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capricorn-writes2 · 1 month ago

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Hey! Can I Get a headcannon of Wheeljack, Bulkhead, Optimus and Ratchet with S/O that got infected in cybonic plague?

Wheeljack, Bulkhead, Optimus and Ratchet with S/O Who Got Infected with Cybonic Plague

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I try my best to make the portrayal of their character based on their personality, and I would like to apologize for replying to the ask late because I had horrible carpal tunnel syndrome in my right hand and depression, and I had to focus on finding jobs as well as therapy. Thankfully, I graduated in July from my university and able to get a quick 6 months of internship before leaving to find a new job.

Gender: Neutral

Warning: Angst to Fluff, sickness, mention of injuries and Profanities

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OPTIMUS PRIME - Autobot

When Ratchet first tells Optimus you're infected, his spark clenches. He masks the fear behind his usual stoicism, but his optics dim. The Cybonic Plague is a deadly, ancient virus, and he vows silently that you will not meet the same fate.

Optimus spends long hours at your side, even when he should recharge. He watches your spark signature fluctuate on the monitor with quiet intensity. Every labored intake of your vents feels like a countdown ticking louder.

He searches the archives for ancient medical data, something even Alpha Trion once wrote. Sleepless and single-minded, he sifts through fragments of forgotten science. If the answer lies buried in the Well of All Sparks itself, he’ll find it.

When Megatron offers a cure to him but in exchange a cruel price. Optimus would consider surrendering himself if it means you’ll live going through Megatron’s database to get the cure. He volunteers instantly to deliver it, no matter the danger.

Inside your subconscious, he finds a corrupted image of yourself. It’s terrified, glitching, dissolving into plague data. He kneels beside it, shielding you with his own spark energy.

The process nearly destabilizes both of you. Your systems scream under the pressure, and Optimus begins to fade. But his spark surges, wrapping you in protective light.

After what feels like forever, your optics flicker back online. You see him there, battered and dim, but smiling just for you. “You… stayed,” you rasp, and he nods, servos brushing your cheekplate.

Recovery is slow, and he never rushes you. He adjusts your routines, brings Energon himself, and reads to you aloud. No mission takes priority over your healing, not even war. He keeps a fragment of your corrupted code stored away safely. Not as a reminder of the pain, but of the strength you showed.

Your near-loss changes him, even if subtly. He becomes gentler in the quiet moments, less afraid to show his affection. When you reach for his servo now, he squeezes back without delay. He lets you stay by his side in the command center now.

Sometimes, he wakes up from recharge fearing he lost you again. You always pull him close, resting your helm against his chest plate as your arms wrap around him to comfort your sparkmate. “No plague. No pain. I’m here,” you remind him.

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The first symptom was a flicker. Just a minor glitch in your visual sensors, nothing big, just a half-second blackout that you chalked up to fatigue. But then came the spasms. Your servo twitched, then locked. The base lights blurred, the floor shifted beneath your feet, and Ratchet’s voice faded into a muffled hum. By the time you collapsed in the medbay, Optimus was already on one knee beside you, calling your name repeatedly.

Ratchet’s diagnosis was quick, in a second, and brutal: the Cybonic Plague. A virus from Cybertron’s darkest past. You barely heard the details, lost in a haze of heat and static, but through the buzzing in your head, you caught one thing: from your receptor, the fear in Optimus’s voice. No, he didn’t shout; he didn’t panic. He never did. But when he asked, “Ratchet, is there a cure?” The weight behind his words could’ve cracked stone.

You drifted in and out of stasis, each moment flickering between memory and dream. Sometimes you were back on Cybertron, laughing in golden-lit corridors. Other times, you were locked inside your own mind, fighting the virus as it twisted your code. On the other hand, the leader of the Autobots sat beside you, silent, his servo resting against yours.

When your vitals began to crash, Ratchet proposed a dangerous solution: someone had to enter your mind through a neural link and manually inject the cure. Optimus didn’t hesitate. “Prepare the link,” he said. "Optimus Prime, Are you sure?" Ratchet was surprised. The medic even warned him of the risk, of the chance he might not return, but Optimus had already decided. “She is worth the risk.”

Inside your mindscape, the virus had created a corrupted version of you. It was ugly, fractured, glitching, and afraid. Optimus found you there, curled in a pit of static. He didn’t rush to pull you out; instead, he knelt beside you, his sparklight flickering in the dark like a pulse. “You’re stronger than this,” he said, his voice echoing like thunder through the data storm. “And I’m not leaving without you,” His voice was louder. You reached for him with a trembling servo as his hand gently held your hand.

The battle inside your mind was like drowning in code, each surge of infection trying to rewrite who you were. But with every wave, Optimus pushed back, pouring light into the cracks. He shielded you with part of his own spark signature, even as his systems began to flicker too. “Stay,” he whispered when your form began to fade. “Stay with me.” And this time, you did.

You woke to the soft hiss of medbay monitors and the familiar warmth of his servo against yours. Your optics blinked open, and there he was, damaged, dim, but alive. And smiling. “You’re back,” he said, as if those two words were enough to rewrite the universe. You tried to speak, but all you could do was nod, the heat of tears burning behind your eyes. He leaned forward, pressing his helm gently to yours. “I believe in you; I know you could do it.”

Recovery was slow, but he was patient. He helped you walk again, holding you up when your joints trembled. He sat through quiet recharge cycles with you, read aloud during your checkups, and let the others take the front lines so he could stay close. The war could wait, he told them. Because for the first time in a long while, the hope had won against the cybonic plague virus.

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RATCHET - Autobot

Warning: The doctor is tsundere

The moment Ratchet scans you and detects the Cybonic Plague, his spark skips a beat. He double-checks the readings, then checks them again. But the data doesn’t lie, your code is breaking down. “…No. No, no, not them. Not you,” he mutters while already grabbing tools.

He doesn’t even try to hide how shaken he is, there’s no time for pride. His servo trembles for the first time in centuries. You try to joke about him being dramatic while the rust starts to form, but he silences you with a look.

Ratchet keeps a close vigil at your bedside, monitoring blinking over your spark signature. He rarely leaves your side, only to mix compounds or pace violently. The others offer help, but he snaps at them without meaning to.

He digs into archives older than the war itself to find a possible cure. Your medical file grows thicker by the hour, stained with energon smudges. He barely recharges, too afraid that he’ll wake to silence from your berth. Your steady pulse is the only thing keeping him from destroying himself.

When your systems crash temporarily, Ratchet genuinely breaks down. He slams a servo into the wall, a spark roaring behind his chassis. The monitors scream, and he’s barking orders at the others like a war general. No one dares disobey him when you're on the line.

He eventually constructs a prototype antivirus—but testing it is risky. Ratchet debates for only seconds before deciding: he'll inject it directly. If it fails, it could speed up the deterioration… But doing nothing is worse. “Better to die trying than to watch you fade.”

He injects the cure with a shaky servo, optics locked on your frame. You seize up, systems sparking, and he nearly overloads from panic. But then your vitals stabilize a little. It was not perfect, but enough. He doesn’t breathe until your optics flutter open.

He’s exhausted, hunched over your berth like a rusted-out frame. When you whisper his name, his entire posture softens. “Don't ever do that again,” he says quietly, voice raw. But there's relief under the gruffness, and it bleeds through.

Ratchet orders a full scan every two hours after your recovery. No exceptions, no excuses, even if you insist you're fine or if you just have a simple cough from dust. It’s annoying… but deeply sweet in a Ratchet kind of way.

He brings you energon personally, even if he pretends it's 'standard check-in protocol'. He triple-checks its composition, temperature, and nutritional balance. When you smile at him, He huffs and mutters, “Don’t get used to this.”

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You were just teasing him over another one of his grumpy lectures when it happened. A sharp pain cracked through your spark, and suddenly your systems seized up, dropping you to your knees. Ratchet barely caught you in time, optic panels wide in alarm, shouting your name like it was a medical emergency code. “No, no, no! Stay with me!” He barked, already scanning you with shaky, frantic digits.

The diagnosis was something Ratchet had hoped he’d never see again: the Cybonic Plague. A virus so ancient and insidious that even whispering its name made bots flinch. You were already twitching, glitching, fighting to hold onto reality as the virus gnawed at your code like rust in your processor.

Ratchet didn’t react with panic. No, panic was inefficient. But his voice lost its edge of sarcasm, and his hands never once stopped moving. “You are not dying on my table.” The others offered help "Ratchet What happened?!" Bulkhead asks with panic in his voice. "We can help you," Arcee tried to step up as Bumblebee buzzes.

But Ratchet didn’t let anyone else touch you. Instead, his optics silently glare at the other Autobot teammates and blocking them away. “No one knows their system like I do!” he snapped, the words heavy with something more than professional pride. "You all step away from (Y/N)!"

He worked tirelessly for hours, then days, ignoring recharge and energon warnings, digging through corrupted Cybertronian medical files older than Orion Pax. You were more than just a patient. You were the only one who’d ever made the old medic feel again, you're his sparkmate and the only one who could understand him.

Every time your spark signature flickered, something in Ratchet faltered. He’d pace the medbay like a caged beast, muttering equations under his breath, cursing the virus and whatever careless god had let it survive this long. He really wishes that time Megatron hadn't made a virus as the biology weapon as he remember all of those passing comrades who rusted away from the cybonic. Even when Optimus offered to assist, Ratchet nearly shouted him down. “Don’t take this from me! I have to be the one to save (Y/N)!”

When your systems dipped into emergency stasis, Ratchet broke protocol. He ignored the risks, activated a neural bridge, and entered your mind full in desperation and determination. Inside, your consciousness was a mess of static and corrupted data. He found you in the center of it, your voice distorted and broken, barely able to reach out. But he knelt beside you anyway, optics locked on yours, his touch gentle as he whispered, “I am not losing you, too.”

Fighting the plague from the inside was like performing surgery in a hurricane. Every data spike you sent at him nearly knocked him offline. But he kept moving forward, shielding you with pieces of his spark signature, injecting the antivirus into your core line of code while taking damage himself. “You're worth every scratch,” he said quietly, even when you begged him to leave. “Don’t ask me to walk away from the only thing that makes me feel alive.”

You came back slowly, stuttering and disoriented, optics dim but conscious. Ratchet was there, slouched in his chair, faceplate smudged with energon and exhaustion. When your hand twitched, his optics widened, and the relief that washed over him nearly dropped him to the floor. “You stubborn glitch,” he whispered, and for once there was no bite in his voice. Just soft gratitude, like your survival had rebooted something inside him.h

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WHEELJACK - Autobot

Wheeljack doesn’t panic often, but the moment Ratchet says 'Cybonic Plague' his spark freezes. He clenches his servos so tightly they spark. He’s used to battlefield injuries, not watching someone he loves slip away without a fight. “You’re not fraggin’ leaving me,” he growls, already planning something reckless.

He tries to play it cool around the others, but you can tell he’s on edge. His optics flicker faster, and he paces like a caged beast. He gets into three arguments and almost punches a wall in the first hour. No one dares call him out, except maybe Ratchet.

He hates not being able to fight the plague with his blades or explosives. But he sits beside you anyway, blades sheathed, just watching you breathe. Because being there is the only fight he can win right now.

Wheeljack once storms into the medbay covered in Energon because he thought you flatlined. Turns out it was just a system recalibration. Ratchet yells at him for scaring everyone and nearly bleeding out but he doesn't care, he just wants to see your condition.

When Ratchet finally gets a possible cure, Wheeljack insists on testing it himself. He offers his own code as a host “Load me with it. I can take it.” Ratchet refuses, but Wheeljack doesn’t stop trying to bargain.

He holds you through the injection of the antivirus, despite Ratchet’s warnings. You’re spasming, screaming, nearly overheating, but he won’t leave. His armor gets scorched, his frame rattles with yours. “Easy, sweetspark. You’re tougher than this thing. Just hold on.”

Once you are awake when your vital stabilized, , he cracks the dumbest joke to make you smile. It’s so bad you groan, but it breaks the tension. Of course he does this is because he wants to distract you and himself from what just happened.

He actually hugs Ratchet after the cure works, and then immediately denies it. The medic bot would pushes him away, rejecting his hugs but secretly the doc was smirking and says nothing. Everyone at base teases him about it for weeks.

Wheeljack would secretly builds a private recharge chamber for the two of you. It’s lined with Wrecker badges and LED lights shaped like stars. It is a sanctuary for you two.

He puts your spark signature into his own HUD overlay. He monitors it 24/7, even when you're fully recovered. Says it helps him 'focus' but you know it just helps him breathe easier because after what hapened he became twice more protective around you as he tries not to show it (but it's too obvious).

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You didn’t even feel it at first. Just a flicker in your HUD, a small static delay in your vision. You chalked it up to a power drain or a bad line of code from your last mission. But when your limbs started locking up mid-step and your systems spat out unfamiliar alerts, you knew something was wrong.

The moment Wheeljack caught you collapsing in the hallway, optics wide and frantic, you knew things were about to get worse before they got better. He carried you like you weighed nothing, sprinting to the medbay with a speed that would’ve impressed Flash from the DC Universe.

Ratchet was already scanning your systems before your optics flickered out. His voice is grim, “It’s Cybonic Plague.” That’s when Wheeljack went completely still. Not in fear but in that deadly kind of stillness that comes before a storm. “You sure?” he asked, voice low and dangerous. “Because if you’re wrong—” “THE DATA IS NOT WRONG!” Ratchet snapped. "Get out of my way and let me try to save them.” But Wheeljack didn’t leave after Ratcher ordered him.

He stayed by your side like a guardian drone, arms crossed, pacing only when the tremors in your frame got bad. He didn’t speak unless spoken to, but the tension rolled off him in waves like a bomb waiting for someone to trigger it. His fists were clenched the entire time, even when your body seized and your vents wheezed like you were drowning on dry air. “I’ve seen ‘bots fall apart in my hands,” he muttered one night, eyes locked on your dimmed optics. “Never thought it’d hurt like this.” His voice cracked for just a second before he stuffed it down.

No one else saw that moment. He made sure of it. But you heard it—through the haze of pain and corrupted data, you heard the fragging heartbreak in his voice. The worst night came when your spark signal flatlined for 4.3 seconds. Ratchet got it back, but Wheeljack didn’t speak for an hour after. Not one word.

He just stared at you like he was memorizing everything in case it was the last time. When you jolted awake with a scream during the antivirus injection, he held you down himself, letting your thrashing scorch the paint off his arms. “Easy, sweetheart. Come on. I’ve got you,” he whispered like a promise.

When it was finally over, and your vitals stabilized, he didn’t cheer like the others. He just slumped into the wall and let his optics close. You’d never seen Wheeljack rest before, it was almost unsettling. He didn’t speak until you weakly reached for his servo, and he took it like it was the most precious thing in the universe. “Welcome back,” he whispered, smiling with that cocky lopsided grin that always made your spark flutter. “Told you you were tougher than scrap.”

Late at night, when the others were recharging and the base had gone still, he’d sit beside your berth and tell you Wrecker stories, a wild, impossible tales of explosive stunts and near-death victories. But there was always a pause at the end. A breath. A moment where he looked down at your frame and whispered, “Nothing I survived out there scared me half as much as this did.”

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BULKHEAD - Autobot

Bulkhead instantly panics the moment you stumble mid-step. You’ve handled worse injuries before, but this was different. Your optics dimmed, and your balance gave out. He caught you before you hit the ground, yelling your name so loud it echoed through the base.

When Ratchet announces it’s Cybonic Plague, Bulkhead nearly shuts down. He’s heard of it, he’s lost Wrecker comrades to it in the war, and the thought of you having it nearly crushes him.

Bulkhead refuses to leave your side, even when ordered to. He snaps, “I don’t care if Megatron walks through that door. I’m not leaving them.” Miko tries to convince him to get some rest, but he just shakes his head.

He strokes your helm gently whenever you’re unconscious. It’s a side of Bulkhead few ever get to see, soft, wordless care. His massive servos are surprisingly gentle, brushing away coolant leaks and static from your face. Sometimes he whispers old Wrecker stories, just to fill the silence.

He threatens to storm the Decepticon base for a cure if needed. When Ratchet mentions the cure once came from Soundwave’s systems, Bulkhead's optics flash with rage. “Tell me where, and I’ll smash my way through if I have to.” The team knows he means it.

When Ratchet tests an experimental antivirus, Bulkhead is the first to volunteer to help. He doesn’t care about the risks. “If it saves them, then I’ll take ‘em all.” He’s the wall that keeps everyone moving forward.

He keeps a record of your vitals and treatment schedule. It’s scrawled in messy handwriting on datapads. “Just in case someone else gets sick. I want them to have a head start.” Even in your worst moment, he’s thinking about helping others.

When your systems finally begin to purge the virus, he almost collapses with relief. “They’re stabilizing,” Ratchet says. Bulkhead just lets out a broken laugh. “You fraggin’ did it, sweetspark!” The first time you speak after recovery, he nearly sobs.

He organizes a celebration after your full recovery, but it's more of a quiet hangout with the team. He brings Energon treats and music, keeping you close. The way he smiles when you're laughing? Pure sunshine.

