past someone before now.

“Team member?” the blonde snaps. “Look at her, Val. She’s dressed like a secretary. What’s she gonna do, ask our enemies for their coffee orders?”

Ouch.

You weren’t going for a secretary look. You were going for the ‘young-but-intelligent therapist’ look. 

“I think personal assistants take coffee orders, not secretaries.”  

The words are out before you can stop them. Crisp. Clipped. Not exactly friendly.

The room goes dead silent.

Then Bob laughs.

It’s an awkward little chuckle that breaks the tension, and everyone suddenly remembers why they were annoyed in the first place. 

Valentina steps behind you, squeezing your shoulders in a way that’s meant to be reassuring, but just feels like control.

“She doesn’t look like much, I get it,” she says, all syrup and smirk. “But she’s got powers. Real ones. She can touch one of you and render you completely useless with a little poke.”

The blond man– John Walker, if you remember right– crosses his arms.

“Do it, then.”

You glance back at Valentina, searching for reassurance.

She just gives you an overly friendly shove and a wide, sharp smile.

“Go on.”

Something about that smile says don’t fuck this up. Or you’ll regret it.

You step forward slowly. Hands loose at your sides. Not threatening– but not exactly sure what you are, either.

He doesn’t flinch. Just watches you with that steely, judgmental stare.

You barely touch him– fingertips brushing the fabric of his uniform– and he hits the ground like a sack of bricks. 

Everyone takes a half-step back, one girl laughs, and the big man, Alexei, beams from ear to ear.

“I like her!”  The russian bear chimes, already pushing past everyone else to wrap you up in an abrupt, bone-crushing hug. You barely get to wheeze out a breath as he whisks you off your feet, squeezing you like he’s trying to kill you. 

“Welcome to the team, zaika!” 

Yelena hits him on the arm, her steely gaze fixed on Valentina. 

“Put her down, Dad.” 

The man pouts before releasing you, making sure you’re stable before he crosses his arms, suddenly remembering that he’s supposed to be angry with the woman standing across from him. 

“Fine, she has powers. But why do we need some sort of touch-starved psychic?” The Russian woman gestures wildly as she speaks, her words sharp enough to draw blood. You’d laugh if the target wasn’t you.

Valentina is suddenly beside you again. Too close. Her voice honeyed. Her smile pure performance.

She presses her head against yours, mock-affectionate.

“You don’t need her,” she says. “Bob does.

You get settled into your room without many issues. It’s barren, nothing like your cluttered apartment in Brooklyn. It feels like a hospital room, empty save for the essentials. The bed, the desk, the closet, the bathroom, the nightstand. 

You make a point of sorting out the few things you had delivered a few days prior, making sure your clothes are neat and sorted in your closet. That everything on your desk is square or touching a corner.

You plop down on the edge of your bed once you get settled, opening Bob’s file again while you gnaw on your lip. 

You flip through the pages, trying to figure out exactly what you can do or say to bring him back to Earth when he starts slipping without having to use your powers.

It feels… wrong. The whole idea of using your ability to pacify his sadistic counterpart.

You flip another page. Then another.

Psych evals. Mission transcripts. Eyewitness reports that were written with trembling handwriting.

There’s a pattern in all of it– not just chaos, not just destruction. It’s pain. Repetition. A man who wants so badly to stay good, and a force inside him that keeps pulling him apart molecule by molecule.

You stare down at one phrase, underlined three times in red.

“Sometimes I feel like I'm watching myself rot from the inside.”

You close the file.

It does feel wrong. To be someone’s leash. Someone’s handler. To reach into someone’s head and force quiet when the storm rises. You didn’t sign up to be a human tranquilizer.

But it’s not like anyone asked him if he wanted to be the Sentry, either.

You’re still chewing that thought when there’s a knock at the door.

Not urgent. Not hesitant. Just… there.

You stand and cross to it, unsure who you’re expecting. When you open it, your heart stutters a little.

Bob Reynolds stands in the hall, hands in the pockets of a faded hoodie, like he just woke up from a nap.

His eyes flick past you, toward the bare room, then back.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Then;

“Is she making you do this?” You shift, leaning against the doorframe with furrowed brows and a soft laugh.

“Define ‘this.’”

Bob shrugs a little, eyes flicking to the side like he’s embarrassed to ask.

“This… ‘anchoring’ thing. The… psychic babysitting.”

You tilt your head, studying him. He looks awkward, not afraid. Uncomfortable in his own skin.

“No. She didn’t make me.”

He nods, slowly, like that answer just raises more questions. You don’t blame him. You’ve got your own.

“Did she tell you what happens...?” he asks, voice quieter now. Like he’s afraid of the answer.

“She gave me a file,” you say. “But I don’t think that counts.”

A beat. Then another.

Then Bob murmurs:

“She thinks I’m a bomb.”

You frown. “Are you?”

He doesn’t smile. Just meets your eyes and says, plain and honest:

“Yeah.”

You don’t flinch. That feels important.

You cross your arms over your chest, considering him, then you give him a soft smile.

“Just tell me which wire to cut.” 

The room is white. Or grey. Or something in between. It's hard to tell under the LED lights that hum like bees in your skull.

No windows. One door. A camera in the corner pretending not to be watching.

Bob sits across from you, hands clasped, thumb digging into the edge of his opposite palm like he’s trying not to fly apart. You’re seated opposite him, a tablet on the desk between you. No notes yet. You’ve been sitting in silence for awhile now.

“So,” you start, voice light. “This is the part where we ‘establish baseline compatibility.’”

He looks at you. Then down at his hands.

“Right. Sure. That.”

You tap the tablet. Still not writing.

“I’m supposed to take readings. Monitor your stress levels. Track fluctuations in your–”

You pause and don’t even hold back a grimace. “–psychospiritual field.”

Bob snorts. You roll your eyes.

“Where do they come up with this shit?” You grumble under your breath, scrolling to another blank space that you’ll eventually have to fill out. 

The tablet isn’t helping. The room isn’t helping. The silence isn’t helping.

So you just shut the screen off and sink back in your chair, crossing your arms.

“If you could be any animal, what would you be?” The childish question catches Bob off guard, and he glances up to meet your gaze with a perplexed look. 

He raises a brow, suspicious. “Seriously?”

You shrug, legs crossed now, thumb tapping lightly on your upper arm. “We’ve been sitting in silence for ten minutes. Gotta start somewhere.”

He hesitates, thinking with a little grunt. “I don’t know. A crow?”

You blink. That’s honestly one of the last answers you expected. You watch him for a moment, the way he stares at you expectantly. You just give him a look that encourages him to continue. 

“Well,” he says, sitting forward, elbows on his knees. “They’re scavengers. Messy. Smart. They remember people’s faces.”

There’s a pause. Then he adds, a little softer:

“They carry grief. Like a… like a flock.”

You study him, that quiet weight of something unspoken curling at the edges of his words.

“That’s actually kind of poetic.”

He snorts again, but there’s less edge to it now.

“What about you?” he asks. “What’s your animal?”

You grin. “Opossum.”

That draws an actual laugh from him–brief, involuntary, almost like it surprises him.

You sit up straighter, proud of yourself. “They fake their death when things get stressful. Wish I could do that.”

Bob shakes his head, still smiling faintly. “God help us.”

You don’t answer that. Just let the moment settle. Let the silence fill with something that isn’t heavy.

Eventually, you turn the tablet back on, slowly this time.

“I’ll mark this down as a ‘moderately successful initial sync,’” you say lightly.

Bob raises an eyebrow. “Moderate?”

“Well,” you glance at him sideways, “you haven’t stormed out or vaporized me yet, so I’m counting it as a win.”

There’s a beat of quiet. And then, surprisingly, a murmur:

“Thanks for not… Treating me like a bomb.”

You look at him for a long moment.

“I won’t,” you say. “Unless you start ticking.”

Your sessions with Bob start to feel like therapy. Not just for him, but for you. You’re nowhere near being a licensed psychologist, just because you can feel the way people think and alter the way they think doesn’t mean you know how to fix them naturally.

You haven’t used your powers on him. Not a single time. It feels like a violation. Like you’re reaching into someone’s head and forcing their cells to collide and neurons to fire a certain way– the way you want them to. 

Bob doesn’t deserve that. Not when he smiles so sweetly every time you make a joke under your breath or snap back at John like you’ve been on the team as long as everyone else. Not when he finds you in those awkward moments when you feel like a stranger in the Watchtower– like you somehow don’t belong just because you came in later. 

Valentina’s been trying to ease him back into missions, letting him monitor the team from the tower while they’re working. You’re with him the whole time, trying to keep his emotions and worries at bay when someone narrowly dodges a bullet or takes a kick the wrong way. 

It’s one of those casual afternoons, where the world is quiet and the Thunderbolts can actually unwind. It feels… odd, to say the least. As much as they’d fight tooth and nail to deny it, they like each other. Their banter is effortless, and their smiles and laughter are contagious. 

You’re curled up on your corner of the couch, sinking into the cushions and your hoodie, when Bob plops down beside you. He’s fully immersed in the movie from the moment he enters the common area, a bowl of popcorn in his lap as he leans back against the couch.

You watch him longer than you’d like to admit– the way his eyes twinkle in the dim lighting of the room when the scene gets a little brighter. The way the corners of his lips turn up at a poorly written joke or emotionally charged scene.

You turn back to the screen, reaching over for a handful of popcorn, when it happens.

You touch him. 

Just a graze of your fingers against his own.

The lights flicker, and a sharp jolt of electricity shoots up your arm and down your spine.

You jump, yelp, and meet Bob’s gaze.

It’s flickering, blue, gold, black.

Gold wins. 

And you’re on your back in half a second. 

You hit the rug with a thud, the breath knocked clean out of you. Bob is hovering over you, jaw twitching and eyes narrowed. 

But it’s not quite Bob, is it? 

You had read enough to know it wasn’t him.

It’s Sentry. 

He had seen you plenty of times before. Felt your presence like a buzzing fly that wouldn’t quite go away. He didn’t think much of you–you were nothing to him. He didn’t see you as a threat or something that could reel him back in. Not until you touched Bob for the first time.

Then he felt you. Felt what kind of power was lingering in your touch. 

Right before he can get his hands on you– the blue comes back.

Your chest heaves. The room spins. Your head is still echoing with static and a thousand half-formed thoughts that aren’t your own. Heavy boots pound the floor. A hand grips the back of Bob’s hoodie and yanks, hard, dragging him off you.

Bob slams into the far wall with a grunt, more startled than hurt. He blinks rapidly, like he’s trying to blink the world back into place.

You flinch at the sound but don’t move, too dazed to do anything but stare up at the ceiling lights–still flickering.

A gentler hand finds your arm.