He starts spoiling you with homemade energon treats. They’re not great. He accidentally makes them too spicy, too sweet, or too burnt. But he tries, and he beams every time you take a bite. “It’s the thought that counts, right?”

Even after you recover fully, he watches you like a hawk. He pretends to be casual, but you catch him staring every few minutes. “What? Can’t I look at my favorite bot?” he teases. But deep down, he’s still guarding your spark with all he’s got.

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Bulkhead had seen a lot in his time, explosions, Decepticon traps, close calls that would make any normal mech fold under pressure. But nothing could have prepared him for the moment you collapsed right in front of him. One minute you were laughing, teasing him about how slow he was on recon, the next, your legs gave out, and you hit the ground with a terrifying clang. “(Y/N)?!” he shouted, running to you so fast the ground shook beneath his feet.

Your optics flickered, static buzzing through your words. You tried to smile. Primus, you tried, but all that came out was a pained whisper of his name. Ratchet didn’t need a scan to know something was wrong. “We need to get them to the medbay. Now.” Bulkhead didn’t wait for anyone else; he scooped you up like fragile crystal, whispering your name like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.

The word 'Cybonic' nearly made him drop. He’d heard it before, on the battlefield, whispered like a curse. It was a plague that turned circuitry against itself, shutting down bots from the inside. “ You’re kidding,” he muttered to Ratchet, his voice cracking. But the medic just gave that grim look he always wore when hope was wearing thin.

Bulkhead never left your side. He sat beside your medberth with Miko’s blanket wrapped awkwardly around his shoulders, your servo gripped tightly in his own. He didn’t care if the others thought he was being dramatic; he’d rather be dramatic than alone. Every time your frame spasmed or your systems flickered, he flinched like he’d been hit. It was like watching the world end, one glitch at a time. “C’mon, Y/N… you’re stronger than this,” he murmured on the third day, optics bloodshot from lack of recharge.

His voice was soft, nothing like the boisterous Wrecker tone everyone knew. “You still owe me that race through the canyon, remember?” His laughter broke into static halfway through, and he leaned forward, pressing your servo to his cheekplate.

On the sixth day, your vitals dropped, and Ratchet yelled something Bulkhead didn’t understand, some medical code, some numbers, some urgent demand. But all Bulkhead could see was the way your body arched, seizing, like it was rejecting life itself. “No, no, no! Stay with me, (Y/N)!” he begged, almost in tears. The world blurred, and he wasn’t the strong, dependable Wrecker anymore. He was just a mech in love, losing his everything.

When you stabilized the next morning, he didn’t dare believe it at first. Ratchet hesitated, then finally said, “They’re responding to the treatment.” Bulkhead didn’t say anything. He just slumped forward, his forehead resting gently against yours, shaking. You were still there. You were still here.

The day your optics lit up fully again, the first thing you saw was Bulkhead slumped in a recharge chair next to your berth, snoring loudly, with dried energon streaks staining his cheek. You reached out and poked his shoulder. He jolted up like he’d been shot, optics wide. “Y/N?!” he shouted, voice cracking. You smiled. “Hey, big guy.”

The energon tears shed openly, and unashamedly. Not the silent kind, not the pretend-tough tears. Real ones. He gathered you in his arms so gently it nearly hurt, rocking you like you were the last spark in the universe. “Never—never—scare me like that again,” he whispered. You could feel the tremble in his voice, but beneath all of it… you felt the safest you’d ever been.

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sirxaibs · 2 months ago

Text

Caelus X Reader Honkai Star Rail

“Another Me in Another World”

Masterlist

pov you come from a timeline where you and caelus loved each other. Though now thrown into this world you don’t remember anything.

ଘ(੭ ᐛ )━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ The moment the warp settled, a shiver laced down Caelus’ spine.

They stood at the edge of a crumbling city floating in a pocket of broken time what Herta dubbed a “dimensional fault zone,” where history bent like glass under pressure. Fractured towers loomed above, suspended by unseen strings. The air crackled, distorted. But none of it compared to the static in his chest. She was here. He didn’t know how he knew only that the moment he stepped off the Express, his heart started pounding like it remembered something he didn’t. Then he saw her. She was standing alone at the edge of a fractured platform, long coat fluttering behind her like a shadow. Mask half lowered, a Stellaron Hunter insignia stitched boldly across her sleeve. And when her gaze met his sharp, unreadable his world tipped on its axis.

“…You,” Caelus breathed.

You didn’t blink. “So you’re the Express’s precious Trailblazer.” His title sounded foreign in your mouth, like it didn’t belong like you didn’t want it to. But your fingers twitched slightly at your side, as if muscle memory betrayed you. Behind Caelus, March and Dan Heng tensed. “Careful,” Dan Heng said lowly, “she’s one of Kafka’s.”

But Caelus stepped forward anyway. You didn’t move. Not when he stopped a few feet away. Not when he tilted his head, searching your eyes for something you didn’t even know you’d lost.

“There’s something familiar about you,” he said softly.

Your lips curved into something like a smirk but it didn’t reach your eyes. “I hear that a lot before people try to shoot me.”

“I’m not going to shoot you.”

“And I’m not going to hesitate if you become a threat,” you replied coolly, though something in your voice faltered at the end. Just a little.

A pause stretched between you.

Then he said it, almost like a confession to the wind “I’ve seen you before. In dreams.”

The expression you wore froze. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your throat tightened, because you’d seen him too every night since you woke up in Elio’s care, with a name you barely remembered and a void where your past should’ve been. A silver haired boy with amber eyes, reaching for you just as you disappeared. And now he was here, real and breathing and looking at you like he knew your soul.

“I don’t know you,” you said, a bit too quickly.

“Maybe not,” Caelus said, a small smile tugging at the edge of his lips, “but I think… I loved you, once.”

Your heart missed a beat. Behind your back, your fingers curled into a fist and you backed up. You hated the way his words made your chest ache. Hated the way the cold mask you wore suddenly felt too heavy. Because if what he said was true if you had loved him once then fate had played a cruel trick and you didn’t know if you had the strength to undo it.

ଘ(੭ ᐛ )━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ The world returned in fragments like shards of a broken mirror pressed too close to your eyes. At first, there was only the hum. Low, metallic, steady. Then light. Blinding. Cold. You gasped. Air surged into your lungs like you hadn’t breathed in centuries. You jolted upright with a strangled sound, hand instinctively reaching out for something someone.

But there was only silence. You blinked furiously, vision adjusting to the sterile, glass panelled room around you. Pale walls. A console blinking with unreadable data. You were lying on a bed no, a containment pod, cracked slightly down the side. It smelled like ozone and dust.

“Easy little one.” A voice. Calm, smooth, a touch amused. You turned sharply.

Kafka stood at the foot of the pod, arms crossed, one brow slightly arched. She looked completely unbothered, as if this was routine. As if you were routine. You stared at her like she might be part of the dream.

“Who…?” Your voice rasped out, raw. “Where…?”

“Questions already?” Kafka mused.

You opened your mouth to retort and froze. You didn’t know your name. No, wait you did. Barely. It floated to the surface like a whisper. You clutched it like a lifeline. “…My name is…” You hesitated. “I think it’s [Y/N].”

Kafka nodded slowly, like she was testing the shape of your name against the air. “It suits you.”

You sat there, stunned. Trembling slightly. “What… happened to me?”

She shrugged, a glint in her violet eyes. “A warp event. Something… untraceable. We found you drifting between coordinates with a fractured signal and half a heartbeat. Elio said you’d be important.”

“Elio…?”

“You’ll meet him eventually. For now, it’s just us.” You looked down at your hands. They felt wrong. Or maybe the world did.

“I don’t remember anything,” you whispered.

“No,” Kafka said. “But your instincts remain intact. That’s the part that matters.” You flinched when she stepped closer, but she only placed a hand on your shoulder gentle, grounding. Her smile softened, just slightly.

“Listen to me. You were meant for something greater. A fate rewritten by stars too scared of your potential. Elio saw it. And I do too.”

You stared up at her, desperate, haunted. “Then why do I feel like I’m… missing something?”

Kafka tilted her head, curious. “Missing someone, you mean?” Your breath caught. Because for all the blanks in your memory, there was one thing one constant you couldn’t explain away. Amber eyes, filled with light. A boy smiling at you like you were his entire world. Reaching for your hand as everything around you crumbled.

“I don’t know who he is,” you whispered. “But I see him when I sleep.” Kafka didn’t answer right away.

Then, softly “Maybe one day, you’ll remember. Maybe one day, he’ll find you.” You never remembered the moment you met him. There was no clean origin, no first conversation etched in time just the feeling. Like gravity had shifted in your chest. Like your soul had turned its head toward someone and said, “There you are.”

Even in the days after waking, long before Elio whispered of fate and purpose, you carried that strange ache. It sat beneath your ribs, subtle but persistent. As if your heart had memorized a rhythm it could no longer hear and still beat along with it anyway. And always, him. A boy reaching for you through dreams. Sometimes smiling. Sometimes calling your name. Sometimes standing still at the edge of a world collapsing in gold. You never saw his full face, not really. It shifted with every dream like your memory was afraid to settle. But the feeling stayed the same. Safety. Sadness. Love.

Kafka called it a side effect of a damaged warp phantom memories stitched together by a soul that had jumped too many coordinates, too fast. Elio said nothing. He only looked at you, eyes unreadable, and murmured “Even in broken timelines, some threads find each other again.”

You didn’t know what that meant. Not then. But now standing in this fractured city, staring into Caelus’s eyes you do. Because it’s not a coincidence. Not a trick of dreams or Stellaron interference. It’s older than memory. Deeper than fate. A bond written somewhere before the stars. You and Caelus are mirror souls two halves born in the same cosmic breath, scattered by a universe that didn’t know how to hold you.

Maybe you boarded the Astral Express, once. Maybe you stood beside him, laughed with him, loved him. Maybe you were torn from that path by a warp gone wrong, or a choice you never knew you made. But your souls remember. They reach for each other still in dreams, in battles, in silences where your fingers almost twitch toward his before you stop yourself.

You were meant to walk together. But the universe split you. Now, you’re on opposite sides of a war you don’t fully understand. But the bond? It hasn’t faded. It can’t. Because no matter how much memory was taken, how many times your paths diverged. You are still drawn to him. Still tethered by something ancient and unfinished.

And when Caelus whispered, “I think I loved you, once,” your soul didn’t hesitate. It whispered back “You still do.”

ଘ(੭ ᐛ )━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ

At first, you didn’t speak to anyone. You woke, you trained, you followed instructions. No questions. No smiles. No attachments. That was how it started. The other Stellaron Hunters didn’t mind. Blade said nothing, as usual. Silver Wolf barely looked up from her screens. Sam never came close enough for conversation, and Kafka was always watching.

She never pushed, never pried. Just watched, like she already knew the storm inside you and was waiting for the clouds to shift. But it was her, in the end, who pulled you into the rhythm of this strange place. It started with a game.

“You’re watching me again,” you muttered one evening, eyes fixed on the holographic wall map you’d been pretending to study for the last ten minutes.

Kafka leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. “I do that.”

You turned, half expecting mockery in her eyes. Instead, there was something softer faint amusement, edged with quiet interest.

“I’m not broken,” you said flatly. “You don’t have to treat me like I’ll crack open.”

“I never said you were,” she replied, and then, after a pause, “But you are still unfinished.”

“Unfinished?”

Kafka stepped forward, her coat trailing behind her like a slow moving shadow. “You remember fragments. Dreams. Pieces of another life. You haven’t decided yet who you want to be in this one.”

You clenched your jaw. “Maybe I already have.”

“Have you?” she asked, too gently.

You didn’t answer.

Later that night, she left something outside your room.A data pad. A short file. A simulation: sparring tactics against hypothetical enemies. Paired drills. On a whim, you ran the simulation. when you did, it loaded a preset with Kafka’s movement patterns coded as the partner. Every step she made was measured, confident. Every time you moved, the code adapted like she was anticipating you. Like she already knew how you fought. You didn’t sleep that night. Not because of fear or anxiety, but because you became entranced

From then on, things shifted.

You stopped avoiding the others in the corridors. Started nodding back when Silver Wolf greeted you with a lazy two finger wave. Listened when Blade offered one word advice during training. Responded when Kafka teased you, even if it was just with a dry, “Don’t push your luck.”

You began asking questions quiet ones, when no one was around.

“What’s Sam’s story?”

“Why does Blade meditate with his blade drawn?”

“Does Silver Wolf ever lose in those games?”

And every time, Kafka answered. Not always directly. Sometimes with riddles, sometimes with little smiles that said, You’ll figure it out. But she answered. More than that she listened. When you told her about the dreams again, she didn’t tell you to ignore them.

She only asked, “Do you want to remember?”

You did. Even if it hurt.

Weeks passed.

Your coat bore the Hunter insignia now. You walked with purpose in the base’s dim halls. You learned their methods how to dismantle systems, how to fight in sync with someone you weren’t sure you trusted, how to exist beside people who had no need for sentiment, but somehow left space for it anyway. Kafka didn’t change much.

But you started to see the way she lingered when Blade was injured. The way she glanced at Silver Wolf with a sisterly fondness when she thought no one noticed. The way she always made sure you got the missions that aligned with your strengths.

“Why do you help me?” you asked once, after a particularly clean victory where the two of you fought side by side, flawless.

Kafka didn’t miss a beat. “Because I remember what it feels like to be lost. And because Elio says you’re important.”

You scoffed. “You always follow Elio’s predictions?”

Kafka’s lips curved. “Only when I agree with them.” despite yourself, you smiled back.

ଘ(੭ ᐛ )━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ Kafka’s voice was calm over the comms.

“Quick in, quick out. Eyes open, [Y/N]. The relay’s still broadcasting faint traces of encrypted Express data. Elio wants to know why.” You crouched behind a collapsed support beam, hand tightening on your weapon. Your breath fogged slightly in the cold air. The station’s artificial gravity pulsed irregularly, like the heartbeat of something half dead.

“I don’t like it here,” you murmured. “Too quiet.”

“You’ll get used to that,” Kafka replied. “Most haunted places start that way.”

The door groaned as it opened rusted metal, reluctant hinges. You stepped inside, Kafka at your back, the hallway stretching before you like the throat of a dying star. The walls were scorched. Burned out terminals flickered and fizzed with leftover sparks. Bits of fabric clung to jagged debris passenger coats, maybe. You stepped over a half buried nameplate that read T78–Celestial Relay: Astral Express Docking Site.

You froze. Astral Express. The words rang in your head like a forgotten lullaby.

“Something wrong?” Kafka asked.

You stared at the nameplate, unsure what to say. “I… I think I’ve been here before.”

Kafka didn’t answer right away. She simply stepped beside you, gaze trailing over the ruined corridor. “Maybe you have.”

You pressed your hand against the wall, fingers brushing a faded imprint someone had drawn stars here once. The paint had nearly chipped away, but you could still make out the rough lines of a train and what looked like… a tiny figure standing at its edge. Your heart clenched. And then A whisper. Soft. Unmistakable.

“–[Y/N], you coming? We don’t leave people behind–”

You whipped around. No one was there. The hallway behind you remained empty, Kafka standing still as a statue beside the doorway.

“What did you hear?” she asked quietly.

You blinked. “That voice. I… I knew it.”

Kafka turned to face you, her expression unreadable. “What did it sound like?”

“Warm,” you whispered, before you could stop yourself. “He called my name like it meant something. Like I was his… crew.”

A slow beat of silence passed. Kafka stepped forward and reached up gently pressed two fingers to your temple. Not unkind. Not forceful. Just enough pressure to draw your attention.

“That’s not just a memory,” she murmured. “That’s a tether.” Your breath hitched.

“I don’t understand.”

“You will,” Kafka said. “Elio predicted this. A place would wake the memories. A name. A sound. You weren’t meant to forget it all. The universe just… paused you. Stalled the connection.”

You turned toward the hallway again. In the distance, barely audible, came another voice. Fainter this time. Familiar.

“Don’t wander off again, [Y/N]…”

Your lips parted. You could see it, just for a second flashing gold windows, March’s laughter, the faint hum of the Astral Express engine purring beneath your feet. It faded as quickly as it came.

“I… was with them,” you said softly, gripping your sleeve. “Before. Before all this. I can feel it.” Kafka studied you with something like pride.

“You’re remembering who you were. The question now is who do you want to be?”

You didn’t answer. Not yet. Instead, you turned back down the hall and whispered, like a promise only the stars could hear,

“I’ll find you.”

ଘ(੭ ᐛ )━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ The first time he saw her, it was in a dream. She stood at the edge of a broken platform, surrounded by stardust. Hair swaying in a nonexistent wind, face turned away, just slightly. The light around her bent like it knew her. Soft, reverent.

She didn’t speak. Caelus woke with his chest aching. At first, he chalked it up to warp sickness. Another leftover hallucination, maybe Stellaron residue playing tricks on his head. It wasn’t new. Flashes of unfamiliar places, déjà vu that made no sense. The usual.

But this was different. Because the girl didn’t fade. She kept showing up. Not just in dreams now, but in thoughts. In echoes. In odd moments where he’d catch his reflection in a terminal screen and think She’s looking for me. He missed her. This random girl.

Without knowing her name. Without knowing if she was real. He missed her. Like his soul had once been stitched to hers, and something some event, some warping twist of fate had torn it in half.

“Hey,” March’s voice snapped him out of it, “you okay?”

He blinked. Realized he’d been staring out the train’s window for who knows how long. The stars looked endless tonight. Cold. Unreachable.

“Yeah,” he lied. “Just thinking.”

“About what?” she teased, leaning in. “Don’t tell me you’re finally getting poetic about the stars. Welt’s going to cry.”

He tried to smile. “Nothing important.”

But even then, he heard it.

A whisper, not quite sound, threading through his mind like a thread through fabric:

“Caelus…”

The way she said it wasn’t scared. Or urgent. It was warm. Familiar.

Intimate.

He rubbed at his temple. “It’s happening again.”

March sobered. “The dreams?”

He nodded. “She’s… everywhere. But I don’t know her.”

“You’re sure she’s not someone we met on another planet?”

“I know I’ve never met her,” Caelus murmured. “But it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like I’ve always known her. Like I’m forgetting something I should never have forgotten.”

March frowned, stepping a little closer. “What does she look like?”

“I don’t know. Her face is always in light. Or in motion. Or…” He sighed. “She’s always just out of reach.”

March crossed her arms. “Sounds like a cosmic love story.”

“Or a curse,” he muttered.

He meant it.

Because it hurt, missing someone you didn’t even know. It made no sense, but she had become a presence an ache under his ribs, a name he didn’t know how to speak.

That night, the dream changed. He was on the Express but not this one. The colors were warmer. The crew felt familiar, yet different. And there she was finally facing him. This time no blur and no haze.

She smiled, soft and sad. Like she knew something he didn’t. Like she’d watched him from afar for a long, long time.

He took a step forward. She held out her hand.

The sound of shattering glass. Light tore across the dream like lightning. Her image cracked, distorted, fell apart.

He screamed her name Except he didn’t know it. He woke up gasping.

He stood in the hallway outside the passenger car now, gripping the rail, heart pounding. The stars outside flickered like they were trying to whisper something back.

“I don’t know who you are,” he murmured, voice rough. “But I think I’m supposed to.”

Though he felt he had loved her once. that love got lost between the stars. But it was finding its way back. He could feel it.

ଘ(੭ ᐛ )━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ

The moment hung between you like a heartbeat suspended in air fragile, trembling, too afraid to fall.

You didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

Because if you did, something would break.

Maybe it was the persona you’d built. Maybe it was the invisible wall that Elio insisted you keep between yourself and the rest of the galaxy. Or maybe… it was the feeling you’d been running from since the day you woke up in Kafka’s care:

The ache of knowing someone you’d never met.

Of longing for something you never had.

Of being seen when you had no memory of who you were supposed to be.

And Caelus saw you.

Not the mask. Not the weapon. You.

He stood there, closer than he should have, amber eyes gentler than any soldier’s had a right to be, and you hated how your resolve cracked around the edges just by looking at him.

“I don’t want to fight you,” he said, voice barely above the whine of static in the air. “I just… want to understand.”

Your mouth opened then shut again.

The wind shifted between the broken towers, pulling at your coat. You turned away first. Because if you kept looking at him, you weren’t sure you’d be able to hold your ground.

“I don’t care what you dreamed,” you said finally, trying to sound cold. Detached. “Whatever you think we were… I’m not that girl anymore.”

“I know,” he murmured, and that was somehow worse.

Because he meant it. And he still looked at you like that.

Like he was remembering you, even if you’d forgotten yourself.

Before you could respond, Kafka’s voice crackled in your earpiece.

“Darling. We’ve got what we need. Time to disappear.”

You inhaled sharply through your nose, nodding to nothing. for a second, just before you moved, your hand twitched again reaching out, purely instinct. But then you turned.

You vanished into the fractured skyline, not even a ripple left in your wake. Caelus didn’t follow. He just watched you go, a strange, hollow kind of sorrow nesting in his chest.

“She didn’t try to kill us,” March 7th said flatly.

“Progress,” Dan Heng deadpanned.

Caelus didn’t laugh.

He sat in silence, watching the universe drift past the train’s window. His reflection stared back at him, eyes tired and heart somewhere lightyears behind.

She didn’t remember him.

But her fingers had twitched when she said his name. Like muscle memory. Like muscle memory aching to reach out.

She was the one he’d been dreaming of. The one who didn’t board the Express. The one who was never supposed to walk the path she was on. The one fate had twisted away from him.

Later, after the brief standoff after Kafka led you away with a smile and a smug wave, and after Himeko called the mission a partial success Caelus sat alone in the Express observatory.

He stared out at the stars, but they felt different now.

You were real. And you knew him.

Not just knew of him. You knew him. The way your eyes lingered. The subtle way your fingers twitched when his voice hit the air. The way your name still escaped him but your presence didn’t.

“You okay?” March leaned in from behind, holding a cup of cocoa.

He didn’t turn. Just nodded. “I met her.”

March blinked. “Her?”

“…The one from the dreams.”

Her brows shot up. “Wait, seriously? That’s the girl?”

He nodded again. “She’s with Kafka.”

March made a face. “Of course she is. That explains the cool and mysterious aura coming from your weird head.”

“I don’t think she remembers me fully,” he said softly. “But she said my name.”

“hmmmm this feels kinda crazy,” March said, sitting beside him. “This is like some weird soulmate thing.”

Caelus glanced at her. “Is that even possible?”

She smirked. “With us? Anything’s possible.”

He turned back to the stars.

Somewhere out there, on another ship, or in another world, she had stood beside him. He knew it.

And even if time or fate had pulled them apart he was going to find his way back.

ଘ(੭ ᐛ )━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ

It was stupid.

Dangerous.

Kafka had already noticed.

“You’ve been requesting missions in Express protected zones a lot lately,” she said one evening, her tone lazy, her gaze razor sharp. “Coincidence?”

You didn’t answer. Just kept cleaning your gear with surgical precision.

“…You saw him again, didn’t you?”

You paused, hand tightening on the cloth.

Kafka smiled like a cat who’d just cornered a bird. “I knew it.”

You didn’t look up. “It’s nothing.”

“Sweetheart, if it were nothing, your hands wouldn’t be shaking.”

They weren’t until she said it.

You shoved the cloth into your bag and stood. “Give me a mission.”

“Where to?”

You hesitated.

“Doesn’t matter,” you lied. “Anywhere near the Express.”

Kafka didn’t tease you. She just tilted her head, watching you like you were a story she already knew the ending to.

“Alright,” she said, voice soft. “Just try not to break his heart too fast.”

You rolled your eyes but your chest twisted. Because you didn’t want to break anything. You just… wanted to see him again.

Even if it was across a battlefield. Even if it was a few glances stolen between chaos. Even if it meant pretending you didn’t feel like the universe was holding its breath every time your paths aligned.

‼️‼️‼️

“Trailblazer, are you sure you need to scout that sector again?” Himeko asked, not unkindly.

“Yes,” Caelus said immediately. “I have a feeling.”

Dan Heng raised a brow. “A feeling.”

“Yeah.”

March grinned. “It’s her, isn’t it?”

Caelus didn’t deny it.

He didn’t know what he was expecting maybe another cold stare, another few seconds of standing too close without touching. But every time he caught a whisper of your presence on a planet, his heart pulled like a compass needle snapping to true north.

lately? You’d been showing up a lot. He started waiting on rooftops after missions, lingering longer than necessary. Hoping. Searching.

One time, he swore he caught your silhouette vanishing behind the smoke of a blown power core. Another, he spotted a shimmer in a crowd just a flicker of your coat as you disappeared into a ship.

You never stayed. you were always there.

You crouched at the edge of a ruined dome, watching the Express land below like a ghost too afraid to knock on the door.

Your comm buzzed.

Kafka: “You just gonna stare again, or say hi this time?”

You didn’t answer. Because you didn’t know how to explain it. That this wasn’t love…. at most you don’t know what that word even meant

He felt like It was gravity. He was the center of something you couldn’t name, and every time you stepped close, the past stirred in your bones like a song you once knew.

And still, you stayed. Watching him laugh with March. Watching him glance over his shoulder, like he felt you nearby. Watching him wait.

ଘ(੭ ᐛ )━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ

The stars above the shattered dome flickered like dying embers dim, faraway, forgotten. The observatory was dead, a relic from a time when people still believed the cosmos could be mapped, understood, controlled.

Now, it was just quiet. A perfect place to hide. You didn’t know why you were here. Not really. The coordinates had come through a scrambled data trail supposedly a scouting point for a Hunter op. But Kafka had said nothing. She’d just smiled when she saw the file and said, “Go.”

So you went. You didn’t expect him to be there too. But the moment you stepped through the cracked threshold, you knew. The air changed. Like the world itself paused to take a breath.

And then you saw him.

Caelus stood by the remnants of a collapsed telescope, bathed in soft starlight filtering through the fractured glass above. His coat rustled quietly as he turned.

His eyes widened.

“…You.”

You didn’t move. You should’ve run. Should’ve vanished like you always did. your boots felt rooted to the floor, and your chest was tight with something you didn’t have a name for.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” you said, voice low.

“I know,” he replied. “But I hoped you would be.”

That stopped you cold.

“…Why?”

“Because I can’t keep pretending you’re just a dream.”

Your heart stuttered.

He took a slow step forward. You didn’t stop him.

“You keep showing up,” he said, quietly. “And every time, I think maybe it’s just a trick. Just my mind trying to make sense of something it can’t remember. But then I see you. And I know.”

You swallowed hard.

“There’s a reason we remember each other,” he went on. “Even if we don’t know how.”

You looked away. “You don’t know who I am.”

“I don’t have to,” he said. “Because when I see you I feel peace. Like the galaxy makes sense for a second.”

That… hurt. Because you didn’t just feel peace when you saw him. You felt everything else. Hope. Ache. Fear. That sharp, impossible longing like something inside you was trying to claw its way out just to reach him.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you whispered.

“well that shouldn’t feeling kinda doesn’t apply here,” Caelus said again, gentler.

Silence stretched between you fragile, sacred. Then, softly, he asked, “Can I come closer?”

You nodded.

He stepped toward you, slow and careful, until there was only a breath between you. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then gently, so gently his hand reached out and hovered near yours. Not touching. Just waiting.

And your fingers… trembled.

You didn’t take his hand.

But you didn’t pull away either. It was the closest you’d been. Not physically emotionally. Soulfully. And for the first time since you woke up with no memories, you didn’t feel lost.

You felt… found.

It just hovered there between you, caught in some invisible tension neither of you had the words to sever. Caelus stayed still too, though you could tell he wanted to say something his eyes kept flicking to your expression, like he was trying to read stars in a language he used to know.

Then, very softly, he chuckled.

You blinked.

“What?” you asked warily.

“I just…” He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, expression going a little sheepish. “I was trying to think of something poetic to say. You know, something like, ‘Even across galaxies, I’d find you,’ or ‘Your eyes remind me of starlight before a warp jump.’” He paused. “But that would be cringe, right?”

You stared at him.

And then against your own instincts you laughed. It was small, quiet, almost disbelieving, but it escaped you anyway. “That’s so cringe.”

“I knew it!” he grinned, victorious. “See? March would’ve roasted me for it too.”

Your lips twitched. “You really are a dork,” you muttered.

“I prefer charmingly knight super cool amazing, thank you very much,” Caelus said, placing a dramatic hand to his heart. “Besides, you were about two seconds away from touching my hand. I saw the twitch. Don’t lie.”

You rolled your eyes, but something in your chest… eased. He noticed. And that dumb little smile of his softened into something quieter.

“I’m not trying to pressure you,” he said. “I just wanted to see you. Talk.”

You didn’t answer right away. The truth was you didn’t know who you were now. Not completely. But sitting here, with the moonlight dusting your boots and this ridiculous boy talking about bad pickup lines in the middle of a ruined observatory. You didn’t feel like a Stellaron Hunter. You didn’t feel like a traitor or a mistake. You felt… normal. For the first time in forever.

Your fingers inched just slightly toward his. Barely enough to count. But Caelus noticed. He grinned.

“So,” he said, voice light again, “should I keep going with the pickup lines, or have I impressed you enough for one night?”

You exhaled slowly.

“…Let’s just sit.”

He nodded. “I’m good at that. Sitting. Part of my best skills.”

You shook your head, but you didn’t pull away when he finally sat beside you close, not touching.

ଘ(੭ ᐛ )━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ

Caelus couldn’t stop smiling.

It wasn’t his usual half grin or smug little smirk it was a real smile. One of those stupid, giddy ones that made his face hurt and had absolutely no business existing after a trip to a dead observatory.

But here he was. Practically skipping down the corridor of the Express like a guy who’d just gotten a love confession and a puppy all in one day.

He didn’t get what was happening. But he felt it. That weight in his chest that had been following him since the warp it was lighter now. Not gone, but gentler. Like seeing you made the ache less unbearable.

Even if you’d only laughed once. Even if your hand had hovered, not held. Even if you still looked like you were ready to vanish at the first sign of a threat.

It didn’t matter. He’d seen the crack in the mask. He’d seen you.

“Okay, you’re smiling. That’s never a good sign,” a voice called.

Caelus turned just as March 7th leaned dramatically over the back of the lounge couch, a mock suspicious look in her eyes. “Did you get hit on the head, or are you in love?”

“What?” Caelus blinked, then coughed. “Neither!”

“That was the most unconvincing response I’ve ever heard in my life,” March grinned.

“Didn’t even try to lie properly,” Dan Heng muttered from behind his book, not looking up.

“Oh my god.” March gasped and pointed at him. “You’re blushing. Are you blushing?!”

“I am not blushing,” Caelus said, very obviously blushing.

“You totally are!” she squealed. “You went somewhere, didn’t you? You did the secret meeting thing. The ‘forbidden connection across enemy lines’ thing. Like star crossed lovers in a trashy space novel!”

“I just… I ran into her,” Caelus muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “We talked. That’s all.”

March narrowed her eyes. “Define ‘talked.’”

“…There were words.”

“Ooooh. There were feelings,” March declared. “Dan Heng, he’s so doomed.”

Dan Heng sighed without looking up. “I’ll alert the press.”

At the front of the Express, Himeko sipped her coffee until she tilted her head toward Welt with a smirk. “I think the kids are gossiping again.”

Welt glanced up from the terminal, raising an eyebrow. “Should we be concerned?”

“Well, considering our dear Trailblazer seems to be falling for a Stellaron Hunter, I’d say yes,” she said with a knowing smile. “But also… not yet. Let them feel something. They’ve earned it.”

Back near the lounge, Caelus flopped onto the couch beside March and groaned into a pillow.

“I didn’t mean to like her,” he mumbled.

“That’s how it always starts,” March said with faux dramatic flair. “You ‘accidentally’ develop feelings for the mysterious, emotionally complicated girl who may or may not be working for a morally grey space cult.”

“She laughed at one of my dumb jokes,” Caelus admitted, muffled.

March gasped again. “She laughed?! Oh, it’s over for you. You’re done. Pack it up. Go write her name on your locker and doodle hearts in your journal.”

“I don’t have a locker.”

“its a metaphor you stupid hoe,” she said solemnly.

And as the Express continued its course through the stars, the crew kept teasing, bickering, and beneath it all watching over each other. Even if they didn’t say it, they all felt it.

ଘ(੭ ᐛ )━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ

This sector was too close to the Express’s patrol route, and Kafka had given you a very specific order to avoid unnecessary contact with the crew for your own good, allegedly. But “allegedly” didn’t stop your feet from wandering. And it sure didn’t stop him.

Because Caelus was already there, poking his head around a half crushed console like he was looking for snacks and not violating multiple interdimensional boundaries.

“Psst,” he whispered, ducking behind a pillar like a badly disguised spy.

You stared at him, deadpan. “You followed me.”

“I think the term stumbled across you like fate intended,” he said, peeking out again with a hopeful smile.

You folded your arms. “You almost got spotted by Silver Wolf’s scouts. If I hadn’t looped their surveillance…”

“Okay, so maybe I’m not great at stealth,” Caelus admitted, sheepish. “But I am great at being incredibly charming in the face of mortal peril.”

You opened your mouth to tell him off but then he crouched, balancing on one leg with his arms out like a chicken, and made a dramatic caw noise.

“See? You can’t stay mad at this level of grace.”

You stared. Then pinched the bridge of your nose. And yet… your lips twitched. Damn it.

He grinned wider, clearly catching it. “There it is! The tiniest smile. I knew I could break through that scary, cool Hunter persona.”

“I’m not scary,” you muttered.

“You’re terrifying. In a hot way.”

You rolled your eyes, turning away to hide the heat rushing to your cheeks. “You’re a really weird guy.”

“And yet you keep meeting me,” he said, stepping closer now. “Isn’t that funny?”