“Hey. Hey. You with me?”

Yelena’s voice. Grounding. Sharp but not unkind.

You nod, or try to.

“Jesus,” someone mutters. Probably Walker. “That was not normal.”

You sit up slowly, ribs aching. The rug is rough under your palms.

Your eyes find Bob across the room, where Bucky is crouched down talking to him. Probably trying to keep him calm.

He’s sitting with his back against the wall, hands in his hair, curled in on himself. Mute. Shaking.

It wasn’t his fault.

But no one else in the room looks convinced.

Valentina bursts in not two seconds later, and the look she gives you is less concerned and more… calculating. Like she’s doing the math. Wondering just how useful you’re going to be after this.

Now, more than ever, you’re certain.

You have to be his anchor. 

The buzzing of the LEDs seems louder than usual.

Bob hasn’t looked at you once. He’s staring down at his lap, hands fidgeting as you type on your tablet nervously.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Your voice cuts through the silence, breaking him out of the invisible box he’s been trapped in for days. He still won’t look at you. 

He shifts, fingers curling tighter around the hem of his hoodie. The fabric is worn thin from how often he picks at it. You pretend not to notice.

“Bob,”  You whisper his name, hand sliding halfway across the table. You don’t touch him, though.

“It wasn’t you. It was me.” 

He swallows hard. His voice is a scrape of gravel when it finally comes.

“It was him.”

You blink. “What?”

“You touched me,” he says. “He noticed. He felt you. That’s why he lashed out.”

His hands tremble. He presses them flat against his knees like he can still feel the leftover electricity there.

“You grounded me,” he adds, and finally, he looks at you. “And Sentry didn’t like it.” 

A beat passes. Then another.

Bob takes a shaky breath, reaching out to find your hand. Your fingers touch– but sparks don’t go flying this time. It still feels a little unsteady, like a warped battery waiting to explode.

“He thought he was invincible until you touched me.” 

Your fingers twitch beneath his, but you don’t pull away.

You can feel it, even without trying. The echo of something immense. Coiled just beneath his skin like a dormant storm.

But he’s trying. Grounded. Human.

You meet his eyes, your voice barely above a whisper. “And what do you think?”

He hesitates. That flicker of gold threatens to rise again in his eyes, but it doesn’t. He keeps it at bay. For you.

“I think…”  He whispers, jaw ticking as he glances off again. “I’m scared he’ll hurt you. Because, as far as I’m aware, you’re his only weakness.” 

And that, somehow, doesn’t terrify you.

His words settle over you like smoke, thick and lingering.

You don’t know what to say at first. Weakness isn’t the word you’d use. But maybe it is, to something like him. To something that sees compassion as a fracture. Humanity as a flaw.

“I’m not afraid of him,” you say softly. “I don’t want to lose you to him, though.”

That gets his attention. His eyes snap back to yours, something like surprise flickering there– followed by something gentler. Sadder.

“I lose myself to him all the time,” he says, his voice thick. “I just… don’t want to take anyone else with me.”

“You won’t,” you say, with more certainty than you feel. “Not if we keep doing this. Together.”

His hand tightens around yours again. Firmer this time. Like he’s trying to anchor himself to the words, to you.

“I don’t need a leash,” he murmurs.

“I don’t want to be your leash,” you say, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “I’d rather be your tether.”

That word sits between you for a long moment.

And then he nods.

“Okay.”

The next day, you’re in one of the Watchtower’s reinforced training rooms.

Everything is steel and sterile white. No windows. No warmth. Just flickering fluorescent lights, a two-way mirror, and the quiet hum of surveillance.

Bob stands across from you, arms loose at his sides. His hoodie’s gone. Replaced with standard issue training gear. You hate how clinical it all feels — how observed.

Valentina’s watching behind the glass. So is Bucky. You can feel him.

Your voice is soft, meant just for Bob. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just nods once. Tight. Nervous.

You take one step forward, slowly, like you’re trying to keep a cornered animal calm.

“Hold your hand out.”

He listens after a half-second of hesitation, holding his hand out, palm up, low enough for you to reach without struggling. You take a deep breath, your gaze scanning his face as you take another step closer.

“Relax.”  You murmur, and he tries his best to. But he’s failing.

“Just… tell me if it’s too much, okay?” You whisper, and he nods once. You realize he’s ready when his gentle features turn a little harsher, brows furrowing and jaw clenching.

You place your hand in his slowly, fingers gliding over his palm before they rest at the edge of his wrist. 

This time, the world doesn’t crack. But you can feel it wanting to. Something is simmering beneath his skin like lightning behind cloud cover. His palm twitches beneath yours, but you don’t pull away. You can feel it now– not just the storm, but the fear buried underneath. Not fear of you. Fear for you.

“What are you feeling?”

His throat works as he swallows.

“I don’t know how to let it out without…” he trails off, blinking hard, “...without giving him the reins.”

You nod once. “Then don’t let it out. Just tell me where it lives.”

His eyes meet yours. That gold shimmer is there, flickering again, barely restrained.

And slowly, he lifts your joined hands to rest against the center of his chest.

“Right here.”

Your breath catches. You feel it– all of it. Not just the power. The panic. The pain. The constant hum of restraint.

Behind the glass, Valentina shifts. You feel the sudden spike of her interest.

But you don’t look. You keep your eyes on him.

“You’re doing fine,” you whisper.

And he starts to believe you. 

Your fingers are still pressed to his wrist when it happens.

One breath, you’re there– in the sterile training room, the chill of steel underfoot, Valentina watching behind the glass.

The next?

Black.

Not just darkness– absence. The hum of the lights is gone. The air is gone. The room is gone. You're gone.

You're standing somewhere else now, barefoot on damp concrete. The air is thick. Heavy. Pressed against your chest like a weighted blanket soaked through. You see yourself in the corner of the dim room, curled into a ball as you chew at the sleeve of your hospital gown. 

Your younger self is a mess. Red-faced, eyes bloodshot, skin worn and covered in angry red marks. She sniffles softly, eyes wide and unfocused as they dart around the room. The door behind you shifts, and it opens with a loud, familiar creak. 

You turn around, watching the man who plagues your nightmares saunter into the room. Standing in the hallway is Bob, eyes wide as he steps forward, trying to find your gaze.

This isn’t his void. It’s yours.

“I didn’t mean to–” He croaks. 

You don’t look when the memory starts to play out. You– screaming as he holds you down and injects you with whatever he feels like injecting you with that day. The way you try to fight him off is hard to ignore, and Bob is torn between stopping it and trying to distract you. 

"Where are we?" he asks, and his voice sounds wrong here. Softer. Distorted, like it's passing through water.

You can't answer. You can't breathe.

But then, something changes.

The pressure begins to ease, not because the void is gone, but because he’s grounding you this time.

Bob lifts a hand, slow and deliberate, he takes your hand. A mirror of what you once did for him.

"I'm here," he says, and the room begins to dissolve.

The voice fades. The shadows recede. The void doesn’t vanish, but it retreats. Yielding.

When you blink again, you're back on the cold training room floor, on your knees. You're gasping. Shaking.

Bob is right in front of you, shaking as he struggles in his mind. He’s scared to touch you again.

Scared to take you right back to that awful place in your head. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to see.”

You want to believe him. But it’s hard to when there’s a golden twinkle in his eye. 

[reomikagekin]

HI IM BACK POOKIE 🫶

I’ve thought of this one for a while, but could you do a Lovesick!Stanley Snyder x reader? Where it takes place in their childhood, to adulthood, then to the moon mission. We all know Stanley is EXTREMELY PRETTY even when he was just a kid, I’ve put this on my little Dr.stone idea rant thingy, so I can just imagine him trying to look good and cool for precious y/n everyday 🤭

I just like the idea of the almighty Stanley Snyder, the most dangerous soldier, being a school girl in love. Like y/n could be talking about her favorite subject and his pov is practically like “Blah, blah, blah, proper name, place name, backstory stuff” and he’s just like “uhuh😍”

Also off topic but tell me why I had to babysit a bunch of kids at my family’s party 😭🙏 it was fun but they were constantly yelling and screaming in impossibly high pitches that even Ariana Grande can do 💔🥀

WELCOME BACK POOKIEEE

ngl those kids might become ariana grande 2.0.. ANYWAY HERES THE FIC!!

Trajectory

Stanley Snyder was nine years old when he decided he loved you.

You were late to school that day. Hair a mess, one shoelace untied, swinging your backpack around like it was a lightsaber. You sat next to him — uninvited — and offered him a broken pencil with teeth marks on it.

“Hi,” you said brightly. “You look like you hate fun.”

Stanley blinked. “…I don’t.”

“You do. But that’s okay. I’ll fix it.”

He didn’t respond, just adjusted his collar and looked back at the blackboard.

You passed him a note.

"Do you think the moon’s lonely?"

He didn’t answer. He just kept that scrap of paper tucked in the back of his notebook for years.

By twelve, you were his best friend.

Though Stanley never called it that. He didn’t call things what they were unless he had to. Labels made things real, and real things could be broken. Still, he sat with you at lunch. He walked you halfway home. He let you talk, even when it was about stars and gravity and string theory you barely understood.

You once tried to teach him orbital mechanics using a sandwich and two juice boxes.

“This one’s the Earth. This one’s the Moon. The sandwich is us. No, wait—”

“You’re gonna waste your lunch.”

“It’s worth it,” you grinned. “I like when you pay attention.”

He pretended not to blush.

He always pretended.

By sixteen, he was everything you weren’t.

Military-focused. Hyper-disciplined. Stoic. Already looking at sky missions while you were still tangled in lab work and dreams too big for paper.

Still, you made time for each other.

You'd show up to his house after physics club, spouting facts and cold pizza. He’d open the door like he hadn’t been waiting there all day.

“You always talk like you're running out of time,” he said one night, lying side-by-side on his roof.

You blinked at the sky. “Maybe I am.”

Stanley didn’t reply.

Just turned his head slightly, watching you with that expression he’d never let anyone else see.

Soft. Guard lowered.

“I like hearing it anyway,” he said.

He stopped calling when he enlisted.

You didn’t blame him. It made sense. You were on two different tracks — him with fire in his hands and silence in his voice, and you with ink stains and cracked formulas and your name buried in research documents no one read.

Still, it stung.

You saw his name once in an international report. Something vague. Something redacted. You stared at the screen too long and whispered his name aloud, like that would summon him.

“Stanley Snyder,” you murmured. He didn’t appear.

You thought maybe he’d just disappeared for good.

Then came the Petrification.

Then came the silence.

Then… a miracle.

When the world woke up, Stanley did too — older, sharper, heavier in the eyes.

You were already at the new lab base by then, covered in moon dust and caffeine. He entered the room with a rifle slung across his back, eyes alert, posture tight.