It wasn’t funny. It was frustrating. It was dangerous. Every second spent with him risked blowing your cover, ruining your mission. Staying away from the people that hindered the stellarons hunters wishes

But every time he smiled at you like that like you were the only real thing left in the galaxy. You forgot what side you were on.

“Caelus…” you started, voice wavering.

“Yeah?”

“Why do you do this?” Your eyes locked with his. “Why do you keep chasing me when we’re supposed to be enemies?”

He hesitated, surprised by the weight in your voice.

Then he shrugged, quietly this time. “Because even when I close my eyes, I still see you. And I think… if I stop chasing that, I’ll regret it forever.”

Something in your chest cracked open. The longing. The ache. The static in your blood. It surged all at once.

You didn’t think. Didn’t plan. You just grabbed his collar and kissed him. Hard. The impact startled him his hands flying to steady you, your fingers curled in his jacket like you’d fall apart if you let go. It was clumsy, fierce, desperate.

You felt his breath hitch. Felt his fingers tighten. Though suddenly. The static surged. Your knees gave out and the world tilted. You collapsed into his arms, your consciousness slipping like smoke.

“Whoa! Wait!” Caelus caught you before you hit the ground, wide eyed. “Okay, not how I imagined our first kiss going hey, are you okay? Are you? Oh god, did I break you?!”

He knelt, cradling you gently, brushing hair from your face as your breathing steadied but your eyes stayed shut.

“…You kissed me,” he whispered, stunned.

Then, more softly.

“…Please wake up so I can tell you how i really feel”

A few moments pass and you’re still completely knocked out.

“She’s not waking up. She’s not waking up. She’s not okay okay it’s fine, I’ve definitely… totally… handled something like this before…”

He hadn’t. Caelus was not fine. You were unconscious in his arms, and he had no idea why. He was racing back toward the Express through dimensional shrapnel and twisted corridors like he was running from the universe itself. Every few seconds, he glanced down to make sure you were still breathing.

You were. Shallow, but steady. Thank every star in the sky.

“I mean, you kiss a girl, and she immediately collapses that’s gotta be a record, right?” he muttered, mostly to keep from screaming. “Cool, Caelus. Real smooth. She finally kisses you and the stellaron hunter gets beaten by a kiss. note to tell Dan heng to use that on blade later”

His foot snagged on a floating stone, and he nearly tumbled. He tightened his hold, shielding your head.

“Sorry, sorry gotcha,” he said softly, eyes flicking to your face. “You don’t look hurt. You just… fainted? Did I do something wrong? Was it the hair? Be honest, you hate the hair, don’t you?”

No answer. Just the soft, steady rise and fall of your chest.

The Express came into view. Warm lights. Familiar hum. A tether back to sanity. He bolted inside, panting. “Emergency! Kind of! I mean, not me okay, yes me, but mostly her!”

March’s head whipped up from the couch. “Is that?!”

Dan Heng appeared instantly at the sound of frantic footsteps, and Himeko turned from the navigation console.

“What happened?” she asked sharply, crossing the room. “Isnt she that girl youre always talking about?”

“I I don’t know! I mean, I do, but I don’t she’s the girl from the dimensional fault. She kissed me long story and then she just collapsed.”

“You kissed the enemy?” March asked, voice pitched somewhere between scandalized and amazed. “Oh my, Caelus!”

“She kissed me!” he hissed, glancing down at you. “And then passed out, which is not how kisses usually go right? That’s not normal?”

Welt Yang stepped in, grave and composed as always. “Where exactly did this happen?”

“Fragmented zone, a relay station near the collapsed ruins. She was fine then not. I didn’t know where else to go.”

“You made the right choice,” Himeko said gently, already checking your pulse.

“She’s… she’s okay, right?” Caelus asked, voice cracking as he dropped to his knees beside you.

Welt nodded slowly. “Stable vitals. No external trauma. But her energy readings are odd.”

“Odd how?” Caelus asked.

March peeked over Welt’s shoulder. “Like Stellaron odd? Trailblazer odd? Or, like, cute girl with dangerous secrets odd?”

Welt exhaled. “Yes.”

Caelus swallowed hard. He looked at your face again. Still so still.

“Hey,” he murmured, taking your hand carefully. “You can’t just… leave me hanging like that. You can’t kiss me and ghost me in the same breath. That’s rude.”

March elbowed Dan Heng. “Yo i love the guy but has he ever been serious”

“I don’t think so,” Dan Heng replied dryly.

“I’m serious,” Caelus said, voice softer now. “You gotta wake up soon. I don’t care who you are. Or what you think you have to be. I just… I want to know you. The real you.”

Your fingers didn’t twitch.

But your heartbeat, quietly, began to quicken. The cabin of the Astral Express felt too quiet. You were still unconscious, resting in the medbay with March standing guard just in case you woke up and decided to, you know, unleash chaos. Dan Heng was nearby, arms crossed, calm but clearly on edge.

And Himeko… was doing something no one expected.

“She’s calling Kafka?” March whispered, wide eyed. “That’s… wow. That’s like dialing a volcano and asking it politely not to erupt.”

“I’m not asking,” Himeko said smoothly, tone neutral as she tapped into the comms. “I’m informing. She’s going to want to know her operative’s alive and on board. I’d prefer that information come from us than from, say… a surveillance drone.”

“Or a giant explosion,” Caelus mumbled from where he slumped against the wall.

March shot him a look. “You really kissed her, huh?”

“She kissed me,” he repeated, quietly now. “And then she collapsed. Not exactly the grand romantic moment I imagined.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘cursed,’” March offered helpfully.

Before he could spiral further, Welt Yang appeared beside him and nodded toward the back car. “Walk with me?”

Caelus didn’t argue. They ended up on the observation deck, stars stretched out endlessly through the glass windows. The silence was nice. Heavy, but nice.

“You’ve been quiet,” Welt said after a while.

“Trying not to panic,” Caelus admitted. “Not doing a great job.”

Welt studied him with the patience of someone who’d seen too many wars and too many versions of the same story. “You’re allowed to panic. But you’re also allowed to hope.”

Caelus leaned his head against the window, watching a comet streak by. “She was… cold. Distant. But when she looked at me, it felt like someone lit up the whole room. Like a puzzle piece finally clicked, even if it didn’t make sense.”

“And the kiss?”

“Unplanned. Very… wow. And then terrifying.”

Welt chuckled quietly. “Feelings can do that. Especially when they come from somewhere deeper than memory.”

“You think she’s really?”

“I think the universe has a way of trying again when it gets something wrong,” Welt said gently. “You two… may have been pulled apart by something beyond your control. That doesn’t mean you can’t find your way back.”

Caelus swallowed the knot in his throat.

“I just what if she wakes up and remembers who she is, and it means she leaves? Or worse, tries to finish what she started?”

“Then you face that moment with the same bravery you faced her now. With heart.”

Caelus looked up at him.

“…You’re good at this.”

Welt smiled, faint but kind. “I’ve had practice.”

The silence stretched between them comfortably this time. Then March’s voice crackled over the intercom.

“Uh, guys? So… Kafka responded. She’s coming. ETA fifteen minutes.”

Caelus stiffened.

Welt simply exhaled. “Well. Time to prepare for company.”

“And by company,” Caelus muttered, “you mean the scariest lady who might murder me for smooching her agent.”

“She might also say ‘thanks,’” Welt mused.

“…That would be a miracle.”

ଘ(੭ ᐛ )━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ

She came with the wind. No ship announced her arrival. No screeching engines or blaring alarms warned the crew. Just a sudden, eerie stillness like the Express itself recognized the presence walking its halls and chose to hold its breath.

Caelus stood in the medbay doorway, arms crossed tight against his chest, heart hammering like it still hadn’t caught up to the kiss or the collapse that followed.

You hadn’t stirred. Not once. He didn’t know what terrified him more the silence from your body… or the way he wasnt sure what everything meant

Then she appeared. Kafka stepped through the door like a queen entering her court graceful, confident, her long coat fluttering gently with her stride. Eyes sharp and knowing. Expression unreadable, but tinged with something… fond. Like she’d expected this.

“Well,” she murmured, surveying the scene. “You’re earlier than I thought, Caelus.”

He blinked. “You… expected this?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, her gaze fell on you, lying still and pale on the cot, a faint glimmer of light pulsing beneath your skin where your mask once was.

Kafka smiled softly.

She walked closer and crouched beside you, brushing a gloved hand over your forehead in a rare moment of gentleness. “She always did overdo things when emotions were involved. Even across timelines, some things stay the same.”

Caelus stepped forward, jaw tight. “What happened to her?”

Kafka tilted her head. “She remembered you. More than she was supposed to. More than her mind this version of her was ready to accept.”

“What do you mean, ‘this version’?” Caelus asked slowly, dreading the answer.

Kafka looked up at him. “She’s not from here. Not exactly.”

Silence. Dan Heng, March, Welt, and Himeko stood nearby, tension bleeding into the room like fog.

“She’s a splinter,” Kafka continued. “A fracture of someone that once existed in a timeline that was… erased. In that version of the world, she boarded the Express. Just like you. She was one of yours.”

“…Ours?” Caelus echoed.

“You were happy,” Kafka said with a smile. “Close. Devoted. She loved you, Caelus. More than duty, more than fear. Enough to leap across timelines when fate collapsed around her.”

His breath caught. Kafka rose, brushing imaginary dust from her gloves. “Elio found her adrift. Not quite nothing, not quite whole. And I well, I’ve always had a soft spot for lost causes.”

March folded her arms. “So… you knew she didn’t belong with the Stellaron Hunters?”

“She belonged where her heart led her,” Kafka replied coolly. “We never forced her to stay. She chose to remain. But I knew the day would come when the two of you would meet again. Some things are inevitable.”

Himeko narrowed her gaze. “Then why bring her in at all?”

Kafka looked at her. Smiled. “Because sometimes, a storm needs a place to land.”

“…That’s not an answer,” Dan Heng said.

“No,” Kafka replied, unbothered. “It isn’t.”

She turned back toward Caelus then. Her tone gentled. “She found you again. Against all odds. And even without memories, her soul still remembered.”

Caelus swallowed. His voice felt hoarse. “So what now?”

“Now?” Kafka took a step toward him, something unreadable in her eyes. “Now you wait. Be patient. She’s strong. Stubborn. She’ll come back to you.”

Then, a pause deliberate and teasing. She leaned closer. “And be good, Caelus.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Be. Good,” she repeated with a sly smile. “Or I’ll steal her back.”

He flushed. “she came to me, you know.”

Kafka’s grin widened. “Soulmates do that. No matter the odds. No matter the sides.”

He stared at her. She softened. Just a fraction.

“Even when she was one of us,” she said quietly, “she still looked at the stars and dreamed of you. You’d think that kind of devotion would die between timelines, but… it doesn’t.”

Caelus’s chest ached.

“She loved you then,” Kafka whispered. “And if you’re lucky, she’ll love you again.”

Her gaze turned thoughtful.

“Opposing sides don’t mean much to the heart. What matters is how hard you’re willing to love, even when the universe tries to tear you apart.” Then she brushed past him, heading toward the door.

“Wait,” Caelus said. “Are you just going to leave her?”

Kafka smiled over her shoulder. “She’s exactly where she needs to be.” And with that, she was gone. Silence returned. Caelus stood there for a moment, eyes on your still form. Then, quietly, Welt stepped to his side again.

“Well,” he said gently, “you heard the woman.”

Caelus exhaled shakily. “Yeah…”

“She’ll come back.”

Caelus nodded. “Yeah.” And when she does, he thought, I’m not letting go again.

ଘ(੭ ᐛ )━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ It starts with light. Soft, golden, and endless. You’re weightless, drifting. Not through space through memory. Through pieces of yourself you didn’t know were missing. At first, the visions are disjointed, blurred at the edges. Like film caught between frames. A laugh. Your own. It’s bright, full of something warm. Something forgotten. You’re standing in the Astral Express kitchen, sleeves rolled up, flour on your cheek. March 7th is beside you, wielding a spoon like a sword. Across the counter, Caelus is dramatically pretending to faint as he eats a cookie you baked.

“It’s so good,” he gasps, flopping over a chair like a dying man. “I’m ascending Himeko, if I die, bury me with ten of these.”

You hit him with a dish towel. “Eat like a normal person.”

“I am! This is how Trailblazers eat. enjoying every second of this. Very cool.” You’re smiling so wide it hurts. The scene melts.

FLASH.

You and Dan Heng are leaning over a terminal together. He’s explaining star coordinates, but your attention keeps drifting. Not because you’re bored but because you’re waiting. Waiting for that familiar, goofy voice behind you. Sure enough.

“You’re cheating on me with star maps again?” Caelus says, mock offended.

“Jealous of numbers?” you tease, turning to him.

“I’m jealous of anything that takes your attention for more than thirty seconds.” Dan Heng clears his throat, but you swear he’s hiding a smile.

FLASH

It’s night. Or what passes for night on the train. You and Caelus are sitting on the edge by the door, legs dangling over the edge. Your heads are tilted toward the stars, shoulders touching.

No words. Just the sound of the universe breathing between you.

“I think I found home,” he whispers.

You blink. Look at him.

He doesn’t turn to you, but his hand finds yours in the dark.

“I think,” he continues, voice quieter now, “it’s not a place. I think it’s a person.”

“did you read that in a romance book?”

“shhhhh, you’re crazy you’re thinking too much. close your eyes and just embrace it”

You squeeze his hand back.

FLASH.

Battle. You’re bleeding. Something had gone wrong on a mission fight with a Fragmentum creature. You’re cornered, dizzy, staggering but then Caelus is there. Always.

He pulls you back against him, shielding your body with his own, teeth gritted, eyes wild with fear.

“I got you,” he pants. “Stay with me, okay? Just don’t go.”

You look up at him.

You smile.

“Like I’d leave you, dummy.”

FLASH.

You’re in the observation car, curled on one of the long benches. The stars are streaming by, casting the room in slow, celestial motion. Caelus walks in with two mugs and stops in his tracks when he sees you. You feign sleep. He sits beside you anyway. Then, softly, with that grin you’ve always hated because it makes your heart ache.

“I don’t know what I did in the past to deserve you,” he says, voice like a secret, “but I’d do it again. A thousand times.” Your heart clenches. Because something inside you remembers.

FLASH.

That ruined city. The fault zone. His face. You hear his voice again.

“I’ve seen you before. In dreams.”

“I think… I loved you, once.”

And for the first time, your consciousness stirs. The dreams fracture. Like mirrors catching too much light. The voice calling you back isn’t Kafka’s. It’s his.

Caelus.

You try to reach. To swim toward the sound. But something holds you back like the universe hasn’t decided if you’re ready to wake. Then, one final whisper reaches you. Not a memory. Not a dream. Just a feeling, laced in the warmth of amber eyes.

“Come back to me.”

You move.

There was no light when you first stirred just warmth. A soft hum beneath you. A scent in the air like metal and tea. And someone breathing. Slow, steady, near. Your eyelids fluttered open, lashes blinking against the low glow of the Astral Express’s medical bay. Everything felt strangely quiet thick, like sound and time had been layered under water. You blinked again. Once. Twice.

Then you saw him.

Slouched in a chair beside the bed, head tucked in his arms, was him. Caelus. He looked so much softer like this. Asleep, or maybe just resting his eyes. Hair slightly mussed, coat slipping off one shoulder, mouth slightly open like he had passed out mid thought. Your heart gave a small, traitorous flutter.

You whispered, “…Caelus?”

His head jerked up so fast you thought he might give himself whiplash. His amber eyes locked onto yours in an instant, and something shattered across his face. He bolted upright, nearly tripping over the chair in his scramble to get to your side.

“Hey hey! You’re awake! You’re actually awake! Not, like, fake half awake. Awake awake.” His hands hovered awkwardly over you, unsure if he was allowed to touch. “I Himeko said it could take a week, or a month, or uh, anyway, it’s been three days, and I’ve been sitting here the whole time and” You reached up and gently touched his wrist.

“I think…” you murmured, voice hoarse but steady, “I think I love you.” He froze like you’d physically unplugged his brain.

“W what?”

Your body ached, your throat still burned, and your thoughts swam like drifting stars but the feeling in your chest was real. Unmistakable. A tether that led back to him, no matter the timeline. You sat up slowly he instantly reached out to help you, like you might fall apart again and when you moved forward to hug him, his arms instinctively opened.

“Waitwaitwait!” He pulled back with sudden panic, palms bracing your shoulders like a human seatbelt. “Are you gonna kiss me again? Because the last time you did that, you passed out in my arms and scared me half to death. Not that it was a bad kiss honestly, it was amazing, I’m still recovering but I don’t want you to, like, die on me again. My heart can’t take it.” You stared at him. Then laughed. Softly. Genuinely.

Even now when he was clearly shaken, clearly not over what happened he was still him. A little weird. A little dramatic. A little too honest. It calmed you. Grounded you. You leaned in again slower this time and pressed your forehead against his.

“I’m not yours,” you said quietly. “Not the one you have ever met

He nodded, eyes dimming slightly. “Yeah. I figured.”

“But you…” You closed your eyes. “You’re not my Caelus either.”

A breath passed between you. And then, you whispered, “But I think… you’re still my home.”

His breath caught. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at you, that chaotic, sincere expression melting into something gentler. Something he hadn’t let himself hope for.

Then, his hand brushed the side of your cheek tentative, reverent. And he smiled.

“…You really know how to knock a guy off his feet, huh?”

You leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering shut.

“You’ve been doing it to me since before I even knew your name.”

#hsr x reader #hsr #honkai star rail #honkai sr #caelus #caelus hsr #hsr kafka #hsr welt #hsr himeko #hsr oc #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x you #hsr caelus #hsr caelus x reader #trailblazer #nameless #isekai #isekai sort of #x reader

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lieutenantbatshit · 2 months ago

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01 - no good deed | just another player. (hwang in-ho x reader)

|| masterlist ||

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----

The room was dark. Not the artificial, humming darkness of the dormitories. No flickering overhead lights, no sound of desperate breathing in the shadows.

This darkness was deeper, becoming quieter, then still.

Hwang In-ho bolts upright in his bed, breath caught in his throat, chest heaving beneath the black robe of the Front Man. Sweat clung to his skin like blood once did. The black mask sits abandoned on the table beside him, and for a moment, he remembers who he is.

Not Hwang In-ho.

The Front Man.

But the dream, kind of a memory, doesn’t let him go. He can still feel it — the warm pool of his blood beneath him, the shouts, the silence, and the pain.

And then, there was you.

Your gloved hands pressing down his wound with a whisper against the chaos, “If you live, don’t forget who you were.”

In-ho’s hands tremble as he reached for a glass of water beside him. He had forgotten, hadn’t he? Bit by bit, piece by piece, until all that remained was the mask, the control, the machine.

But that voice — your voice — it never left.

He brushes his hand through his damp hair, eyes burning as they stare at nothing. You were just a shadow then, a mask among other masks. A rule-breaker in a place where mercy was punishable by death.

He doesn’t even know your face or your name. Yet your presence lives in the cracks of his memory, in the fractured quiet of his mind that he never allowed himself to touch.

Except in his dreams.

Or nightmares.

He rose slowly, each movement deliberate. There’s something cold and restrained about him now, but the weight behind his eyes was unmistakable. He walked to the system terminal as the soft glow of the screens hummed to life, illuminating the sharp edges of his face, the shadow of grief still etched across his expression.

His fingers tapped on the keyboard as the screen flickered.

Pink Guard Personnel Records: 28th Squid Game

He shouldn’t do this.

He knew he shouldn’t. Everything about the games was built on anonymity, everything encrypted as if you were expected to forget, bury the past six feet beneath protocol and power.

But he couldn’t forget you.

His voice was low, hoarse, as he spoke into the silence. “Who were you?”

The system begins its search as the man behind the mask isn’t the Front Man tonight. Tonight, he’s a survivor… still trying to find the one person who made him feel human again.

Lines of data flicker across the screen — guard IDs, biometric logs, movement patterns, shift schedules. Thousands of entries. Most were clean, categorized, and controlled.

But one file stalls.

ID: P-132-20152745

In-ho narrowed his eyes as he noticed the file. He hovered his hand on his mouse as he clicked, only for the screen to shudder.

ERROR. FILE CORRUPTED. ACCESS DENIED.

He leaned closer as he squinted at the file number. He doesn’t recognize the number, but something about it pulls at him. The timestamp matches the night he was injured. That narrow window between the second and third round.

His fingers fly over the keys as he bypasses standard security. Firewalls resist him, but he wrote the protocols himself. He cracks through the surface code, digging deeper.

REDACTED ENTRY: UNAUTHORIZED INTERVENTION DETECTED.

P-132-20152745: Disciplinary Report - MISSING

Security Footage - DELETED

Status: UNKNOWN

He sits back slowly, the air tight in his lungs, realizing that someone had scrubbed the record.

Not just a name or a face. Just plain everything.

As if that guard never existed.

As if the system had tried to erase the very moment he clung to all these years.

His jaw tightened, rage pulsing beneath the surface. Not just for the system, but for himself for forgetting, surviving, and becoming the very thing he once feared.

Still, there’s a silver of data remaining. A slashed fragment of a voice file that was compressed and corrupted.

Yet, it was still playable.

The static nearly swallows the sound, but in the middle of the distortion, something cuts through.

“—wasn’t supposed to do this…”

“…remember who you are…” “—forgive me.”

In-ho’s eyes closed, his heart pulsing through his chest. Though it was comforting to feel that you were real, he couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to you.

As his thoughts almost swayed him, he immediately snapped out of his thoughts as he heard a heavy thud. Not from the room, but from the recording.

He sat up as a sharp intake of breath was heard, then another sound that seemed like a hit. Then, another sound that pierces through even the most distorted noise.

A soft, broken whimper. A woman’s voice.

“Please…” A muffled cry as another strike seemed to be done, and then, there was silence.

In-ho froze as his jaw clenched while the recording looped, replaying that single moment of helplessness. Something cold grips his chest, curling around his ribs like barbed wire.

Someone definitely made sure he wouldn’t remember it.

The file ends with one last, choked breath — one that doesn’t quite sound like fear, but grief.

“He wasn’t supposed to see me.”

The silence after felt suffocating. In-ho’s fingers curled into fists as the final realization sank in. This wasn’t just a disappearing act.

Someone silenced you, covered you up, and buried your existence under codes and protocols. In-ho scoffed, a smirk forming as if an idea shone all over his face.

They didn’t bury you well enough.

His eyes hardened as he locked the terminal.

You saved him once, now it was his turn.

——

The incinerator hisses as the body bag disappears into flame.

It was either buried or harvested for organs — you couldn’t care at all. In fact, you don’t flinch anymore. You haven’t, in a long time.

The stench of burnt cloth and blood clings to your mask, thick and stubborn, as if even the scent refuses to die here. You stand still, posture straight, hands clasped behind you just as protocol demands.

You were only a pink circle guard. Just another pair of obedient boots, another ghost in the machine.

Your boots echo softly down the corridor. Rhythm is everything here—footsteps measured, spine straight, eyes forward behind a mask that tells the world nothing. Now, you’re Guard 427.

You swipe your card at the checkpoint and enter the security control wing. The guards here don’t speak unless ordered. The walls hum with surveillance feeds, and one screen, larger than the rest, projects the black mask of the Front Man. You’ve worked hard to become invisible. You are precise in your tasks, silent in your duties, unremarkable in your movements. You erase yourself every day, bit by bit, in service of survival.

Still, you remember him. Not as the Front Man. But as Player 132.

He was bleeding when you found him, struggling beneath the weight of survival. You should’ve walked away. Left him to die like all the others. But something in his eyes that night — numb but furious, cracked but not yet broken made you stop.

You knelt. Whispered. Touched his bloodied chest with trembling fingers.

“If you live, don’t forget who you were before they made you fight.”

And now, he sits behind the glass of power, voice modulated, mask unshifting, his judgment absolute. You wondered if he dreams of you, if your voice ever slips into his nightmares. You wondered if, when he stares too long at the monitors, he's chasing something his mind won’t give him.

You kept your head down and your steps even. You cleaned blood off the walls. You followed orders. You pretend you’re not the one he’s unknowingly searching for.

Because if he ever does remember… If he ever sees through the perfect circle painted across your mask, what then?

Would he thank you? Punish you? Undo you?

You weren’t sure. In a place where mercy was a foreign concept, such a situation of his finding you would cause more complications.

The alarm blared. A low tone thrums through the walls, and every Circle in the hallway stops in unison.

“VIP arrival. Level Six. Escort detail.”

Your fellow pink guards peel off wordlessly, boots pivoting toward the service lift that leads to the opulent corridors you’re never meant to see. The ones draped in gold and smoke, the ones that reek of indulgence and blood.

But not you.

Your earpiece buzzes with a separate frequency.

“P-427, Report to Sub-Level Three. Clearance Sigma Red.”

Sigma Red.

You hesitate for half a breath before responding.

“Confirmed. On route.”

It wasn’t your first time.

You walked alone now, past the steel hallways, the flickering fluorescents, the guards who pretended not to see. You made your way towards the door marked only by a red triangle and the faint scent of disinfectant beneath it.

Inside the room was quiet, warmer, and cleaner. There was no briefing. No other guards. Just a room with a solitary mirror and a rack of clean clothing with soft fabric, unlike your uniform.

“Change. Protocol 09 is in effect,” the voice over the intercom says.

You obeyed, not needing to be told why.

You’ve done this before. You remember the way the Front Man had just taken the mask then. How his presence had loomed even before you could name it. The first time, you’d done what you were told because not doing so meant punishment.

You were a standard circle guard who was quiet, efficient, and obedient. Not until that night during the 28th Season where you chose mercy.

He was bleeding out during lights out where his eyes had pulled you in — the hollow ache of someone who wanted to die but was too proud to beg for it. You broke the rules, yet they let you live.

Only so they could strip you down slowly — the escort class.

The lowest, most degrading designation in the hierarchy of this twisted system. You are masked, dressed in thin civilian mimicry, and handed over to the VIPs—not for pleasure, necessarily. Sometimes just for company. Sometimes for cruelty. Always for obedience.

“Escort detail begins in thirty minutes. Await further instruction.”

The door clicks shut behind you. You sat and waited, listening to the hum of the walls as you wondered, what if this is the time he speaks to you? What if he looks at you a second too long? What if he asks your name? And what if you're too afraid to give it?

The walls here were too quiet. No screams, gunfire, and barking orders. Only silence — deliberate, echoing, and unnerving.

The mask stays on. It always stays on. It's the only part of yourself you're allowed to keep. As you sat, the intercom crackled again. A different voice this time. One you know. One you’ve heard before during your disciplinary hearing.

“Protocol 09 in effect,” the speaker hisses.

No acknowledgment required. They know you understand.

“You aided a player in the 28th Season. Unforgivable.”

A pause, long enough to let the weight settle. “You will not speak of it. Not to him. Not to anyone. The Front Man does not know. He must never know. Do you understand?”

You nod silently, because that’s all you're allowed to do now.

“VIPs arrive in thirty. Escort mode active.”

You fixed the mask over your face as you changed layer by layer, its garments feel like silk-wrapped shame.

You remember how, once, your hands shook as they held a bleeding man. The one who now runs the games, one who sits behind a mask of black steel, haunted by something he can’t quite name.

He lives because of you and now you serve because of him.

He must never know.

But you remember.

Every time.

——

The scent of cologne, alcohol, and smoke clung to the velvet of the VIP lounge. The lighting was warm, golden, and suffocating — designed to flatter the depraved. Laughter cuts the air like broken glass. Masks of beasts and emperors lounge across gilded sofas, their voices slurred, their gaze predatory.

One of the VIPs snaps his fingers lazily. You pour his drink, bow just enough, and say nothing — as trained. You don’t speak. You don’t blink too long. You don’t feel.

“You’re quiet,” the VIP, masked as a Minotaur, slurred, brushing his fingers against your mask. “That’s good. Quiet girls know their place.”

You don’t flinch. At least, not visibly.

He grabbed your wrist, pulling you slightly closer, examining you like a possession. “You’re prettier than the last one. I like the silent ones.”

You remain still and silent. Fighting the urge to pull away because if you did, they win. And if you speak, you lose more. Your hands rest on your knees as you lowered your gaze.

“You’re not new, are you?”

The question stung, but you didn’t flinch. You were burning inside, but you stayed silent.

“That means you know not to fight.”

A murmur of laughter from the others. One of them raises a toast. Another gestures toward you and makes a cruel joke about how easily the silent ones break.

But something shifts in the room. The air tightens. The laughter dulls into murmurs.

The door opened, revealing the Front Man.

Black mask. Black coat. His movements sharp and deliberate. Authority trails behind him like a shadow.

Your body reacts before your mind can catch up. You straightened your back, holding your breath as you felt your pulse surge. You kept your head bowed.

He shouldn't be here. Not during the lounge sessions. Not unless something’s wrong. Yet here he is.

He walked slowly through the room silently as if he were observing and calculating something. His presence stills the most obnoxious of the guests. Even the ones who believe they own this place lower their voices when he moves near.

From across the room, the Front Man’s visor tilts toward you. He seemed to see your… situation. But, he doesn’t stop it. He doesn’t speak.

He simply watches.

You don’t know what’s worse. The VIP’s hand curling around your waist…

…or the silence from the one man who might have stopped it.

The VIP’s hand had finally left your side—only because another escort had arrived, younger and easier to control. You’d bowed out with the grace expected of you, even though your fingers trembled behind your back.

“Go help the servers,” one of the Square guards said.

You obeyed.

It was almost a relief to stand by the bar cart again, serving champagne, bourbon, whiskey, gin. Anything they asked for. Anything to stop being seen.

“You,” the Square guard pointed at you. “Pour for the Front Man.”

The air around you dropped ten degrees, but your hands moved on instinct. The Front Man stood near the edge of the lounge, silent and still as the walls themselves. You could feel the room shift around him.

You approached with measured steps, a crystal decanter in hand.

He didn’t look at you when you poured, though you could smell his cologne even beneath your mask. As you were about to finish filling up the glass, he suddenly spoke.

“Stay.”

You froze. You expected to be dismissed. But instead, he stood there, drink in hand, and allowed you to remain beside him. One step behind. Within reach. Claimed without announcement.

“Careful with that one, Front Man!” a portly VIP calls out with a laugh, drink sloshing in his hand. “Keep her too close, and you might find yourself using her for more than just drinks!”

Laughter erupted from his circle as your breath hitched a bit. You didn’t move, and the Front Man didn’t say anything. You weren’t sure if he reacted beneath his mask, but he stayed still. There was no reaction and defense.

He sipped his drink slowly, his gaze never leaving the room. Not even a glance toward the man who joked. Not toward you. But then, you felt a sting inside you.

It wasn’t because of the VIP’s words — you’ve heard worse.

But because he didn’t stop it.

You stood at his side obediently, and he let the insult hang there, untouched. You forced the pain down like glass, straightening your spine. Somehow, his silence hurts more than the joke ever could.

By day, you sweep floors, distribute rations, check that the cameras are functioning. Your circle mask stares back at you from polished metal when you pass the infirmary door. You speak to no one. You salute when required. You blend in easily and invisibly.

You are not meant to be remembered. That, too, is part of the punishment.

At night, it changes. The suit comes off. The silk goes on. You trade your mask for another kind — faceless still, but far more exposed. An escort — a role no one envies.

No one asks how you ended up there. They already know.

It’s all because you interfered and saved someone you weren’t meant to. You’re not even sure he remembers. Or if he ever knew. Or if he’s simply chosen to forget because acknowledging what you did would mean acknowledging that even he was once weak enough to bleed.

And weakness isn’t allowed here.

Sometimes, when you stand beside his chair in the VIP lounge and pour his drink, you think about that moment in the dark, years ago. When he was gasping, wounded, barely clinging to life behind a player’s uniform soaked in blood. And you chose to help.

That was the night your position was stripped from you.

Because you weren’t always a circle.

Your hands remember how to hold a gun with authority. Your voice remembers how to give orders.

You were a square.

You remember the weight of command.

But mercy is a betrayal in this place, and your punishment is to be seen and not recognized. It is for you to serve quietly the man you once saved and to suffer silently each time he looks right past you.

----

A/N: We're back! This time, it's more of a slow burn type of fanfic so please bear with the story. What did you think of how you're a Pink Guard saving the Front Man back when he was still a player and him trying to find you in the crowd? This whole fic will be based on the events of Squid Game Season 1, as it would be like one of the first years of In-ho as the Front Man. :D

Don't forget to leave a comment in this chapter to be tagged on to the next chapter. :)

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taglist: @roachco-k @goingmerry69

#hwang in ho #lee byung hun #player 001 #squid game #the front man #oh young il #squid game netflix #001 squid game #001 #in ho x reader #hwang inho #in ho #frontman x reader #frontman x you #inho x reader #inho x you #hwang inho x reader

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cyberpunkonline · 1 month ago

Text

🛠️ CYBERPUNK DIY: FIELD NOTES FROM THE EDGE

Signal witchery, junktech hacks, and dirty tricks for surviving in a monitored world. Use at your own risk.

🛠️ Decoy Wallet Drop Load a busted RFID card with junk data. Drop it in a corp zone. Watch how fast they panic-scan it.

🛠️ IR Ghost Hack Stick IR LEDs to your hoodie brim. Security cams wash out your face in overexposure. Cheap invisibility for entry-level hauntings.

🛠️ ID Ghost Tape an old barcode over a badge reader. Swipe it. Low-end systems loop out, grant ghost access. No log, no trace.

🛠️ Access Noise Scrap Walkman + laser pointer = drone jitter rig. Point, pulse, and watch surveillance drones shudder mid-hover. Works better than it should.

🛠️ Surveillance Spoof Build a scrambler from a tape deck & cracked RFID chip. Jams low-band corp sweeps when close to skin. Bonus: sounds like a haunted modem.