You stood frozen.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just stared like he didn’t quite believe you were real. Like he’d been expecting you to vanish if he blinked.

“Hi, Stan,” you said.

His mouth twitched. “You look the same.”

“You look awful.”

“I know.”

And still, he stayed in the doorway, eyes flickering from your face to your hands to the barely-hidden tremble in your shoulders.

“Still talk too much?” he asked.

You nodded.

He stepped forward.

“…Good.”

You were chosen for the moon mission. Stanley was your escort.

“Of course he’s going,” someone had muttered. “He’d follow them anywhere.”

Stanley didn’t deny it.

You worked side by side again, like no time had passed — like you were still sixteen and pretending roof tiles were constellations. Only now you were older, more tired, more careful. You stole glances across control panels. He hovered when you were testing unfamiliar tools. You told him you were fine. He never believed you.

He always walked one step behind. Never in front. Never beside. Like he was built to guard but not to belong.

You hated that.

“Stan,” you said during a flight simulation. “Do you ever stop being so serious?”

He didn’t even blink. “We’re preparing to launch into space.”

“I know. But like. Do you ever… laugh?”

He tilted his head. “Do you want me to?”

You faltered. “I—”

“Then I’ll try.”

You looked away quickly.

He didn’t push. Just stayed by your side, like always.

The night before launch, you couldn’t sleep.

You wandered outside the shuttle hangar, arms wrapped around yourself, mind buzzing too loud. You weren’t scared of dying — not really — but of leaving nothing behind. Of saying too little. Of leaving things unsaid.

Footsteps.

“Should’ve known you’d be out here,” Stanley murmured behind you.

You smiled without turning. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“I don’t sleep much.”

“Of course you don’t.”

He came to stand beside you. The lights from the hangar flickered faintly across his face. He looked softer than usual. Tired, maybe. But clear-eyed.

“I ever tell you I read all your papers?” he asked.

You glanced at him. “What?”

“Back then. After high school. Even when I couldn’t call. I found them. Every single one.”

Your heart caught. “Stanley—”

“You wrote about the stars like they were people,” he said simply. “You made it sound like they wanted to be found.”

You stared at him.

“…You remember that?”

“I remember everything you said,” he said. Then added, more quietly: “I was nine when I knew.”

You blinked. “Knew what?”

“That I loved you.”

He said it without drama. No flourish. Like it had just been a fact he’d filed away for later.

You didn’t know what to say.

Stanley looked down. “You don’t have to say anything. I know I’m… not easy. I know I left. And I know this isn’t the right time.”

“It’s not that,” you said, breath catching. “It’s not—Stan. I loved you too.”

He froze.

You reached for his hand, your fingers brushing against callused skin.

“And I still do,” you whispered. “Even when you were a rigid little nerd with gelled hair.”

He groaned quietly. “You remembered that?”

“I remember everything.”

He looked at you — really looked — and his eyes were wide for once, not guarded, not armored.

“…Can I kiss you?” he asked hoarsely.

“Maybe after we survive the moon.”

He laughed. Actually laughed. Low and rough and real.

And for the first time in years, Stanley Snyder looked like he believed in something again.

On the moon, he is silence.

Precise, efficient, composed. But you know the truth. You see the small ways he shows his worry — the way he checks your oxygen levels before his own. The way he hovers during sample extractions. The way he never takes his eyes off your back, as if something might tear you away from him at any moment.

“You don’t have to be a soldier all the time,” you say once, voice soft over comms.

He pauses. Then, after a beat: “You don’t have to pretend you're not terrified.”

You smile bitterly. “I’m not pretending.”

“…Me neither.”

Later, during a brief rest window, he catches you staring at Earth. Your gloved hand is pressed to the glass.

“Do you think the moon’s lonely?” you whisper.

Stanley doesn’t answer.

He just rests his helmet against yours.

And in the cold vacuum of space, you feel him breathe.

Post-Mission Scene:

The return to Earth is brutal in its silence.

The re-entry, the rush of gravity, the blinding lights, the grasping hands of ground crew �� it all happens in a blur. You’re taken one way, he another. Questions. Medical checks. Protocol. It’s all protocol.

You don’t see Stanley for hours.

You're sitting in the debriefing tent when he appears in the doorway, still in his underlayer suit, dust clinging to his boots, helmet under one arm. His eyes scan the room like he’s hunting for something. When they land on you, everything else fades.

You’re on your feet before you can think.

And he’s already walking — fast, like something’s snapped in his restraint.

You meet in the middle.

Neither of you speaks. He just grabs you, one hand on your back, the other cupping your jaw like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he presses too hard.

Your foreheads touch first.

It’s not cinematic. It’s not loud. It’s breathless.

Your noses bump. His skin is warm and rough, yours still trembling.

“I thought you—” you start, voice cracking.

He pulls you closer. “Don’t.”

“I thought something would go wrong. That I’d lose you. That—”

“Stop,” he breathes, forehead still against yours. “You’re here. I’m here. You’re here.”

Silence settles between you, full of all the things you never had time to say.

And then — finally — his lips find yours.

It’s not perfect. It’s desperate and overdue and a little shaky. But it’s real. It’s him. It’s you. The only constant in the chaos of space and silence and fear.

You stay like that for a long time, arms wound tight, forehead to forehead, breathing each other in like oxygen.

When you finally break apart, your hand lingers on his face.

“I told you,” you whisper, voice breaking into a smile. “You always talk like you're running out of time.”

He lets out a low breath. His eyes soften.

“Not anymore.”

[biscuits-and-gracie]

experiment! reader

SUBJECT PROFILE - 001-F

File ID: 001-F Clearance Level: PERSONAL - EYES ONLY Designation: "The Project" Status: ACTIVE / RESPONSIVE Handler: Dr. R. Cameron Last Update: 10.31 - 04:12 EST

IDENTIFICATION

Field: Entry

Gender: F

Age: [Redacted - same as Analyst]

Name (Used): [Intentionally withheld in file. Referred to only as “Subject.”]

Aliases: "My Monster", “Sweet Thing”, “001”

Location: UNC Chapel Hill - Humanities Dormitory

VISUAL OVERVIEW

Style leans vintage-soft, juvenile-coded

Clothing typically pastel: lace hems, ribbon accessories, Mary Janes or high socks

Hair is loosely maintained, often tied with satin (frequently frayed or off-center)

Accessories: heart-shaped lockets, glitter makeup, mismatched charm jewelry

Movement light and slightly clumsy (trips, bumps, apologizes instinctively)

Noted verbal habit: apologizing to objects, walls, furniture

First impression: She dresses like she’s someone’s lost porcelain girl. I don’t think she realizes no one’s been looking for her. I found her instead.

PSYCHOGRAPHIC PROFILE

Naive - Tends to believe what is said without question - Relies on Analyst for clarity

Emotionally Dependent - Responds to Analyst’s approval/disapproval visibly - Seeks verbal affirmation

Insecure

- Uses self-deprecating language regarding intelligence or academic ability

Submissive - Follows Analyst’s physical guidance and verbal direction instinctively

Trusting - Enters private spaces with Analyst without hesitation

Sweet - Expresses concern for Analyst’s well-being - Desires to "help" even when unable

HABITUAL TRACKING LOGS

Stats Class (MWF): Struggles with coursework; consistent failure to grasp basic logic functions. Subject appears distressed but does not seek help from traditional resources. Seeks Analyst exclusively.

Dining Patterns: Frequently forgets meals. Will eat when reminded by Analyst. Subject exhibits increased serotonin response when brought food personally.

Sleep Routine: Irregular unless instructed. Will nap when given quiet space. Recent note: sleeps better in Analyst's hoodie.

Social Navigation: Low assertiveness. Easily influenced by peer opinion. Immediately reorients behavior when Analyst appears.

EXPERIMENTAL NOTES - HIGHLIGHTED OBSERVATIONS

10.02 - Asked if it was okay she didn’t understand “even easy math.” Analyst responded affirmatively. Subject smiled, appeared visibly comforted. 10.10 - Wore a bow given by Analyst; called it her “smart girl ribbon.” No prompting required. 10.11 - Subject called Analyst “the only one who gets me.” No follow-up needed. 10.23 - Subject asked if it was “bad” she likes being told what to do. Analyst provided soft verbal encouragement. Subject smiled, leaned in. 10.30 - Subject expressed desire to “help with your science stuff” despite lack of capability. Analyst provided coloring sheets with faux data. Subject believed they were contributing. Satisfaction visible. 10.31 - Halloween. Tag worn. Identity confirmed. Analyst suppressed visible reaction. Subject unaware of significance. This was the turning point.

KEY TERMINOLOGY IN USE BY SUBJECT (UNDERLINED = FLAGGED FOR FUTURE ANALYSIS):

“I’m bad at thinking, but I’m good at listening.”

“You always know what to do with me.”

“I just want to make you proud.”

“You make me feel… like I could be smart.”

“don’t unmake me, please?” (10.31, post-costume. FLAGGED: SUBMISSION, VOLUNTARY)

ANALYST’S PRIVATE NOTES (UNFILED):

She doesn’t know she’s being studied.

She thinks it’s love.

She thanks me for what I do to her mind.

When she wears what I give her-bows, tags, words- she doesn’t realize that each one is a binding.

That sweater still smells like her. I haven’t washed it. I don’t plan to.

CURRENT STATUS:

Phase I (Attachment): ✅

Phase II (Dependency): ✅

Phase III (Identity Restructuring): IN PROGRESS

Phase IV (Containment): SCHEDULED

Room key duplication complete. Drawer installed beneath lab bench. Analyst is waiting.

[artfromtheugly]

Name: Valentine

Sex: Male

Height: 17.7 hands

Weight: 800 lbs

Color/Coat: Albino/Stock

DOB: REDACTED

Entrance Date: REDACTED

Breedings: NONE

Offspring: NONE

Notes: Hybrid known as Valentine has been within the fighting circuit REDACTED years, is owned by Vincent Mouring.

Valentine is a walking test-tube experiment in every sense of the word, used as an experiment to see how far scientists could push the limits of splicing human DNA into the Hybrid genes. This episode of “playing God” resulted in Valentine’s creation and subsequent damnation. Considered the bastard of the breed, Valentine is the reason the USA and BPB (Biological Preservation Branch) of the government put strict bans on lab-funded Hybrid research and births, and the reason strict bans on the species as a whole exist. Valentine was lab-created, lab-funded, and human-made, with no consideration to the effects that their actions would cause. He has a 48% BC (Breeding Coefficient) of human DNA and a 78% IBC (Inbreeding Coefficient) which means he is a direct descendent of Zero.