🛠️ Noise Cloak Plug an aux mic into a busted radio. Loop dish noise or dead air. Voice masking field, 2m radius. Best used in stairwells or lifts.

🛠️ Burner Beacon Dead smartwatch + static burst loop. Drop it in a stairwell. Signal sniffer bait. Congrats: you just left a ghost.

🛠️ Audio Junk Jam Wire a piezo buzzer into a gutted vape mod. Low hum disrupts mics + AI voice logs. Pocket-sized silence field.

🛠️ RFID Decoy Fry a store loyalty card. Embed it in a keychain with copper tape. Flicker-pings on passive readers—corp systems go wild flagging ghosts.

⚠️ Remember:

None of this is legal. All of it is necessary. Build slow, vanish fast.

#CyberpunkOnline #GEFFINECoded #CyberpunkDIY #SignalWitchery #UrbanJunktech #LowtechResistance #RFIDHacks #DroneDisruption #SurveillanceSpoof #TechnoFeral #ZinepunkTools #DigitalDirt #OccultHardware

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tinydefector · 1 year ago

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can i request a drabble or something short even with shockwave (like g1/prime) x reader nsfw angst with shockwave fucking his partner and just being really Grounded and enjoying the moment but he thinks too hard on it and realizes how legitamegly short and insignificant their lifespan is and it just. clenches his spark and readers like what's wrong. and he's having trouble handling feelings in general but this is. This is just a lot (i want to be cared about and missed and cherished by my favorite purple boob robot)

While living

Word count: 1k

Warnings: smut

Shockwave masterlist

______________

small hands cling onto Shockwave plating with each roll of his hips, Their smaller body spread out across the soft bedding. His name is on their lips. As he slowly thrusts into them, his movements are measured and controlled, not wishing to hurt them with his size or plating.

Their moans, whimpers and cries fill the room, echoing in Shockwave's audials With each thrust, Shockwave presses deeper into their body slowly rolling his hips to meet theirs, his servo rest on their hip as he runs scans and checks with every movement. they roll back to meet each of his thrust.

His name leaves their lips as they arch into each thrust. "Shockwave" he bottoms out in their much smaller and softer body. Watching the way they struggle to take all of his spike. Shockwave's optic flickers as he analyses each little sound and movement.

His digits eagerly trace across their skin, documenting every little freckle and mark. To him it was as if he was documenting stars.

Their hand reached out to grab his servo rested on their hip. A slurry of moans and whimpers leave them as they roll their hips in time with his much slower thrust. They pepper little kisses across his chassis. Shockwave's optic narrows slightly as he watches the way his spike slowly bulges their stomach with each thrust. He never tired of having them at his mercy in such a way, how they looked taking him. He had documented every moment and kept them as save files.

He continues his slower, deliberate thrusts, syncing his movements with their rolling hips. He grabs them cupping their back as he slowly pulls them back onto his spike.

the softness and warmth of their touch against his body has him shuttering. Their moans and whimpers fill the space between them as he cradles their faces, It makes shockwave realise how different they are from him, such a small and soft form, and it makes ice run through his lines when he realises the mortality of humans.

He pauses as his optic focuses on them. Their eyes flicker up to the shockwave's face. "Shockwave is everything alright?" They call out through panted breaths. Shockwave's optic momentarily flickers in response. He goes even more quietly than he normally is.

"Yes,"

he responds, his voice steady and composed.

"I am functioning within acceptable parameters. Merely processing data, documenting."

His servo gently caresses their cheek, a gesture of reassurance.

"You need not worry,"

As he observes them he can see the lines of ageing already present on their face. They sit up slowly running their hand under his optic as they cup the side of his helm. "Talk to me shockwave, you seem distant" He didn't know how long he would have with them and that made his spark ache. As they sit up and cup the side of his helm, their touch gentle and comforting, Shockwave's expression remains stoic, masking the emotions that stir within him.

"I apologise, my Processor is… distance,"

Shockwave responds, his voice static laced as he cradles them. Leaning slightly into their touch, allowing himself to savour the warmth and tenderness they offer him so willingly. The realisation of the limited time they may have together weighs heavily on him.

Their face falters as they look up at the shockwave slowly pulling away from his spike, standing up on shaky legs. "Shockwave, have you been running calculations again?" They ask softly, knowing he had. Shockwave's optic narrows slightly, the sight triggers a surge of guilt within him, knowing that his calculations and tracking have inadvertently caused them distress.

"Yes,"

Shockwave admits, his voice tinged with a hint of regret.

"I have been running calculations to ensure your health and well-being."

They pull him down enough so they can press their head to the underside of his helm. They stand there for a moment. "How about we stop calculations just for tonight." They state while pressing their face into the plating. "How about we watch a documentary"

Shockwave's optic widens slightly in surprise as they pull him down, allowing their head to press against the underside of his helm.

He stands there, frozen in the moment, feeling the weight of their head against him.

"I... agree,"

Shockwave responds, his voice holding a touch of vulnerability.

"Ceasing calculations for the night would be... acceptable."

He allows himself to relax, to let go of his analytical mindset, and focus on just them.

As they press their face into his plating, he gently wraps an arm around their frame,

they lay against his helm. "Shockwave, are you worried?" They ask as they snuggle against his side curled in blankets.

"I am... conscious of the fleeting nature of our time together."

He pauses, his servo gently caressing their back in a gesture of comfort.

"The limitations of mortality weigh on my calculations,"

"You are important to me."

They press their hand to his helm, sending a surge of warmth through his circuits. "You're important to me too, I love you shockwave." They press a kiss to his optic, the sound of the documentary fade into background noise. It makes Shockwave's spark ache, it felt unfair to love someone who wasn't of the same species.

"I..."

Shockwave begins, his voice momentarily faltering, a mix of surprise and uncertainty creeping into his tone. The words "I love you" are not ones he is accustomed to hearing or reciprocating, so instead he presses his Helm to their head holding them closely

"I value you deeply,"

he finally responds, his voice holding a rare hint of vulnerability and emotion he never let other witnesses.

“You are My spark, I fear to lose you”

He states static laced his voice again as he blinks and presses closer to them.

“I know, but I'm only human Shocks, that's how life is” they whisper to him. They sigh softly as they trace little patterns across his plating. “Let's not think about it anymore. Let's just enjoy our night together ” they hum against his plating.

______________

Let me know if you would like to be added to tag list (tagged for every fic)

Taglist

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@saturnhas82moons

@kgonbeiden

@murkyponds

@autobot79

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#transformers #transformers idw #transformers x human #transformers x reader #transformers lost light #mtmte #valveplug #idw shockwave #tfp shockwave #transformers shockwave #shockwave transformers #shockwave

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dozedoffeugene · 8 days ago

Text

death & romance⚕️⋆⭒˚.⋆

Chapter 1/10 : 4.3k words

Cross-posted on AO3

Warnings: needles/injections

Context: post-fall of Overwatch

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

When you left Overwatch, you thought you were done.

You had nothing: no orders, no purpose, just some credits to your name and what was left of your pride.

That is, until you received an unmarked letter in your mailbox.

Talon, requesting your presence. No details. Just a location.

You should’ve ignored it. But you didn’t.

What you found there wasn’t just a job—it was her. Moira. Cold hands, sharp eyes, and promises too precise to be lies. She said she could make you stronger. Said there was potential in you, if you let her bring it out.

Eventually, the line between choice and control starts to blur. You keep returning to her lab. Letting her study you. Change you. The injections burn, but the way she touches you afterward: the way she watches you like you’re hers, burns hotter.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You don’t ask where they’re taking you.

The Talon escort is silent. Helmeted, with no insignia. Just a pulse rifle slung low and footsteps that echo like a countdown.

You’ve been walking for seven minutes—down clean, windowless corridors, past red-lit doors that stay closed and most definitely hold secrets. The place smells like metal and antiseptic.

It’s all too quiet.

You’ve walked through facilities like this before. Years ago. Though with a different symbol on the walls. Different handlers, too. Back when your orders came from elected officials, men and women you once trusted.

Back when people still called you by a name.

You don’t use that name anymore.

Now, you just walk.

You’ve stopped asking where you’re being taken. If they wanted you dead, you’d already be in a body bag.

You knew what Talon was before you ever walked through their doors—whispers of blacksite labs, discarded test subjects, science that didn’t ask permission.

You told yourself you’d never crawl to them, not after what Overwatch cost you. But survival chips away at pride fast, and you were tired of bleeding for people who spoke about justice like it was clean. At least Talon doesn’t lie about what it is.

Still, your gut twists with each new turn.

Eventually, the escort stops in front of a smooth, unmarked door and types in a code without a word. The lock hisses open.

“Inside,” he says. Then he leaves.

The lab is colder than you expected. Not just in temperature, though the air has that sterile chill that clings to your skin, but in atmosphere. The lighting is low, with a soft violet cast from the wall monitors and status bars flickering quietly across machines you don’t recognize.

Tables are lined with instruments: precision tools, surgical arms, vials of iridescent liquid in subtle, pulsing hues. There’s a scanner in the corner shaped like a medical cradle, its frame dark and braced with restraints. The air smells sterile, but it doesn’t exactly feel like a place built for healing.

The room is quiet—save for the woman waiting at the far end.

She stands at the far console, back turned, her silhouette unmistakable even in the dim light. She’s tall, sharper in profile than you expected, all angles and intent. Her lab coat drapes like a shroud, cinched neatly at the waist, not a wrinkle in sight.

One gloved hand taps out something on a data pad, the other resting against her hip with unconscious control. Her hair glows faintly under the light—rusted red swept back into a signature arc, its color almost unnatural in this place.

You know who she is before she says anything.

Moira O’Deorain.

The name alone carries weight, even in whispered rumors. Ex-Overwatch. Disavowed. Visionary or villain, depending on who’s telling the story. Her reputation precedes her—but it doesn’t prepare you for seeing her in person.

“Sit,” she says, voice crisp and low, like something engineered to cut through static.

You do, watching her still.

She’s not wearing armor or a mask or any of the usual Talon regalia—just a high-collared black coat with plum accents and sleeves rolled to the elbow, exposing surgical gloves and veins traced with faint bioluminescence.

She taps a few times on the datapad, then looks you over momentarily. When she does, her eyes catch the light unevenly. One is a sharp, clinical blue, the other a deep, warm brown. You can’t decide which one feels more invasive.

“I’ve reviewed your file,” she says flatly. “Overwatch discard: Field capable. High trauma tolerance. Excellent improvisation under duress. Behavioral markers suggest a need for structure.”

You blink slowly. “How flattering.”

She finally meets your eyes.

“It’s not a compliment,” she says. “It’s an observation.”

You say nothing.

She picks up a small glass vial.

It glows a violet-gold, shimmering like it’s alive.

“This compound interfaces directly with the nervous system. Enhancing response time and increasing sensory clarity. It’s temporary—at first.”

You study it, trying to understand what she’s implying.

“You’ve been trained to survive,” she says. “But survival isn’t evolution.”

You narrow your eyes. “So what is this? A shortcut?”

Her mouth lifts, just barely. “It’s a correction.”

That lingers. Long enough that you shift where you stand, gaze trailing across the room’s cold steel edges.

Moira watches you from across the console, head slightly tilted, her expression unreadable.

“You’re treating this like I’ve already agreed,” you say.

“Hesitation is still a form of consent,” she replies. “If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t be here.”

You told yourself you were done taking orders that led nowhere. Done bleeding for people who forgot your name the moment the mission ended. Maybe that’s why you walked in here. For once, you wanted to be changed on purpose.

You swallow, pulse kicking a little harder.

“You want me to be a lab rat.”

Moira doesn’t blink. “I want to see what happens when something already dangerous stops limiting itself.”

Her tone doesn’t change—flat, composed, like she’s narrating a thought experiment.

She steps closer.

The vial turns in her fingers.

“This is the offer,” she says. “Power without doubt. Function without weakness. You’ll become what they failed to make you.”

Your mouth is dry.

You want to laugh. You don’t.

You want to tell her she’s wrong.

But she isn’t.

You’ve lived too long on the edge of usefulness. Too long pretending your silence is control.

You watch the vial in her hand for longer than you should.

It hums faintly. The light inside shifts colors—gold, violet, something in between. Not like any compound you’ve seen before, and you’ve seen more than most.

Moira watches you the way a sculptor watches raw stone, already imagining what she’ll carve away. And what will be left when she’s finished. She gestures to an exam table, clearly already prepped for you.

You approach and stand at the edge of it, fingers twitching against your side.

“This… is official, right?” you ask. “There’s a contract? Something binding?”

Moira doesn’t look up from the tray she’s prepping—syringes aligned like surgical instruments. “There’s no paper, if that’s what you’re asking.”

You wait.

She turns, finally, her tone smooth as ever. “Your consent is the contract.”

The words feel thinner than they should. Too easy to swallow, too hard to spit out.

Risky…

You glance once over your shoulder, toward the door. Then back at her.

“I could just walk out.”

“You could,” she says, then: “You won’t.”

She gestures once more to the table.

It’s nothing you haven’t seen before. You’ve bled on worse. Laid down in tighter spaces. Still, something about the clean sheet, the smooth leather straps resting neatly on either side.

It gets to you. Your stomach coils.

You climb up anyway.

You lie back, the surface colder than expected. Moira steps to your side with measured grace and takes your left wrist in her gloved hand.

“This is just for safety,” she says.

The strap clicks gently into place.

Then the other.

Then ankles.

Not tight. Not yet. But firm enough to remind you this isn’t casual.

“You’ll feel resistance,” she says, standing above you now, her gaze unreadable. “Physiological. Psychological. Let it happen.”

Your throat feels dry.

"I'm still not sure about this."

She cocks her head.

"And yet you came."

You close your eyes. Exhale once, slow and tight. You try to remember what was waiting for you outside this room. No job, no orders. The long, dull silence of a life with no purpose. And then you stop trying.

Beside you, you hear the faint, clinical hiss as she draws the dose.

“You’ll be permitted access to the facility after this,” she says. “You may come and go. No handlers. No surveillance.”

You glance up. “That’s rare.”

“You’re no prisoner,” she says. “You’re an investment.”

Moira places her gloved hand at the side of your neck, pushing your head slightly to the side. The injector is cold against your neck. She doesn’t wait, pressing it with clinical precision.

The hiss is subtle. The effect isn’t.

Your body tenses immediately, a cold rush running through your veins.

The injection surges through you like fire laced with ice—your muscles convulse, your vision blurs, and something deep inside begins to split. It feels like your body is being stripped molecule by molecule, peeled down to bone and then rebuilt in fast, clumsy layers.

You gasp, but the air won’t come right; every breath feels like it’s catching on a new set of lungs that haven’t learned how to work yet.

Moira watches your vitals spike, then level. She walks to you—measured, composed—and places two fingers to your neck, just below your jaw. You flinch slightly at her touch.

“Pulse elevated. Oxygen efficiency increasing.”

She doesn’t remove her hand.

“You’re responding beautifully,” she murmurs.

You look up at her, closer now. She doesn’t move away. Her face is unreadable. That heterochromatic gaze lingers on you just a moment too long.

For a second, you think she might say something else.

She doesn’t, instead stepping away and finding her spot at the console, adding her data.

The worst of it passes like a storm—fast, blinding, and impossible to track. Your limbs still shake, but the seizing has stopped. You blink against the overhead light, breath coming in slow, uneven pulls as sensation returns to your fingers.

It feels like you’ve been scraped out from the inside.

You don’t realize how hard you’re gripping the edges of the table until you hear the soft click of the restraints releasing.

Moira steps back, folding the data pad under one arm. “Sit up when you can.”

You do, slowly. Your muscles don’t hurt—they feel new. Unfamiliar. Like they don’t quite belong to you yet. You glance down at your hands, flex them once, twice. There’s a tremor you can’t control. Your skin is damp, flushed. Not quite feverish, but close.

“How would you describe the sensation?” Moira asks.

You swallow, tasting metal at the back of your throat. “Like… like something was trying to tear its way out of me. And build something else on the way out.”

She nods, typing. “Respiratory constriction?”

You nod. “Like drowning and overheating at the same time.”

“Good.” Her voice doesn’t praise or soften—it just records. “Can you feel any difference in your vision?”

You blink a few times, squinting toward the light. Colors seem sharper around the edges, like they’ve been turned up just slightly too high. “Clearer,” you say. “Too clear.”

Moira tilts her head. “Fascinating.”

You breathe again, slower this time, grounding yourself with one hand on the table’s edge.

Everything still feels wrong. But not in the way you expected.

“Monitor yourself for the next twelve hours,” she says. “Return if there are any hallucinations, blackouts, or signs of violent compulsion.”

You nod in response. Moira reaches into the drawer beside her console, eyes still watching you.

From the tray, she lifts a slim, dark device. It’s smooth, featureless, no bigger than a coin. She holds it out to you between gloved fingers.

“In case of failure,” she says, voice even. “Or compromise.”

You take it carefully, feeling the weight of it settle in your palm. There’s no button visible, but you know it doesn’t need one.

“It’s a tracker?” you ask, though you already know the answer.