Valentine was born into a lab and underwent psychological and physical experimentation that would warp his already defective mind for the first year of his life. He showed an unnatural level of self-awareness and intelligence with, highly developed frontal lobes and limbic system that had never been seen within the breed before. His intelligence was so uncanny and disturbing that one of the lab workers finally realized just how dangerous Valentine was, but instead of euthanizing him, he kidnapped the Hybrid from the lab when he was just a year old and then sold him on the black market. The worker assumed Valentine would die within the circuit and would have had no way of knowing that he would not only survive, but he would be bought by the founding father of circuit fighting, Vincent Mourning. Sold for over 1 million dollars, Vincent purchased Valentine with the intention of using him for breeding and fighting. He was in for a nasty surprise when he finally met his purchase though, and he realized immediately that Valentine was very much one of a kind and really should never have been created. 

A strange relationship would develop between the pair over the coming decades, and Vincent would become Valentine's greatest comfort and greatest tormentor. Suffering from Stockholm Syndrome, Valentine both hates and loves Vincent. Vincent's own feelings and thoughts about Valentine are unknown, but he provides the beast with proper medical care and keeps him UTD on vaccines, as well as allows him to rest and provides comfort care when he is not fighting. 

Valentine is able to experience and recognize his life, situations, and he exhibits not only complex problem solving, but even sadistic tendencies. He is so heavily spliced with human DNA that he can exhibit facial expressions like smiling, frowning and can even laugh and “parrot” human speech. While he can’t actually carry conversation, he is able to mimic human words and sounds. It is a truly eerie sight and sound to behold, and many of the groomers and grounds men will not interact with Valentine because of this. His instability and heavily human-tainted DNA set him up for failure because while he is intelligent enough to recognize his situation, his past, his actions, and respond to them, he is not developed enough to understand the trauma and emotional and physical effects it has on his mind. He knows he is in a living hell, but his mind is not developed enough to understand how to process what he sees and does everyday.

Another OC dump :)

Shout Out to @todstiles for the proof read, cause I was too tired and didn't wanna :) Thank you!

Please do not Copy/Reuse without permission

(c) AT 2008-2025

[dokidokitsuna]

O.R.C.A.’s Directory

(Finally coming back to this concept after several months ^^;)

O.R.C.A. in #re_rise doesn’t just run Alterna in the background and give you orders– it’s a system you interact with regularly as the player; a database that facilitates your adventure and keeps track of your accomplishments. It is accessed through terminals placed at key spots on each site, which you have to find, activate, and physically walk to if you want to use them.

Most of the contents of the Menu (except the Sunken Scrolls) are now consolidated into O.R.C.A., along with a few bonus features~

Alterna Archive: Basically the Alterna Logs– all the information about Alterna’s history, from creation to collapse (referencing my rewritten version of this backstory, of course). As you clear lab spaces with different weapons, earn Golden Eggs, activate terminals, collect Nostalgic Devices, etc., the files will be decrypted line by line. Basically, anything that contributes to your percent completion of the game will count towards this…so just enjoy Alterna the way you like, and you’ll eventually reveal the entire archive without too much extra effort. ^^ This story is O.R.C.A.’s gift to you; your reward for reawakening its home.

Lab Notebook: Notes written by the ‘mysterious researcher’ currently working in Alterna, earned in order from newest to oldest, so we can gradually learn what the Fuzzy Ooze is and why he made it, as well as his origin story and true identity (in his own words~). These replace ‘Log.exe’ from the actual game. Lab notes are found by reaching computers hidden within the lab spaces, kinda like the Power Egg packs. They are purposely placed in the more challenging spaces, and you must clear the space in order to take the note with you– if you wanna learn the main antagonist’s secrets, you gotta put in the work. ^^

Wellness File: Records of Neo Agent 3’s responses to the environment, once you obtain the biometric monitor in Cryogenic Hopetown (more on that later). This is essentially an account of how the player character is feeling at each point in the story– a new entry will be created after each encounter with a major character (Deep Cut, the King Salmonids, the Squid Sisters, etc.) or a particularly interesting Alterna landmark. ;)

Nostalgia Index: List of all the Nostalgic Devices you’ve collected, which Alterna citizens they belonged to, and what they used them for. The citizens’ names are redacted, but you do get to learn a bit about the different kinds of people who lived in Alterna, and connect with them through the items they left behind.

Skill Tree: Basically the same as the in-game version, minus the Hero Shot buffs– in #re_rise you don’t get the Hero Shot until you gain the Hero Gear in the last stretch of the game. Instead you borrow from weapons’ lockers placed around Alterna…meaning you can carry the weapon of your choice as you explore each site, offering you a wider variety of strategies to use on those balloon challenges, for instance. ^^ But I digress…

Camera Roll: One of the Nostalgic Devices you can find is a digital camera, and once you’ve obtained it, you can take pictures with it and upload them to the terminal (as well as your regular photo gallery, when you’re back on the surface). The Alterna Camera comes with its own special filters, and characters you aim it at will pose for you. ^^ This feature is basically just for funzies, but if you can snap a picture of that large figure lurking in the shadows, you’ll earn a special clothing item.

Messages: Occasionally you will receive mysterious messages, warning you with increasing severity to stay out of their laboratory (and bring back their golden eggs…sure sounds familiar). Are these warnings for their sake or for yours…?

Map: Even the site maps are only accessible through the terminals, they’re not available whenever. Maybe that would be a controversial choice…but I think it’d be okay in this instance, since (a) the Alterna islands are pretty small, and (b) I’ve invented a fun system that might help– the Sticker Beakons! ^^

Around Alterna, you can find Sticker Sheets with 3 Sticker Beakons each, to place and replace wherever you want on any island. They shine like actual beacons so you can use them to navigate while you wander around on foot, and once you reach a terminal you can jump to them like normal Squid Beakons. They come in different shapes and designs like the stickers from Hotlantis, and double as actual stickers you can place on your locker, once you’ve found them in Alterna. ^^

I feel like forcing the player to walk around is more forgivable when you give them something cute and customizable like this to play with. :D If you want to use all 18 Sticker Beakons on one island at a time because you’re super directionally-challenged, you can. If you want to use them to simply mark your favorite Alterna landmarks so you can jump to them easily, you can do that too. 

Maybe as a compromise, I might add a ‘Return to Nearest Terminal’ option in the Menu…but I think encouraging the player to get out there and actively explore can’t hurt. Part of my philosophy with this re-concept is to make Alterna an interesting place that the player would WANT to explore, and all these added collectibles are part of that.

[thymodyke]

[nonsscrapheap]

Hello again same annon from the last ask! Loving the new chapter! Ahhh can’t wait for the next take your time!

I am here to ask a scenario that probably many thought of but probably too early for the story so far but! What if the original idw lost light meet DTFB!Hot Rod? Like a duplicate that accidentally got on the lost light type of story since you finished the comics already, there is stark contrast to the LL!Rodimus we know as in personality and abilities in consideration, LL!Rodimus flamethrower is a Mod while Roddy is a outlier ability I know the canon in DTFB is not restricted to one continuity but I love ideas of other continuities meeting a character that is drastically different from the one they know and Brainstorm probably freaking out about the breathing forms, and how it seems like it could be taught to about anyone that has the motivations and/or determination to learn it basically.

you have NO idea how much i've thought about it ever since- no even BEFORE i finished mtmte and LL. i want LL!roddy to meet DTFB!roddy, i want my roddy's shenanigans seen by the others.

i want my roddy to end up surprisingly envious over LL!roddy for [SOMETHING I CANNOT EXPLAIN YET] and also [MORE SOMETHING I CANNOT EXPLAIN YET]

[REDACTED, SO MUCH REDACTED BECAUSE WE'RE NOT THERE YET]

BUT- fuck it, snippet time!

===== Fire Bot on Lost Light =====

"What am I looking at Brainstorm?" Rodimus questioned dryly as he, Ultra Magnus, Megatron and Drift, stood in Perceptor and Brainstorm's shared lab on the Lost Light. The two scientist having called them over for something important.

"Behold, Simpatico presents; The AU Observer!" Brainstorm exclaimed with his usual flare. Perceptor had rolled his optics but was presenting it either way, a stark contrast to the way he acted towards Brainstorm at the start of Lost Light.

They all stood in the lab in front of the largest screen there, the words AU Observer were scrawled over the screen along with a loading screen and the words Scanning AU...

"With how we're jumping between universes now, I thought it prudent that we see which universe we are jumping into first. To avoid... well, to avoid another situation as last week." Perceptor replied and they all made faceplates at last week's universe jump.

A universe where alignments had all switched with the chivalrous Autobots becoming somehow even more terrible monsters than the old Decepticons? Yeah, they got out of that universe as soon as they could.

"We still cannot exactly choose which universe to go into, but we can at least get a forewarning and a general explanation of what is to come."

Both Ultra Magnus and Megatron seemed to approve of it while Rodimus peered at the screen, "Is it scanning the next universe already?"

"Indeed!" Brainstorm nodded, "Actually, we scanned it before hand but it was a small sample." He brought up a picture of... Rodimus? No, it wasn't Rodimus. It was Hot Rod. With green optics and some different detailing but it was definitely Hot Rod, Rodimus' old identity and frame. "Since you are our illustrious main captain of our duo-captain system, I thought it was only fair that we use your likeness to find the Rodimus in the next universe- Lo and behold, we found you! Somewhat."

"Huh, so what, in this universe I have green optics?" Rodimus couldn't help but ask, intrigued by his other self. Drift snorted, amused at the sight of the green optics yet couldn't help but find Hot Rod's optics... kind for some reason. The smile on his derma certainly helped.

"And you have yet to hold the Matrix, your frame hasn't been reformatted." Ultra Magnus noted, peering at the mech's green optics.

Megatron hummed, "How long until the scan is finished? What can we see?"

Perceptor tapped against his keyboard. "Not long, we're still locked on to Rodi- pardon, locked on to Hot Rod, so we shall soon see him in action at least."

"Speaking of which! It's done!" Brainstorm announced as suddenly the screen changed.

All their faceplates immediately turned grim as they found themselves seeing an area with grey bodies with torn chassis and spilled energon. There was a strange amount of mirrors around, floating in the air, and Hot Rod was in the middle of it.

Heaving, panting and hurt. Optics wide and searching as he tensely looked around his surroundings.

In his servos was a katana, similar yet different to the kind that Drift carried. The blade was interesting, a dark mixture of white, red and blue swirling along the metal, glowing like cracks on the sword's blade.

"What the frag?" Rodimus asked as Hot Rod kept stance.

"Give it up, you may have killed other demons but I can assure you. I am no demon you have ever faced." A voice reverberated from the mirrors, a dark shadowy figure in each mirror with haunting pale blue optics.