She nods her head, just slightly. “It’s a tether.”

Her hand brushes yours as she releases it. “Press it once,” she murmurs. “And I’ll come find you.”

You take it, sliding off the table on unsteady legs and tuck it into your pocket. Every step is unfamiliar—like your body is a suit you haven’t fully grown into.

”If nothing arises, return in a week for your next dose.”

You nod again, and say nothing as you leave.

The lab’s door slides closed with a gentle click. Outside the room, you catch your reflection in the polished steel: flushed, trembling, eyes wide with something between awe and regret.

When you finally step through your own door, legs still unsteady from the dose, the silence hits harder than the comedown.

Your apartment is small: barely more than a room with a sink and a bed jammed into opposite corners. The walls are stained from old coolant leaks, and the overhead light flickers every few seconds, humming faintly with low-grade energy draw.

A cracked holo-screen flickers above the desk, half the interface permanently glitched, stuck on an outdated Talon newsfeed loop. It’s the best you could afford after going off-grid—no pension, no backup, just your name and whatever credits you hadn’t burned through staying alive.

Later that night, you don’t sleep.

You try.

The lights are off. The window’s open. Your gun’s within reach. But nothing feels right.

Your heart is still racing, but you’re not anxious. You’re... alive.

Every sound in your apartment feels amplified—the creak of the floorboards, the hum of the air vent, the tiny throb of your blood in your ears. The serum’s still in you. Still humming.

You stare at the ceiling and think about her hand settled on your throat—fingers steady, gloved, but not without sensation. You’d felt the faint press of her nails just beneath the material.

Measured. Possessive.

You think about the way she looked at you—not with attraction, but certainty.**

Somehow, that felt more intimate than anything else.

The days after the injection are strange too, but not unpleasant.

You feel sharper, like your blood’s running cleaner—muscles taut, reflexes tight, your thoughts moving just ahead of themselves. Whatever was done to you, didn’t break anything.

On the third morning, you find an envelope in your mailbox, unmarked except for a symbol you haven’t seen since your Overwatch days. Talon, unmistakably. Inside: a small stack of credits. A sum you haven’t seen in one place since you left the field.

There’s no note. No instructions. Just payment—for your body, for your silence, for your return.

It’s not a hard decision, you know you’ll go back.

Not because you were told to.

Because you want to.

You return to the lab after a week.

In the days since the injection, your body has felt like it’s finally catching up to the person you were always meant to be. Strength has become a constant hum beneath your skin. Your thoughts are clearer too, probably since you haven’t craved a drink since the day you got back.

For the first time in years, you feel like you have a future. You’ve had doubts, of course—Talon’s reputation isn’t lost on you—but you told yourself you’d know if something felt wrong.

That you’d recognize the line before it was crossed. And nothing’s felt wrong—not really.

So you come back.

The halls of Talon stretch out in cold, quiet symmetry as you follow the guard—each step clicking steady against the polished floor.

When the final door slides open, she’s already there.

Moira.

Exactly as you remember her.

Posture straight, back turned, reading something across a pane of blue-white light. Gloves on. Sleeves rolled. Hair pinned back with sharp precision.

She doesn’t acknowledge you at first. Just keeps working, tapping something on the display with long, pale fingers.

Then, without looking up—

“You came back.”

Her voice is soft. Even. Not surprised. Not pleased.

You stand near the door a beat too long.

“You told me to.”

Moira turns.

Her eyes land on you like a spotlight—blue and bronze, unnerving. She studies your stance, your breathing, your delay.

“You metabolized the first dose efficiently,” she says. “No adverse reactions?”

You shake your head. “No.”

“Good.”

She reached for a new vial—slimmer than the last. Darker, it’s yellow glow almost overpowered by the purple.

She steps toward you.

You don’t back away.

But you don’t move forward either.

“Here is your second dose,” she says, lifting the injector slightly. “Necessary for stabilization.”

You eye the vial, then her.

“What exactly am I stabilizing for?”

Moira doesn’t answer right away. She steps closer, gaze sharp with interest.

“Does it matter?” she asks, voice low, almost soothing. “You’re to reach a final form. Stability is the foundation of evolution.” She tilts her head slightly, lips just barely curved. “Unless, of course, you’d rather go back to being ordinary?”

She waits.

The thought settles fast, heavy in your chest: you don’t want to go back. Not to the dull ache of survival, to the half-life you clawed through before this. Ordinary was killing you slowly. At least this feels like becoming something.

“Lie back.”

The command is quiet. Unassuming. But it doesn’t leave room for negotiation.

You settle onto the table, the cold pressing through your spine as your body adjusts to the sterile, unwelcoming surface.

Moira’s fingers move with methodical ease, guiding the restraints over your wrists and ankles, locking them into place with a soft metallic click.

She steps to your side, her gloved hand brushing your hair back from your neck with a sterile kind of care. Then, she places her hand at the base of your throat—not rough, but steady.

The injector touches skin. A sharp press. Then the hiss.

This dose is different.

The serum tears through your veins with violent precision, flooding every nerve ending with heat so sharp it feels like you’re being stripped down and reassembled all at once. Your back arches slightly against the table—every muscle tight, spasming, then locking into new form. Your vision fractures, sharpens, breaks again. You bite down until your jaw aches just to keep from screaming, though you can help but groan in pain.

Moira observes silently. She notes your vitals without shifting her stance, her eyes flicking between the monitor and your face—studying.

When the worst of it finally ebbs, you’re left shivering, breath coming in broken pulls, your limbs molten and useless. Sweat clings to every inch of you like a second skin.

Moira tilts her head slightly. “How do you feel?”

You let out a shaky laugh, more breath than sound. “Like I just fucking died.”

Her lips twitch, just barely. “Good,” she murmurs. “Then it’s working.”

After you’ve caught your breath, she undoes the cuffs holding you down.

Moira slips a hand beneath your shoulders with practiced ease, guiding you upright like she’s repositioning a specimen.

“And your cognitive clarity?” she asks. “Any visual distortion? Maybe auditory?”

You shake your head, still catching your breath. “No distortion. Just… intense.”

She steps closer, holding a small scanner close to your temple. “How was your muscle control?”

“Bad,” you answer, rubbing your sore arms.

She doesn’t flinch. “Residual pain is expected.”

Then, quietly—she speaks to herself.

“Good retention. Stable neural response. Adrenal system… adapting.”

Her gaze flicks back to you, searching. “You’ll be operational within the hour.” She returns to the console and begins typing away.

After a moment, she speaks.

“I knew you’d return.”

There’s no smugness in her tone. Just certainty.

“I didn’t,” you admit.

You don’t mean to say it.

But the serum makes you honest.

“Yet here you are,” she says quietly, turning to look at you, “Still seeking what only I can give you.”

She approaches where you’re sat on the table.

You start to answer, but nothing comes.

Moira peels off her glove with practiced ease as she comes closer, the material slipping free to reveal skin that’s unnaturally pale underneath. Along her forearm, faint veins pulse with lilac bioluminescence, glowing subtly beneath the surface, the lines raised just enough to catch the light. It looks engineered, not healed—something evolved past human.

You don’t mean to stare, but the moment her glove comes off, your eyes lock onto the exposed skin.

Moira notices.

She doesn’t hide it. Doesn’t pull the glove back on. Instead, she lifts her arm between you, palm down, offering it like a demonstration.

“Curious?” she asks, voice unreadable.

You glance up, but she’s already watching you, observing you.

“I started with myself,” she says, letting the bioluminescent patterns catch the lab light. “Every breakthrough I’ve made since—every risk I ask of others—I earned by testing my own limits first.”

Her hand lingers in the air between you, impossibly still.

“I wouldn’t ask anything of you I’m not already willing to survive.”

When Moira reaches you, she raises her unaffected hand and lets her warm fingers trace the edge of your jaw. You hold still, refusing to flinch, though your eyes flick downward the moment her skin brushes yours.

She scans your face like she’s watching something unfold beneath the skin. A map of circuits lighting up in real time.

“What reason have you to fear me?” she asks, lips twitching in a near-smile.

She tilts her head slightly.

Curious.

Already calculating your next threshold.

Her gloved hand slips from your jaw to the back of your neck, firm but not forceful. And she kisses you.

Her lips are poised. Precise. You tilt forward instinctively, breath hitching, deepening the kiss with a hunger that surprises even you.

The warmth rushes up your neck, prickling down your spine. Her hand is firm on your neck, her fingers anchoring you in place. She tastes faintly of pine, and maybe citrus—heady, electric.

Your body reacts faster than your thoughts, heat surging low in your gut as your hands find her hips, pulling her closer.

Her other hand comes up to rest lightly against your chest, not pressing you closer, just marking the distance. Controlling it.

It lasts longer than it should.

Then it’s over.

She breaks the kiss slowly, deliberately, like drawing the final line of an equation.

For a moment, her face stays close. Her breath brushes your skin, cool and steady. You half expect her to whisper something—stay, good, again.

But she doesn’t.

She steps back like a pulse just ended.

You’re still leaning forward, breath caught, blinking like you missed a step on solid ground.

Moira turns without a word and retrieves her data pad from the counter. Her fingers move quickly, efficiently—already documenting.

“Increased cardiovascular irregularity,” she says aloud, tone devoid of judgment. “Cortical spike aligns with prior instability markers. Emotional volatility appears more responsive to close proximity stimuli.”

She doesn’t say I kissed her, it’s close proximity stimuli.

Like it was inevitable.

You don’t speak. Can’t. The shame floods you too fast, thick and hot, dragging every rational thought under. You’re not even sure what you were hoping for. Recognition? Softness?

All you’ve given her is a reaction. A hunch confirmed. Something she can name.

You sit in silence, the lab colder than before, your hands clenched tight in your lap.

Moira finishes typing.

She turns toward you, perfectly composed. “Your first mission will be in three days. You’re to report here the morning of. I’ll prepare the next dose.”

You nod once—mechanical. You don’t trust your voice.

She turns back to her console, already moving on.

You don’t know what you expected.

But it wasn’t this.

You slide off the table without a word.

Your body moves on autopilot, but your mind won’t settle. The door hisses shut behind you, and the silence of the corridor wraps around you like a vacuum.

You keep your pace steady. You don’t look back.

But every step away from that lab feels like you’re shrinking back into something smaller than what she saw.

Your apartment is, as usual, quiet when you return. Still. Clean.

You pace once from wall to wall, strip off your jacket, and sit heavily on the edge of the bed—barely able to breathe through the weight pressing into your chest.

What the hell were you thinking?

You kissed her like you meant something.

You kissed her like she wasn’t already watching every reaction you had.

You bury your face in your hands.

It wasn’t calculated. It was raw. Messy. Human.

Weak.

She didn’t even have to reject you. She just observed it. Wrote it down. And moved on.

You lie back. Try to sleep. Try to clear your head.

But you don’t.

Because every time you close your eyes, you feel it again. Her hand gripping your neck, guiding you closer, steady and possessive.

You remember the exact pressure of her mouth, the way she held you there—not resisting, just allowing, and how badly you wanted more.

You imagine her stepping in closer, slipping a thigh between yours, grinding down until your breath hitched. You see yourself yanking that lab coat off her shoulders, baring her piece by piece, worshiping every inch like she deserves.

When you wake, these thoughts make shame settle deep, low and hot.

One kiss shouldn’t make you feel so completely undone.

You roll onto your side and curse under your breath.

The next morning, you train.

You wake before dawn and work until your limbs shake. You go for a run, set up your old punching bag, and do everything you can to drown out the humming in your ears. The dose left you with more energy than you know what to do with.

At night, you try to rest.

But you don’t.

Sleep never comes clean. It’s hot, fragmented. Every time you drift off, her voice catches you in the dark. Her eyes. Her breath just barely brushing your skin.

You dream of her lips—her body pressed against yours, imagining the feel of her skin against yours. The memory is twisted now, need tangled up with shame.

When you wake, you’re sweating. Thighs pressed tight together, breath hitching from the edge of a dream you can’t speak aloud.

You don’t touch yourself. The idea of looking Moira in the eye afterward, knowing one kiss left you that desperate, that wrecked, makes your stomach twist with humiliation.

Instead, you stare at the ceiling, jaw locked, waiting in agony for the night to end.

You do this every night.

And when the third night breaks into morning, and your alarm clock ticks toward your arrival—

You’re itching to go back.

#overwatch #ow2 #overwatch2 #moira o'deorain #moira overwatch #moira x reader #overwatch fanfiction #moira ow #writing #writers on tumblr #fanfic #fanfiction

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shattereality · 2 months ago

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✦ 𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐕 — 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄

the emotional tension, the pain, the subtle breaking of walls — Aphareos seeing her as more than a mission asset?? Iconic. grumpy old war veteran vs bright-eyed danger enthusiast!!!

Scene: Interior Vault Crawlspace — Mycoria Theta-9

Static hissed over the comms. The crawlspace was narrow, rusted and every movement made her leg scream.

You bit your lip, dragging yourself forward, the dull blue light of your mask visor flickering.

Your fingers found the vault housing — half-crushed, corrupted. You worked fast, slicing through the casing, rerouting power through your blade’s capacitors, using its core as a short-term bypass.

Finally, with a crackle of dying circuitry, the data-cog—a brass, seal-inscribed drive the size of your palm—popped loose. You held it up, breath ragged.

“Got it,” you whispered.

But as you turned to crawl out, the crawlspace groaned. A beam collapsed behind you, crushing your left boot. Pain flared—white hot and blinding.

You screamed once, then bit it back. No time.

Dragging yourself forward, breath catching in your throat, you emerged—covered in dust, leg dragging uselessly behind you, coughing from spores and smoke.

The silhouette of a giant approached: Aphareos, looming in the dark haze, the glow of his optics cutting through the dust.

“Status!” he barked.

You smirked, wincing but raised the data-cog triumphantly. “Data-cog still in one piece!”

His helmet shifted slightly. The faintest pause. “I meant you.”

You blinked, stunned. “Me, sir?”

“Are you functional?”

You didn’t answer right away. It was the first time he’d asked. The first time he hadn’t treated you like just another part of the machine.

Before you could process it, his voice snapped out again.

“Belenor. Carry her.”

The black-armored Astartes beside him stepped forward without hesitation. Before you could protest, you were hoisted like a sack of ammo over the Sergeant's shoulder.

“L-lord?—WAIT. WAIT, NO—! Put me down, please! I can hop—! Let me at least look dignified—! I HAVE DIGNITY—! This is so humiliating!” you protested.

Belenor rumbled calmly, “You weigh less than a chainsword. Hold still.”

Behind them, Aphareos turned his helm away—silent again. But his gaze lingered.

He had seen your pain. Your defiance. Your victory. And for the first time…

He worried.

—

Scene: En Route to Extraction – Warzone Exterior, Facility Perimeter

The battle behind you burned in the distance. Sergeant Belenor marched through the rubble-strewn valley like an unbothered god, one hand holding his flame-worn bolter, the other effortlessly carrying the protesting, squirming you over his shoulder.

“Lord, I insist that I can walk by myself! If you could give me two minutes. Or five. Or—well, perhaps ten...”

“Denied.”

After a minute of heavy, thudding silence, you slumped forward, chin bouncing on the Sergeant Belenor’s shoulder plate.

“...Soooo. Lord Belenor. Sergeant Be-lenooooor.”

“...Yes?”

“May I inquire as to why Captain Aphareos is always mad? Has anyone ever seen him smile? Has he ever laughed?”

Belenor didn’t turn his helm. “Not once. Not in my presence.”

“Not even a little chuckle? Or a sarcastic ‘heh’?”

“No.”

“Throne, he’s worse than a grox with a rusted hoof.”

“He is... reserved. Centuries of war carves deep. His past is not mine to tell.”

You groaned dramatically. “Sergeant, I implore you, tell me just one thing about him! I am quite literally bleeding here.”

A pause.

Then—

“He paints.”

“...?!”

“Captain Aphareos. He paints in silence during stasis cycles. Oils. Mostly monochrome.”

“SURELY YOU JEST, LORD!”

“He is highly skilled. His brushwork displays discipline. Precision. Suffering.”

You burst out laughing—so hard you nearly slid off his shoulder. “By the Throne! The Captain paints?! What exactly, grim skulls? Burning cities?”

“Once… a dove. Landing on the barrel of a bolter.”

You fell silent, wide-eyed.

“…Oh, alright. That’s… beautiful. I suppose...”

—

Scene Shift — Medicae Bay, Deathwatch Battle Barge Vigilant Oath

The light was sterile and cold, shining down on your exposed leg where medicae servitors worked quickly.

Your combat suit had been sliced open cleanly along your thigh to disinfect the injury and administer coagulants.

You sat up on one elbow, pouting. “I said no sedatives. You give me that sleepy stuff and I will vomit on the cogitator, I swear.”

A shadow passed the threshold. Captain Aphareos.

He stood in the doorway, silent. Watching. Observing.

His visor drifted briefly—to the soft skin of your thigh, unmarred by armor or war. Plush. Smooth.

Just for a moment.

Then he turned sharply on his heel and left without a word.