"Demons?" Drift repeated tensely, his own servo instinctively going to his swords at his sides.

"Perceptor! Brainstorm! Is this happening now?" Megatron barked as Hot Rod's optics narrowed, energon dripping from his intake as he kept his guard up.

"It is! It's-" Brainstorm quietened when the screen spoke once more.

"Those other demons were talentless brutes who were not worthy in becoming like me. You may have slain other demons but I... am far above them." A figure darted out of the mirror, faster than a normal mech's optic could process- Hot Rod had barely reacted in time, managing to change directions and block an incoming clawed servo with his sword with a grunt.

It revealed who he was fighting up against- "Is that a sparkeater!?" It looked very similar to a typical spark eater. Only it wasn't decaying or dilapidated. Their frame was polished, shiny, underneath the stain of energon. But those sharp metallic tail-like bladed tendrils were unmistakeable. "Why is it talking?!"

"And how did it get out of that mirror?" Ultra Magnus asked and pointed out at the same time.

Spark-eaters were mindless, and they certainly couldn't jump out of mirrors!

"I believe that is just how spark eaters are in that universe." Perceptor said with a tense and haunted look on his faceplate, no doubt remembering the time he and several others had been turned into sparkeaters.

Hot Rod struggled to keep against the spark-eaters strength but managed to grin, "You'd be surprised!" His optics sharpened before his moved. A strange whistling in the air as abruptly, he slashed at the so called 'demon' spark eater.

Ni no Kata kai: Yoko Mizu Guruma!

It took a second for the words to translate from... Human Japanese?? It meant; Second Form: Improved, Lateral Water Wheel.

But in the same second, before anyone could even ask any type of question- water seemed to phase into existence. Slicing a circle around him, the sharp liquid crashed into the intelligent spark eater, sending them flying back against the mirrors- but instead of going inside, it cracked the mirror they landed on. The tendrils they had were cut off, flailing in clear pain.

"What the heck was that?!"

Rodimus held his servos up at the looks he got, "Don't look at me! I have no idea why that Hot Rod has a weird water mod! It very much clashes with our name though, I thought he would've gone for a fire one."

"I don't think that's a mod." They all turned to Brainstorm who seemed enthralled by the Hot Rod on the screen. "There's something off about this, but I can't put my finger on it."

"Grrr- right, yes. The weird swordsmechship you can do." The demon snarled, pained and- were they healing? The tails were back! What the pit?! "I'll give you that, Hot Rod. You're no ordinary mech- someone who dealt with Proteus wouldn't be that easy to kill..."

Proteus? Who??

"Senator Proteus?" Megatron muttered incredulously, recognizing the name.

"This is your last chance, demon. Surrender! Atone for the innocent lives you've take—" Hot Rod said, optics burning with righteous determination, something that Rodimus was cheering for yet at the same time. He couldn't remember if he'd been like that when he was younger... Definitely not.

This alternate universe was already so wild with just him alone! Not to mention the spark eater.

"Never! Those worthless lowlives have two uses! To work as they were forged and constructed or to be feasted on by those more powerful than them! Like ME!" Primus could you be any more villainous?

Megatron's faceplate twisted into an angry scowl, glaring at the sparkeater. He was very pleased to see anger on Hot Rod's own faceplate.

"Speaking of such, did you know, little slayer? We are being watched. Not by my brethren, but something else. And I sense such delicious sparks akin to yours."

"Someone else is there? Brainstorm, can we look around or-"

Ultra Magnus interrupted him, optics wide as suddenly the demon was looking at them. "He's talking about us!" He barked suddenly the spark eater launched itself at them, at the screen. Behind him, Hot Rod looked alarmed and immediately sprinted towards the spark eater.

"That's impossible!" Perceptor barked but suddenly the AU Observer's screen sparked and shattered- with the force of a spark eater and a familiar red and yellow mech behind it.

"SCATTER!" Megatron screamed, grabbing Rodimus and throwing them both to the side to avoid the flailing spark eater who hissed and snarled. Drift and Ultra Magnus had done the same, with Drift unsheathing his own swords, prepared to fight.

Hot Rod landed in a roll but immediately leapt towards the spark eater, speaking human Japanese once more.

Mizu no Kokyū - Shichi no Kata: Shizuku Hamon Tsuki!

This time, the translation was automatic.

Water Breathing - Seventh Form: Drop Ripple Thrust

Hot Rod stabbed his sword several times at the spark eater- water forming once more, a surface that depicted droplets that were sharply stabbed against the howling spark eater.

"PUT THE LAB IN EMERGENCY LOCKDOWN MODE!" Ultra Magnus roared as Hot Rod was suddenly flung back thanks to a lashing sharp tail, a cut along his chassis all the way to his shoulder.

===== Fire Bot on Lost Light =====

i would write more but- well, honestly i shouldn't XD im going to end up writing spoiler territory stuff- i mean i kinda already did but im still on the fence of the details ive already revealed so those may or may not be changed.

but yeah, this is ONE of the ways hot rod could've accidentally gotten on the lost light.

i have other ways in mind but for now...

im gonna leave it at that hehehe

[terrabatriss]

I know it's late, and it's not proof read, but here's the first chapter of my SCP-Trigun fanfic!!! I hope you like it! This chapter is 2852 words long and I miiiight have lost my head and just started typing the story as it came to me. I personally don't think I did too bad, but I haven't written many fanfics on my own so if you have any tips or tricks to help me improve my writing style, I'm all ears!

Oh! I also ended up deciding to write in Meryl's POV. Take note that this story takes elements from 98, Trimax, and Tristamp. If you haven't seen one or the other, that's ok! I won't be spoiling too much about each but I do highly suggest checking out the ones you haven't seen yet! Especially the Trimax manga!

And if ur unfamiliar with the SCP Foundation, never fear! It's Meryl's first day too and I do intend on making this educational for the Foundation and entertaining for Trigun fans!

And with that, I hope you enjoy!

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Ch.1, Newbie

How did I get here?

That's a question I've been replaying in my mind for the past few days.

I'm not too sure what's happening, but it had something to do with an anomaly and several men in heavily armed suits with high-tech guns. I was a simple reporter and journalist, organizing my next headline for the Bernardelli News Agency. Who would've thought that just after submitting my report and preparing for bed that those strange men would appear at my doorstep?

They didn't explain much of anything and jumped straight to shooting me with what I can only assume was a tranquilizer dart.

The next thing I know I'm sitting in a white room with a clean white table separating me from this strange woman. Her thick raven hair is pulled into a messy bun and her fluffy bangs hang over her forehead. She's staring at me coldly and I can't shake how her amber eyes seem to pierce right through me…

She's dressed in what I can only describe as a lab coat and stiff office get up. She has an orange necktie tucked under her white collar, a gray pencil skirt, black heels, and an orange name tag with a strange logo on it and the name C. Hewley typed onto it.

On the table between us is a paper with my picture on it. My shorter, midnight hair is much more tame in the picture than the currently disheveled state it's in now. My name is printed in big bold letters alongside my general information;

Name; Meryl Stryfe

Age; 23

Height; 149cm

Gender; F

D.O.B; 02/14/XXXX

P.O.B; December, [REDACTED]

Below that is information about my personal history. Essentially the story of my entire life all squeezed into a three page packet.

Nervous, I start to fidget with the hem of my skirt. My white tunic falls snugly to my mid thigh which is covered with indigo leggings. I have a comfortable pair of white zip up heeled boots to match. It's my typical work outfit, and actually helps me feel less out of place in this environment of clean white walls and this woman who's only colors are monochrome and shades of orange. My grayish lavender eyes do not dare look away from this woman's stare…

Eventually, she looks down at my information booklet and sighs.

“Miss Stryfe. Allow me to apologize for the sudden intrusion of your home and unwanted transportation to this facility.”

She starts calmly, but I can hear the irritation in her voice. Her accent is a clear yet strong British that almost demands respect with every hard word.

“I am Director Clarice Hewley, the site director of Site 52. You are here due to a recent interaction with an SCP. Normally we'd give you an anesthetic and force you to forget the interaction, but an 05 member vouched for you after seeing your academic accomplishments. With that said, we'd like to offer you a job.”

She pulls out another packet and slides it over to me with a pen. It's an NDA agreement as well as what seems to be a job description. From what I'm reading, I'll essentially be made a researcher of anomalous objects and my experience as a reporter will be an asset in questioning some of the creatures. This is insane…

I'm about to decline the offer when I turned the page and saw the pay and benefits. Holy crap…

Safe to say it didn't take me long to read the packet and try to better understand my situation. I signed it and Miss Hewley seemed pleased enough, so she arranged for me to begin my training.

So that's what landed me here. They let me stay in my usual outfit, but have forced me to wear a white lab coat like what Miss Hewley had on. My name tag sits on my right shoulder just as hers did. I'm standing outside Site 47, having just returned from quitting my previous job. I was told to wait here for my instructor who will be giving me a short tour of what I'll have access to and generally explaining more of my job. He should be here soon…

“Hey, newbie. Wake up.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard the voice of a gruff man and spun around to face him. He's a tall middle-aged man with messy brown hair and tired green eyes. A baibo-styled beard and dark mustache add to his tired uncle vibe and he's holding a small canteen in his left hand. His right hand is tucked away into the pocket of his own lab coat. Unlike Miss Hewley, his outfit is less out together and more disheveled. His light brown button up shirt is half tucked into black khakis and his orange tie is loose.

Either I'm staring at him funny or he's lost his patience, because I watch him take a swig of whatever's in his canteen and grunt.

“The name's Roberto. Are you the kid I'm supposed to be tutoring?”

I get he's my mentor, but being called a kid just strikes an irritating cord in me. I straighten up, not that it does much for my height, and stand as proudly as I can with a confident expression.

“Yes, sir. I am Meryl Stryfe, a new employee at this facility. I'm pleased to meet you, Doctor Roberto.”

I feel quite smug with this tone. I used it often when talking to authority figures back at Bernardelli, and it often helped me make it clear I was to be respected.

Roberto grunts and turns on his heel towards the facility. “Yeah, yeah. Just keep up, newbie.” He says as he walks away.

I silently glare at his back before following him inside.

We walk through some security gates and halls before entering a large room filled with computers, filing cabinets, and research equipment. Various people in lab coats are present and don't bother looking up when we enter. A purely professional environment, I see. At least compared to my mentor who looks like he just woke up with a hangover…

“This facility is more of a checkpoint for SCP transportation. You'll see all kinds coming and going, so be careful. Right now, we're holding some of the worst anomalies until they can be transported to their new containment sites. That said, be sure to keep a steady count on how many you see today. Do you know why I say that, kid?” Roberto explains as he walks up to what looks like a metal box big enough to fit an adult human.

I nod “It was mentioned in my contract. I can turn back on my decision to work here, but that option is void if I see a total of five anomalies. Right?” So glad I read the packet…

Roberto grunts in response “That's right, newbie. You can start your count with this one. Meet SCP-8153, otherwise known as Kuroneko.” He introduced before pressing a button on a side panel. A metal panel lifts, revealing a small black cat. It stirs and wakes up yawning and looking at us with its big green eyes. A cat. A black house cat. Is he serious?

Kuroneko sits up and licks its paw as I turn to Roberto with an unimpressed expression. “Um, sir? Mind telling me what's abnormal about this cat? Or is this really just a house cat and you just enjoy messing with new employees?” I ask him, very much unamused with this.

He smirks and picks up the cat by the scruff of its neck. He hands the cat to me who purrs in my arms as I hold it. “Didn't your contract tell you not to underestimate an SCP’s appearance? Kuroneko here has been alive for several centuries. We found him after a guy brought him to a vet claiming he shot the poor thing and it healed itself. The vet didn't believe him, so the guy shot the cat again to prove it and got arrested. We swooped in after the police report and contained SCP-8153.” He explains.

I guess my skepticism is painted on my face, because Roberto sighs and takes the cat from me. He sets it back into the metal capsule and pulls out a .41 caliber Derringer. I, of course, panic. Especially when he points it at the cat that just stares at him like it's used to having a gun barrel pointed at it!

“Whoa, hey! I get it! You don't have to prove it! Why are you carrying that?! I thought only the MTF were allowed to carry firearms!” I say, making a grab for the gun which he swiftly pulls out of my reach with a wheezing chuckle.

“Calm down, newbie. It's not loaded. You'll quickly find that in this line of work you can't rely on some oaf with a big gun to protect you at all times. We're supposed to protect SCPs, but we can't do that if they kill us first. Consider arming yourself in the future. But I'll admit your reaction was priceless.” He mocks me before putting the gun back in its hiding place, a specially made holster sewn into the underside of his lab coat.

I let out a relieved sigh and glare at him “that was just foul. And my name isn't newbie! It's Meryl Stryfe.” I remind him, crossing my arms as he laughs at me.

“Until I see you've grown up, you'll always be a newbie to me. A kid stuck with an old bag of drunk bones as a mentor.” He says before taking a swig as if to make a point.

I shake my head “On another note, you said this facility is a transportation checkpoint. Where is Kuroneko going?” I question, changing the subject.

Roberto grunts and looks at the cat who's gone back to sleep. “That information is above your clearance, I'm afraid. Your job here is to monitor the SCPs and ensure any new discoveries are documented and given to the team responsible for transporting them. Keep an eye on the anomalies until their designated truck arrives and give the departing team any new documents they might not already have. It's not your job to know where the anomalies are headed.”

I slowly nod and am about to ask another question when an MTF guard suddenly bursts into the room, startling the hard at work researchers. All eyes turn to the guard, including the curious eyes of Kuroneko. He's out of breath and panicked. One of the scientists seems to recognize him and grows upset “Where's your charge? Why is he not with you?!” Wow… no regard for the poor guard at all. Strait to scolding. Yikes…

The guard tried to catch his breath “We were… separated. Something's happening on a lower floor… he wanted to investigate… he told me to come here and alert Doctor Roberto!”

Roberto’s face turns serious with alarm and raises his canteen, signaling the guard. He walks over with myself in tow and places his free hand on the guard's shoulder. “Calm down, kid. What's so urgent your charge told you to get me? He never gives orders unless the situation is dire and he knows the penalties for going off on his own.” He tries to calm the guard down enough to speak like a father telling his son to take a breath and explain a new broken window.

The guard takes a deep breath before he begins “apparently a researcher got tied up with SCP-035 and has attempted to break containment. Doc wanted to go help try to save the researcher before it's too late and told me to alert you…” he says, still panicked but calm enough to speak clearly.

It's then that an alarm starts blaring, coating the white room in flashing red light. A robotic voice calls CONTAINMENT BREACH - CONTAINMENT BREACH - AN SCP HAS BROKEN CONTAINMENT - CONTAINMENT BREACH - its loud and frightens everyone present. People have begun to panic and Roberto hollars at everyone to stay calm. He turns to me, his body tense “Newbie, don't leave my side. And you,” he turns to the guard “What's your name, son?” He questions.

The guard flinches “G-Gabriel Luster, sir!”

Roberto nods “Gabe, you're with us. Your new job is to protect us until the breach is contained, do you understand?”

“Y-yes sir!”

Roberto grunts and takes a swig from his canteen “great, just what I needed. Two kids, a missing idiot, and a containment breach. C'mon, let's get to the communications room and send out an SOS.” He orders and leads me and Gabriel down the hall. Kuroneko seems to have decided to join us too, because it's following at our heels like a normal house cat following its owner.

A couple corners later and we approach a set of double doors that are slightly ajar. Roberto pauses a few feet from it and signals to Gabriel “Stand in front and be ready for anything. That door shouldn't be open…” he instructs.

Clearly scared, Gabriel holds his large gun ready and slowly approaches the door he nudges it open and the sight nearly makes me vomit…

Looks like the communications room was compromised, because all I see are several bodies with snapped necks. I see Roberto go pale even in the flashing red lights. “Doctor…? What happened here…?” I question carefully, trying to distract myself from looking at the dead researchers and guards.

Roberto takes a deep breath “173…” he mutters in horror. I look at Gabriel who shrugs at me before finally removing his helmet. He's a man in his early 20s with a slight stubble and fluffy ginger hair. His eyes are green and his freckles dot his nose and cheeks.

Roberto groans in frustration and pinches the bridge of his nose “Great. Just great. SCP-173 is the damn statue. Think of a weeping angel from one of those games kids play today but shaped like a concrete peanut and ugly enough to make a naked mole rat look pretty. If you see it, don't blink or take your eyes off it unless you wanna end up like them.” He says, gesturing to the dead people.

Gabriel fails to hide his snicker at the crude description and I just sigh “Awesome. An SCP that kills anything with eyes.” I say sarcastically. Roberto pushes past us and steps over a dead researcher and typing on a keyboard.

“I'm sending the SOS and informing them about 173. If I remember right, 035 is two floors down from us. We need to find that idiot and evacuate while the MTF soldiers work to contain the escaped anomalies. Normally, an evacuation wouldn't be allowed. But you two are clearly inexperienced and I'm not gonna let you die so young.” Roberto clicks the send button and launches the SOS, praying it's answered soon enough. “First, let's get back to the main lab. We'll also need a weapon for this kid and we need to gather as many surviving researchers as possible. The more that survive, the better.” He instructs us, already pushing past and down the hall. Gabriel and I share a glance before rushing after him, Kuroneko bounding ahead at Roberto's heels.

When we return, I give in and turn towards a small nearby trashcan before throwing my lunch back up. The entire room which was previously filled with living researchers are now corpses with snapped necks. Gabriel and Roberto are stuff next to me and I look up and freeze at the hideous peanut SCP Roberto told us about.

I've officially seen two SCPs… and I'm certain this will be my last.

SCP-173 stands perfectly still in the center of the fresh chaos. Roberto gulps “Ok, kids… slowly back away and don't you dare blink… Gabe, when the kid and I are through the door, I want you to close it and break the lock panel to keep it locked shut. We can at least contain this bastard…” he orders the shaking guard who slowly nods.

On Roberto's cue, we all slowly back away while keeping our eyes unblinking on the statue. My eyes are begging to sting and water… I'm about to blink when Roberto says “Now!” And Gabriel shuts the door, breaking the panel to lock it. I nearly scream when loud bangs come from the other side, a sign of the SCP trying to get to us through the reinforced steel door…

I blink and rub my eyes, wiping away my frightened tears “We almost died…” I say out of horror as I try to calm my rapidly beating heart.

Gabriel nods, placing a hand over his own chest and looking like he just met death itself.

Roberto grunts and shakily pulls out a cigarette, lighting it with unsteady hands.

“Don’t complain… it was in your contract… you'll have more near death experiences until one actually kills you. Once you sign that contract and see five anomalies, you become Foundation property… that's what we all agreed to.”

Great…

To Be Continued...

Chr. 2, SCP 049

[mareteart]

Meet the WOD OC:

ICTUS

¡¡¡THE BEST MAGE OF CONCEPCION!!!

Age: Maybe 24 years old

Humanity: Between 5 and 7

Favorite hability: EXPLOSION!

Fun fact: He enjoys eating wherewolves and trying freaky things 👀

Ictus is a young adult with the unusual hability of [redacted], something that let him create explosions to his will and damage anyone who tries to eat him, his eyes are oil color and his iris emits a little glow when [information lost] and tends to salivate when he's hungry for "exotic dishes".

His high intellect make him capable of create some artifacts with the power to emule habilities of other supernatural creatures, like his googles, that let him see what's usually invisible to the eye or a neverending kerchief.

History:

[Information lost]

After this, he lived wandering from one place to another, hiding from everyone suspicious, after all, his own existence was something really unique to the people who know who he was, and there could be someone than could force him to use his habilities agaisnt his will.

In one of his wanderings, he saw a fight between 2 werewolfs in the outsides of the city, one of them lost a eye from a claw attack and Ictus crawl to get it, getting scratches from the dry plants and cutting his hands and arms a little with the sharp rocks on the floor while trying to get to the sweet bloody treasure, eating it at the spot and feeling his mind go crazy. Mixed feelings and emotions filled his head: happyness, anger, fear, lust, ecstasy, paranoia, all of them together like a vortex with every chew he did. The two fighters saw him and in a moment of truce, they jump to kill Ictus, who, in a moment of drugness, raised his arms and a spark comming from his hand chained into a big explosion, killing one werewolf and leaving the second one really injured, the big dog bit Ictus shoulder, screaming after the bite and then falling dead on the floor moments later. When the drugness passed, Ictus ate more of the dead werewolf, that makes him sure of something: he didn't what to forget that flavor. Starting his own secret hunt, Ictus has tasted a few creatures while wandering the city, taking notes of the effect that every bite generate on his body (almost dying a couple of times), this trial and error also makes him notice that [information lost].

(Drawing by @vikuette )

Some time later, Ictus was found by Cadmus, a ghoul that work under the wing of Ninnia, a little Tzimisce that recently came to Concepcion in the year 2020 and was looking for “friends” to star her new home in there, she and Cadmus offered Ictus a safe place in exchange of his service and loyalty, a deal more than good for him (and he even got his own place with a workshop!).

Drawing made by @camo-art

The mind of Ictus is an enigma, even for the people close to him, he’s really polite one day, and the next one he blows a room while he laughs histerically, he also likes to tell everybody at least one or two times a day that he’s ¡¡¡THE BEST MAGE OF CONCEPCION!!! (Some people, like Ninnia, likes his spirit and energy, but others are bothered by his explosive personality and strange taste).

In the present, he’s working with Alaevra ( @aqui-yace-noia ‘s OC), Aureliana ( @vikuette ‘s OC), Yves ( @golcorneta ‘s OC), Elenita ( @alkanette ‘s OC) and Gatoru ( @camo-art ‘s OC) giving support to the group and making sure they fulfill the objectives they have while using the daytime to work in his workshop/lab making new explosive gadjets and making about other supernatural creatures.

Ictus and Alaevra (Drawing by @aqui-yace-noia )

In the chronicle, there’s a member of the Technocracy that’s plotting agains’t the supernatural creatures of Concepcion and seems to have a conection with Ictus and his past, some members of the group asked him for aid to stop the technocrat and Ictus it's ready to help…

But that’s something we’ll find out once the chronicle starts again in the second season!

Ictus and Yves (Drawing by @golcorneta )

[florapocalypses]

Sting me once, shame on you.

Sting me twice, shame on me.

[🌊] CONTEXT ; Experiment gone wrong !!! Reader is a jellyfish, dottores experimenting for a way to turn them into human, Readers immortal and also fembodied or they just have tiddies, Both reader and dottore are meanies, Labrat x Scientist relationship? is it even a relationship??

—Pre-Context abt reader ; Reader has no gender for this one, they just have tiddies wether their man tits or breasts. also they have no puss or dick, their lower body is just legit looks like a jellyfishes body.

°˖✧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚✧˖°

Its been several years. Knowing how you've lived in 'safe' waters, you didnt worry about death much. It was a long, quiet two houndred years alone in the deep sea of teyvat that you've spent all alone.

Untill he found you.

You never went above the waters, staying a safe distance from the mortals that lived on land.

The Fatui took you away, sending you to a lab within snezhnaya. Surrendering you to a blue haired fucked up looking 'Doctor'. He never told you what his name was, nor did he ever look consistent. Some days he looks as if he was in his late 30s, other days he'd look around 20. Whats up with that? You wondered.

You wont complain much though, you have your own personal and private little area or 'pool' was what the doctor said. Letting you do whatever, in exchange, he'd run experiments on your body.

It was obvious that it cant be the same doctor that you kept talking to, with how different he acts every time he checks on you, and how his age changes.

Are all humans like this? You wondered.

Nonetheless, despite his inconsistence, he still seemed to have one goal.

"Have you ever wanted to become a human?" The Doctor asked, his hands behind his back. You could feel his grim eyes on you.

His hands cautiously touched your stingers, accidentally brushing against the bulb and triggering you to shock him.

"Tch," His eyes narrowed, retracting his covered hand. Thankfully he was wearing a full-body suit this time, you already poisoned three of his younger clones. He walked from you as the other clones from behind the glass watched and took notes. The clones hand had twitched as he walked away from your pool.

You looked up at him from the pool, "Its not my fault, Did he not tell you to be careful where you touch?" You mocked the older clone as he left.

Its been several hours, numerous experiments have been going on one after the other. You want to be human, Dottore wants to 'study' your species, its a win-win in your eyes.

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

[⛲] NSFW incoming , dw its kinda light !! (kkukuukukuku 'inCOMING' kekekekekek)

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Your dull eyes glanced over to the metallic doors, hearing shuffling from the other side.

The doors opened and surprise! Its another clone— you think, but this one doesn't have that one tube thingy that the previous ones wore. Eh, maybe its somewhere more discreet. No way the real Doctor would come in without any protection while there weren't any clones outside of the glass window. Right?

He motioned you to bring your upper-body forward to him, And you did so with little to no reluctance, as you went closer you examined him for a moment. Eyes narrowed as they practically scanned him.

Oh, it isnt a clone. Its him

"[REDACTED]," Dottore called out your name with a faux softness, unable to read his expression and intentions as his crow-like mask covered half of his face. Flicking your forehead when you slightly leaned forward at the mention of your name. "Quit being such a pest."

"Ouh—" You whine, glaring at him, pointing your stingers in his direction. "Why did you even come here unarmed??" You question.

"Because its my lab??" Dottore replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes as he rolled up his sleeve. Revealing the many stings, scars, bruises, and scratch marks that covered his hands up to his forearms.

"Another experiment?" tilting your head slightly as you looked at his hands on his lap. Placing your palms at the edge of the pool.

"Precisely, though i trust this one wont have anything to do with 'our' goal, just a reward for your good behaviour, Dear Pet." He said, pulling you up and sitting you infront of him. Your cold, wet back against his clothed chest.

"Oh..?" Looking up at him with your hand on your lap as he pulled you closer to him. Your body dripping and making the floor beneath you slippery. "Oh!" You let that sink.

You waited patiently as his hands unwrapped the cloth covering your chest, holding your hair away as he focused on undoing the wrappings. You let out a soft exhale as the pressure and tightness of the bounds were loosened then removed, his hands taking their place as he gave your chest a slight squeeze.

His chin rested on the top of your head as his fingers ran circles around your chest, massaging and caressing each surface. Dottore releases a quiet hum as he did so.

"Look at me," The doctor said, to which you unquestioningly obliged. Dull eyes locking in with his covered ones. Grabbing your chin and forcing your mouth open as his lips ghosted above your own, "Open." He commanded.

Sticking your tongue out as he ran his against yours, eyes closed as he continued to play with your chest as his tongue abused your own.

"Doctor—" You murmured, your hands gripped on his lap for stability. Feeling his enlarged shaft against your lower back. "Can i..?" You muttered inbetween the kiss.

[🌊] What a lovely question <3 Your so considerate !! (i want this fucker tazed)

[apex-academy]

Chapter 6 Trial: Trauma Tango (#0)

Standard word bank disclaimer—some evidence may be used more than once, and some may not be used at all. Some evidence that didn’t need to be found in investigation has been added.

Aidan’s Testimony: Aidan woke up in Lab Room B after his revival. At the time, the machinery was turned on, providing some light. The other deceased students were allegedly in the room with him.

Lab Room Cots: The cots in Lab Room B are all marked “SH5-4.” There’s no other evidence on them.

Lab Machine: There’s a lot of complex machinery in Lab Room B, where the bodies had been kept before the fourth motive.

Candid Photos: A number of ordinary-looking photos were stashed in the art room closet. They don’t all appear to have been taken by the security cameras. Some brief notes are written on the backs.

Tsunyasha’s Study Hall: The identifying emblem on Tsunyasha’s study hall door is a pair of theatre masks, normally invisible.

Monofiles: Kazusuke, Mary Jane, Kokoro, Itsurou, Arthur, and Tamiko all died shortly after 10PM. Their causes of death match their past Monofiles or executions. All body discoverer and notes sections were redacted.

Protected Recording: Some kind of audio from Tamiko’s study hall labeled “qsfovq.” It can’t be opened by normal means.

Personal Tech: Everyone’s phones, computers, and other devices went missing between move-in day and the start of the killing game.

X-Rays: Radiological images of Kaichi’s, Kanagi’s, and Aidan’s broken bones are in Kaichi’s study hall. The timestamps on them seem logical, but the handwritten notes are illegible.

Newsletter Drafts: The headmaster’s office had drafts of ordinary school newsletters prepared since before the killing game began. They included the correct members of our class but none of the real events.

Orientation Emails: The students received electronic invitations to the academy with different times to arrive, and an unknown amount of bogus school information.

Headmaster’s Calendar: The headmaster’s desk had a calendar with several different periods circled and labeled with different parts of the world. Where a lot of them converge, a single day has been circled. It’s a few weeks from now.

Headmaster’s Trapdoor: Tsunyasha discovered a trapdoor in the headmaster’s office that reportedly leads to the tunnels Monochap frequents.

Basement Cooler: A freestanding electric cooler in the basement appears to have all the dead students piled inside, with Otoya the farthest down and the latest two victims on top.

Execution Props: Props that haven’t been used in the killing game executions have gathered dust. For some reason a gurney and a large slab of concrete are slightly less dusty.

Kokoro’s File: Kokoro was invited to Apex Academy for her nursing abilities as well as her development of a safe compound for subduing combative patients.

Student Profiles: The remaining student profiles went missing with Kokoro’s, Mahavir’s, and any files in the bottom drawer still unread. The bottom drawer was inaccessible but presumably contained at least Mary Jane’s, Otoya’s, Tamiko’s, and Yuki’s.

Network Scan: During the first motive, Aidan determined that only sixteen devices were on the electroID network. Since the secrets were sent through this network, one of the sixteen students with electroIDs was responsible.

[BACK] [NEXT]

[berlioz-the-kitten]

Hymn For A Crown less Thing

ACT ONE: THE SCALPEL GIRL

Coriolanus Snow/Reader

Summary: Y/N Vance arrived in the Capitol under the guise of being a war orphan. But that’s not entirely true. Y/N was from District 6. But she wasn’t adopted. She was procured. The Capitol’s black labs had been experimenting on control substances during the war. Y/N was one of their youngest test subjects. The result? She’s functionally numb. But very obedient. Or so they thought. By the time Coriolanus meets her, she’s a standout at the Academy for her cold intellect, excellent composure, and eerie talent for predicting behavioral outcomes. The two are placed together to design a prototype for a Capitol-wide behavioral system to prevent future rebellion.

TW: Medical experimentation on children (implied and referenced), Psychological trauma and dissociation, Abuse of power / institutional violence, Themes of grooming and emotional manipulation (seeded), Cold detachment toward death and violence, Isolation and dehumanization, Gaslighting by authority figures (implied), Canon is a sandbox.

Word Count: 2k

They say she was Capitol-adopted, but no one remembers the name of the benefactor who claimed her. No family portrait. No social debut. Just a clipped announcement in the archives from four years ago: District War Orphan, Age 13, Taken In By Esteemed Citizen. The record is stamped. Sealed. The citizen’s name was redacted three months after their death.

Now, at seventeen, Y/N Vance moves through the Academy with the kind of elegance that doesn’t draw eyes—but keeps them once caught. She walks like she’s memorized every tile. Speaks rarely, and when she does, her words are trimmed down to the essentials. The Capitol students call her “the scalpel” behind her back—not because she cuts, but because she’s made for one thing: clean incisions.

She sits in the front of every lecture, hands folded neatly over a dataslate, posture knife-straight. She doesn’t doodle. Doesn’t fidget. Her uniform is always pressed to severity, but never fashionable. The Capitol girls with diamond-dripped lashes whisper that she dresses like someone who’s never been warm. They’re not wrong.

She’s the youngest student accepted into the Advanced Program for Behavioral Neurochemistry. The instructors don’t question it. Not after seeing her reports. She can trace a neural reward cycle like it’s a song she’s memorized. She can predict loyalty fractures in Arena contestants with fewer data points than the Peacekeepers need to identify a rebel cell. She submitted a paper last semester comparing trauma-response markers in Victor volunteers versus conscripted tributes, and the Academy’s board hasn’t stopped talking about it.

But no one knows who she was before. Not really.

Her Capitol file says District 6. Orphaned by the war. High neuroplasticity. Genetically compatible. Compatible with what, no one says.

There are rumors—strange ones. That she doesn’t sleep. That she has no recorded juvenile vaccinations, yet passed every medical clearance with distinction. That one boy from the diagnostics division tried to ask her what the war was like and she just stared at him until he forgot his own question.

But the students—even the most elite ones—don’t challenge her. Because she’s already marked as untouchable. Because when she looks at you, it feels like she’s not seeing you—she’s seeing the shape you’ll leave behind.

And when she smiles, it’s thin as thread.

The kind you sew things shut with.

Coriolanus notices her long before they’re paired.

Not because she speaks up in class—she rarely does—but because she doesn’t have to. She sits alone, but never like a loser. Always like someone with a better place to be. Her notes are immaculate. Her uniforms pressed sharp enough to cut. She doesn't smile at the teachers. Doesn't fawn. Doesn't flirt. She doesn't need to.

When students present psychological case studies, hers are always the ones with the cleanest endings. No moral hand-wringing. No flowery analysis. Just outcomes. Just results.

Coriolanus watches the instructors defer to her conclusions with a kind of quiet admiration he finds infuriating. And fascinating.

He learns early that she transferred into the Capitol Academy from the Medical Advancement Program after her benefactor’s death. No family name. No society affiliations. Just Vance, which isn’t even a Capitol name, not really. But the Dean makes exceptions for her. Not even him—a Snow—gets that kind of special treatment anymore.

The first time he hears her speak in a seminar, it’s during a discussion on emotional regression in tributes post-Arena. One of the other students—Arxus, a loud boy with a pedigree—calls it trauma. Calls it tragic. Predictable.

Y/N blinks once. Then:

“It isn’t regression. It’s reversion. The mind returns to the last configuration that ensured survival. It’s a feature, not a flaw.”

The room goes quiet. Even Professor Satius nods.

Coriolanus watches her with the scrutiny of someone used to owning the room. She doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t look around for validation. Just returns to her notes as if nothing she said matters once it’s been said.

That’s what does it.

It’s not an attraction. Not yet.

It’s utility. Potential.

She’s cold, yes—but not empty. She’s precise.

A blank space, yes—but one that can be filled. Directed. Shaped.

A creature not born from Capitol excess, but sculpted by necessity.

Control in human form.

Something he understands. Something he can speak to.

Something he might, with the right approach, own.

He doesn’t want to know her.

He wants to use her.

To fold her mind beside his and make something that could change the world.

Something Capitol-built.

Something Snow-touched.

The assignment is given without ceremony.

A new initiative—backed quietly by remnants of Strategic Defense, polished through the Academy’s elite Behavioral and Medical branches—is launched under the name Project Calm. The goal: develop a Capitol-controlled protocol to reduce “emotional volatility” and “prevent future ideological divergence” in outer-district populations. In plainer terms: a system to curb rebellion before it begins.

Only two students are selected for its prototype phase.

Coriolanus Snow—for his rhetorical genius, his understanding of image, power, and population control. A legacy name with ambition in his bones.

And Y/N Vance—for her cold brilliance in neurochemical modeling, her unnerving grasp on reward-loop behavior, and the way her papers speak in solutions, not ethics.

The announcement is met with silence in the seminar hall. Everyone expected Snow. No one expected her.

They’re given a private lab on the lower floors of the Academy—a space with no windows and reinforced walls. The sort of place built to test things no one wants to admit they're building.

The work begins immediately.

Coriolanus handles the theoretical framework: social engineering, obedience reinforcement, symbology, and propaganda patterns. He sketches slogans that don't sound like slogans. Creates loyalty creeds that feel like lullabies. Drafts classroom scripts that masquerade as curriculum.

Y/N does the rest.

She draws neurochemical maps like blueprints—dosing charts, scent-triggered memory shifts, sleep-cycle interruption paired with emotional saturation. She designs a chemical cocktail that can dull empathy while amplifying reward responses when subjects complete approved actions. She dials up shame, tempers guilt, and wires dopamine to compliance.

They test on lab animals first. Then Peacekeepers flagged for disciplinary issues. Then volunteers from the Academy’s military track.

The results are promising. Too promising.

One Peacekeeper subject begins compulsively praising the Capitol crest whenever shown footage of a bombing. Another breaks into tears when told he hesitated to act on a Capitol directive—then thanks them for the shame.

Coriolanus records the reactions. Y/N watches the patterns build.

“We’re not conditioning rebellion out of them,” she says one evening, cool and detached. “We’re severing their emotional memory. Replacing it with Capitol input.”

He smiles. “Isn’t that what loyalty is?”

She looks at him.

And for once, she doesn’t answer.

Y/N watches Coriolanus Snow the way a scientist watches an animal with potential: not for affection, but for pattern.

He’s arrogant, yes—but not carelessly so. His pride is calibrated, measured against his dwindling name, the ghost of wealth still haunting his posture. He hides poverty behind polish, and ambition behind charm. It’s obvious to her. He wants to be seen—but only in the light he’s chosen. Anything less, anything real, he recoils from like an open wound.

She catalogues his reactions: The way his jaw tightens whenever Dean Highbottom enters the room. The way he doesn’t speak of his father unless there’s something to gain by invoking the general’s name. How he dresses—immaculate, yes, but always one accessory too sharp. Too loud. Like he’s daring someone to question whether it’s borrowed. His eyes when the Games play, especially the last thirty seconds before a kill. He doesn't flinch. He leans forward.

She notes that. Lean: 6.7 seconds before death. Full attention shift. Interest > empathy.

She reads his essays late at night, the ones he’s too proud to know she can access. They’re dripping in ideology, but underneath it: fear. A fear of fading. Of being ordinary. Of becoming someone who walks the Capitol’s glass streets and isn’t noticed.

He wants to be the Capitol’s crown prince. Not by inheritance. By design.

Y/N sees that. Sees the hollowness behind the careful posture and smooth lies. She doesn’t mock it. Doesn’t judge. She understands it.

Because she, too, was sculpted by people who thought they could program out her pain and fill her with purpose.

But unlike him, she remembers who she was before the Capitol tried to rewrite her.

So she smiles when he speaks about peacekeeping with idealistic venom. She tilts her head just slightly when he calls rebellion a disease. She lets him believe she’s fascinated. And maybe she is.

But more than that—

She’s mapping him.

Every insecurity.

Every fracture.

Every moment his hunger—both metaphorically and physically—makes him vulnerable.

Because monsters don’t need to be broken.

They just need to be seen.

At first, it’s sterile.

Their partnership is a thing of structure and deadlines—briefings held over breakfast trays, dossiers exchanged like surgical instruments, hands never touching, voices never raised. Coriolanus prides himself on his clarity, his precision, his control. Y/N matches him note for note, cold intellect meeting cold ambition.

They do not argue. They refine. They don’t praise. They improve.

She doesn’t compliment his ideas, but she builds on them. Efficiently. Unemotionally. She never tells him when he’s right—but she nods, slowly, and that nod means more than any round of applause ever has.

And then, one day, she smiles.

It’s brief. Crooked. Almost reluctant. Her gaze lingers on him half a second too long while reviewing their dopamine-conditioning matrix. He says something cutting, something clever—meant to impress her, or unnerve her, or both. She doesn’t laugh.

She just smiles.

And it shakes him.

Not because it’s warm. Not because it’s beautiful.

Because it feels intentional.

Because she doesn’t smile for anyone else.

He watches her more closely after that. Not obsessively—yet—but with a sharpening edge to his attention. He takes note of what makes her eyes narrow, what makes her fingers pause mid-note. He tries jokes. The dry kind. She doesn’t laugh, but once she blinks slowly and says, “That was cruel. But effective.” He writes it down, even if only in his head.

He starts anticipating her reactions, not for strategy—but for satisfaction. The way her silence gives weight to her approval. The way her presence calms him in a room full of rivals. He tells himself it’s about the project. About success.

But when she disappears for a few hours and doesn’t tell him where she went, he finds himself irritated. Distracted. He reviews their work and finds it lacking in her absence.

He doesn’t say any of this, of course. Would never admit it.

But he begins staying later. Just to sit with her. To plan the next phase.

He begins to speak softer when it’s just the two of them. Not out of kindness. But out of reverence.

And when she smiles again, just once more—

He doesn’t need it.

But he wants it.

And want, as she well knows, is how control begins.

It begins with small things. Nothing suspicious. Nothing that would register as rebellion.

Just questions.

In passing, she asks where Coriolanus’s mother is buried. He tells her the garden at the Academy was dedicated in her name, though no grave remains. She nods, stores the lie. Later, she finds no death records filed with the city. No cause listed. Just a name and a date and a single redacted page marked provisional.

She traces his lineage—Snow by name, but thinner in blood than he wants the world to believe. His father died in the war, but the records of his command decisions are spotty, conflicting, half-buried. Commanded at District 2. Then 5. Then gone.

She files it all away.

Not in notebooks. Not in data cores.

In herself.

She walks the Capitol’s gleaming halls and listens to what no one says. Which instructors won’t say the word “rebellion.” Which ones pause before they call the Games “necessary.” Who changes the subject when someone brings up the mass evictions of the thinly District 13 survivors.

At night, she walks alone to the lower city, where reconstruction is still ongoing—where the glass towers give way to old brick and pitted concrete. She sees hunger there. Pain. Capitol-born children being raised among wreckage, not glory. She sees ration lines. Notices how carefully those images are kept from the screens inside the Academy.

She returns to her dorm with clean clothes and cold hands.

And then she begins to test the numbness. Gently. Quietly.

She pinches her wrist during emotion-mapping lectures. Times how long it takes for her breath to quicken during the Hunger Games broadcasts. Once, she plays footage from District 6—the bombing of a hospital, her own district, her birthplace—and watches her own face in the mirror.

She doesn’t cry.

But her throat tightens. And she notes it.

Subject (self) exhibits suppressed grief response. Possible latency in chemical suppression systems. Emotional memory may persist beneath conditioning.

Hypothesis: The original girl is still present.

And sometimes, late at night, when she lies still beneath Capitol linen and breathes in the artificial scent they pump through the vents, she mouths her old name.

Just to remember the shape of it.

Just to remind herself that she was not born Y/N Vance.

She was made.

And made things can unmake themselves.