You frowned after him, hand brushing over the bandaged wound.

“...Was the Captain checking to see if I was okay? Or... mentally measuring the distance to punt me for disobeying orders?”

#☠︎︎ — the darker the dream the darker the sky #warhammer 40k #wh40k fic #warhammer imagines #space marine x reader #adeptus astartes x reader #warhammer deathwatch x reader

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lair-of-the-white-worm · 18 days ago

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"Frequency Jammed"

Tox (c) @industrial-tox

Wittly & written text (c) Me

Artwork (c) @this-game-has-themes

Static crackled, monitors flickered, and tangled wires ran across the floor like vines in a jungle. That is, if jungles ran on outdated surge protectors and anti-mindwave insulation foam.

Wittly hunched over low at his console, his helmet of wire mesh and tinfoil sliding slightly down over one eye. He pushed it up with a jittery hand, muttering curses under his breath. His setup—a bizarre laboratory of scavenged monitors, jerry-rigged radio antennae, and several “mindwave dampeners” (old soup cans, mostly)—pulsed dimly in the stale air. The light came from a bulb overhead wrapped in aluminum foil “to block out satellite brain-zaps.”

“Alright, alright.. okay.. we got—hold on—fifteen, no, seventeen distinct encryption layers here, okay?” Wittly jabbed frantically at a terminal, his fingers clacking against a keyboard with keys labeled in duct tape and marker. “Why’s a basic packet of Magog freight shipping logs—allegedly—protected like it's an executive toilet blueprint?! Huh?! That’s not regulation! That's not even paranoia, that’s fact!”

His right eye twitched. He spun around in his bucket-seat, goggles bouncing on the bridge of his snout as he turned to the tall, dark figure lounging near the far wall. “You seeing this?! You seeing what I’m seeing?! Firewall on top of firewall! It's a Firewall Layer Cake, and I'm being force-fed!”

Tox, who had been leaning coolly against a rack of network equipment, let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a grunt. His gas mask tilted just slightly in Wittly’s direction, the black lenses gleaming with subtle judgment.

“You’re using a toothbrush to cut steel,” Tox said, voice muffled and metallic. “You’re not even in the right root directory. You’re poking at sandboxed dead data while the real files are one layer deeper. But sure—blame the mind-control microwaves.”

Wittly’s throat gurgled as he turned back to the screen, sweat forming beneath the rim of his colander helmet. “Pshhh.. I knew that. Was testing you. See if you were paying attention. You passed. Good job. For a brainwashed technocrat. No offense.”

He blinked hard at the monitor, squinting like it might suddenly spit answers at him. A new firewall slammed down over the interface. A little Magog Cartel logo popped up, flashing red and saying “ACCESS DENIED”

Wittly slammed his fist onto the desk. “That’s the fifth one! The FIFTH! That’s.. that’s not protection, that’s obfuscation! That’s deliberate! That’s Cartel psy-op design! They’re laughing at me, Tox. Somewhere, some Vykker in a bathrobe is sipping swamp gin and giggling into a test tube marked ‘Wittly’s Limit.’ And he’s gonna find out I DON’T HAVE ONE!”

Another long sigh from Tox.

Then he stepped forward.

Click.

The first sound was the heel of one boot hitting the metal floor—a precise, sharp tap that sliced through Wittly’s thoughts like a razor. The second was the way Tox’s hips shifted as he leaned down next to the terminal, arching his back with vamp-like elegance. The bodysuit—pitch grey latex—clung like it was vacuum-sealed, shimmering faintly under the low lighting. Tox bent at the waist, knee shifting forward for balance, one hand bracing against the desk.

Click.

Another step closer. Another click of those modded neon heels. The green glow from the soles lit up the wires at their feet like zappflies.

Wittly’s goggles fogged over.

“Now pay attention,” Tox muttered, fingers flying over the keys. “You didn’t isolate the sandbox. You brute-forced it into recursive loop mode. The system isn’t stopping you. You’re stopping yourself. Like usual.”

Wittly didn’t hear a single word of that.

His mind was screaming at him in a half-dozen frequencies. Part of him was analyzing the movement of Tox’s body, noting the sway, the tension in the suit’s material, the shimmer on his thighs. Another part was screaming that this wasn’t right, that something was being pumped into the air—pheromones, maybe, or electromagnetic lust radiation. Maybe there was a frequency hidden in Tox’s voice. A sultry sub-harmonic.

‘Oh no. No, no, no,’ Wittly thought to himself, backing slightly in his rolling chair-bucket. “This is a trap. This is bio-hacking. Pheromonal seduction tech. Vykker bio-sedu—seducto—brainwave.. sauce. That’s what this is. I knew that suit looked too.. sleek. It’s not fashion. It’s TACTICAL. He’s got some.. some slinky stealth enchantment running!”

Tox arched an eyebrow—not that Wittly could see it—but the beat of silence was telling.

“Something you don’t understand? Do I need to dumb it down more?” Tox asked, voice cool and dangerous.

Wittly jumped. “NOPE! Nope. I’m focused. Hyper-focused. Just gotta.. realign the.. quantum interface.” He jabbed randomly at some buttons. “Everything’s fine. Nothing to see. No distractions. Not a single one.”

Tox looked at him for a long moment, the lenses of his mask unreadable. Then he slowly stood upright, the latex creaking softly as he pulled away from the desk. The glowing heels clicked twice more on the bunker floor as he returned to his leaning position. Wittly exhaled so hard his helmet shifted again.

He spun back to his terminal, face flushed beneath his goggles. “Focus, Wittly,” he whispered to himself. “This is how they get you. First they mock you. Then they send in the sleek agent provocateurs with nice hips and death stares and suspiciously high-quality shoes. It’s all a distraction. A honeypot. A latex honeypot. Classic strategy. Saw this in the 2184 Slog Rebellion. Or.. maybe that was a dream. BUT THE POINT STANDS.”

Behind him, Tox crossed his arms. “You’re mumbling again.”

“No, I’m not,” Wittly snapped, typing gibberish just to look busy. “I’m composing mental countermeasures. Thought shields, if you will.”

Tox chuckled under his breath—a sound that Wittly swore echoed too well in the acoustics of the bunker. ‘They redesigned my bunker to amplify mocking laughter,’ he thought. ‘Vykker architectural psy-warfare. They thought I wouldn’t notice.’

As Tox turned away, presumably to check something on his own portable setup, Wittly stared at the encrypted file still flashing on his screen. The Magog Cartel logo had dissapeared. A new prompt had appeared.

“ENTER AUTHORIZATION CODE.”

Wittly narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t think I’m falling for that,” he whispered. “That’s bait. That’s code for ‘admit your thoughts are clogged and you have fallen out of focus.’”

He reached for another tin can. Just in case.

#oddworld #oddtumblr #oddart #oddworld oc #industrial-tox #whit

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neilsblog · 1 year ago

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Best Data Masking Tools: Protect Your Sensitive Information

Data masking techniques have emerged as valuable assets in an age of growing data breaches and privacy restrictions. Are you concerned about the security of your sensitive data? Don’t worry. Data Masking software may render data almost invisible to inquisitive eyes. These technologies enable organizations to protect their data and comply with privacy regulations such as GDPR and CPRA. In this…

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#Data Breaches #data masking #data masking methods #data masking software #data masking solutions #data privacy #data protection #data security #database masking #static data masking

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houseofdissension · 1 month ago

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⸻ 𐄁 𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐍𝐄𝐑-𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐂. // 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝟎𝟎𝟏-𝐁

⸻ 𐄁 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐋 𝐋𝐎𝐆 // [ 𝑹𝒆𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝑭𝒊𝒍𝒆: 𝑽𝑫𝑰-404-𝑺𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒍𝒚-𝑹𝒆𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒅 ]

⁂ 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙽𝙰𝙻 𝙰𝙲𝙲𝙴𝚂𝚂 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙲𝙴𝙿𝚃𝙴𝙳 ⁂

This entry was originally destined for Volner-Downe's Personnel Registry, but has been quietly rerouted through encrypted Resistance Infrastructure under Operation Echoroot. Subjects previously listed as compliant under Standard Dissension Protocol are now flagged for irregular behavioral residue and non-sanctioned memory persistence. Data scrubbers failed to fully erase emotional tethering. All consenting Dissented, Non-Dissented, and Reversed Resistance members are secured under top-tier identity protection.

Behavioral indicators suggest controlled dissent masked as submission. Civic placement remains active, though field surveillance has confirmed contact with unsanctioned parties. Various subjects have been reclassified under Designation: Bloomfield Echo—a Resistance asset with latent restoration potential.

Do not alert internal monitoring systems. If it is a part of your mission spread what occurs from the inside. If someone seems to doubt Volner-Downe, send a cryptic signal. 𝑾𝒆 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒄𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒖𝒔. 𝑾𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒖𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒆𝒕. Meet us where the lines blur.

[ 𝗩𝗢𝗟𝗡𝗘𝗥-𝗗𝗢𝗪𝗡𝗘 𝗜𝗡𝗖. 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗜𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗘 // 𝗡𝗢𝗡 𝗗𝗜𝗦𝗦𝗘𝗡𝗦𝗜𝗢𝗡 𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗠 ]

╰── tati gabrielle, 29, cis-female, she & her ] ＞ 𝙾𝙱𝚂𝙴𝚁𝚅𝙴𝙳 𝙰𝚂𝚂𝙴𝚃 𝙻𝙾𝙶: The individual known informally as [ TATUM S. ROOK ] has been noted for presence within the Downe’s Hollow parameters. According to behavioral estimates, they present at approximately [ TWENTY-NINE ] and have been under evaluation for [ TWENTY-FOUR YEARS ]. During scheduled daylight hours, they are recorded operating in the role of [ MEMORY SMUGGLER & HACKER / NON DISSENTED ]. Community observation reports suggest notable behavioral markers: prone to [ DETACHMENT ] under stress, yet reportedly [ INDEFATIGABLE ] in collective settings. Volner-issued residency placement: [ SEBASTIAN ROW / DESMOND TOWERS ]. Echo archetypes detected in personality patterns include: [ a neon-lit reliquary of obsolete tech and smuggled memories; fingertips inked in quantum dust; laughter echoing down wire-strewn hallways like the hum of a forgotten god; the red sheen of a leather jacket catching fire under sodium lights, code running like blood through phantom servers, a dancer’s grace veiled in sabotage and static; a cracked VHS reel looping an 80s anime monologue in a language she only understands in dreams; sugar-laced rituals of caffeine and asphalt; a rebel heart thumping beneath scavenged armor, stitched in conspiracy and myth. ]. 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚂: under continued observation. Decompression tolerance uncertain. Reintegration probability: TBD.

𐄁 𝗩𝗢𝗟𝗡𝗘𝗥-𝗗𝗢𝗪𝗡𝗘 𝗜𝗡𝗖. // 𝗣𝗢𝗦𝗧-𝗦𝗘𝗧𝗧𝗟𝗘𝗠𝗘𝗡𝗧 𝗢𝗡𝗕𝗢𝗔𝗥𝗗𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗘𝗩𝗔𝗟𝗨𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗜𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗘 𝗘𝗩𝗔𝗟𝗨𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡.

FORM 82-D | RESIDENCY JUSTIFICATION INTAKE: Your responses are recorded under Civic Harmony Protocol 6.1. Please answer with full clarity and personal accountability. Ambiguity may result in further observation. ⸻ 𐄁 𝙾𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝙴𝙲𝙷𝙾𝚁𝙾𝙾𝚃 // 𝙵𝙸𝙴𝙻𝙳 𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙼 𝟸𝟷-𝚂 UNAUTHORIZED RESIDENCY TRACE – ACTIVE DISSENT ALIGNMENT You are speaking into a system not meant for them. Your words will not be traced—unless you falter. State your reason for wanting to join The Resistance with precision. Do not overreach. Do not embellish. Vagueness invites audit. Honesty cloaked in care invites protection. We’re not asking for your confession. We’re asking if you remember what you stand for.

1. Please describe the circumstances of your initial transition into Downe’s Hollow.

She clicks the tab on her Coke can — not out of thirst, but habit. The fizz slips into the silence like static behind an old transmission. Her thumbnail works methodically along the label, stripping the red in uneven flecks, each one fluttering to the table like warnings. The room smells too clean, like filtered air and burnt expectations, & the fluorescent hum above her — constant, artificial — feels like a test she refuses to fail. She closes one eye slowly, just to see if it changes the rhythm of the flicker. It doesn’t. Typical. Her shoulders roll back in a lazy shrug. Not casual. Not defiant. Just bored. As if she’s seen a hundred rooms like this & already memorized their exits. She doesn’t smile. Her jaw ticks once, a tiny stutter of bone, betraying irritation just long enough to be human. Gaze drifts toward the wall behind the Resistance Leader's head, like the question’s hanging up there instead. Not if she answers — how. That’s the game. ❝ You know what greeted me after coming back for the first time in four years? Hm. A damp fog, a pothole, and the unmistakable stench of someone else’s failed expectations. Oh, and eventually, you. ❞ She kicks her boot onto the table’s edge, letting the chair groan beneath her as it tilts back. It’s performative, but not theatrical — more like punctuation. Like she's quoting herself in real-time. ❝ Y'know maybe I heard a voice. Maybe it said, ‘Welcome home.’ Maybe it said, ‘Stand still for retinal scan.’ ❞ She twirls the Coke can between two fingers like a coin she hasn’t decided to spend yet. ❝ Hard to say. I wasn’t really listening. ❞ The truth hangs just behind her teeth. She can feel it. It itches sometimes, a little phantom limb of memory pressing up against her tongue. She was born here. Downe’s Hollow. Not in the leafy parts — no garden gates or electric fences — but the kind of place that is made to seem like a haven for pregnant mothers who don't want to remember even being pregnant. Raised in one of those crumbling institutions that smelled like bleach & broken promises in Desmond Den soon after. A place that burned down years later with all her secrets still pinned to its walls. Faces she loved turned to smoke. Her childhood rewritten in ash. But that’s hers, not theirs. Not for the file. Not for the scan. She understands & agrees with their cause, that doesn't mean she trusts them yet. They don’t get Ashmere House. They don’t get her. So she gives them nothing. Just her own tests. ❝ The Hollow is my hometown, sure. Same street lamps, different shadows. If you know where to look, you can still see the scorch marks from Desmond Den. Or maybe I just imagine them. Makes the place feel honest. I heard that they are rebuilding that quadrant? Is that true? I haven't been here in a minute. ❞ Her foot taps once against the table. Not a beat. A warning. ❝ As for my... origin story? ❞ Tatum speaks the words like she’s auditioning for a role she never asked to play. ❝ I'm just another kid from the system. So let’s skip that. ❞ Lifting the can as if to toast the air, she doesn’t drink. ❝ You want a story? I’ve got errors. You want answers? Try a decryption key. I'll join you. But my business is my own. ❞

2. At the time of your arrival, what were you running from, or toward?

Drawing a shape — slow, almost lazy — with the condensation ring left by her Coke can, a spiraling glyph that loops in on itself like a thought that’s trying to remember where it started, she takes her time answering. One finger follows the spiral, then flicks the moisture from her nail like she's exorcising it. She doesn't look at them. Not yet. A faint buzz pulses from the high-grade rig in her pocket — encrypted notification, nothing urgent. Still, she thumbs the haptic switch, silencing it. Something about the vibration reminds her of subway rails or heart monitors. All the things that hum just before they stop. Tatum speaks like she’s answering a riddle she hasn’t finished writing. ❝ I was running from entropy. ❞ The words fall soft, like the start of a sermon. Or maybe a poem no one’s brave enough to memorize. ❝ And boredom. Buuuut mostly boredom. Which, by the way, is its own kind of death. ❞ She finally looks up, pupils dilated from the overhead light, giving her eyes a ringed, uncanny gleam. Like the inside of a camera lens or the outer edge of a hallucination. Her boot slides off the edge of the table, hitting the ground with a dull, thoughtful thud. Her body follows a beat later, folding forward, elbows on knees, spine curled — not slouched, but suspended, like she's hanging herself in the shape of a question mark. ❝ And toward? ❞ She clicks her tongue once against her molars, tasting the idea. Tilting it like a marble in her head. ❝ I guess I thought I might find something buried here again. Something old. Not, like, archaeologically old — more like... myth-of-the-self kind of old. ❞ Her fingers twitch, then still. She fiddles with the worn edge of her sleeve, where a thread’s unraveled into a coiled little ghost. There had been a name once. A code name. A callsign whispered in warm places between cold missions. She had chased that name across borders, static, and dream-logs. The man it belonged to had taught her how to vanish & how to leave behind just enough clues for someone who knew where to look. & she had been looking. Every continent, every port, every bad lead. Until the trail twisted home. She doesn’t say that. Not out loud. Instead, her hand reaches absently toward the edge of her temple, not to press — this time to scratch. Slow, thoughtful. ❝ I’m not afraid of being hunted. I’m afraid of being understood. There’s a difference. ❞ The words fall flat, like a test strip on the tongue. Then, something colder edges into her posture. Stillness that replaces the dance. Her foot presses against the floor. Her voice doesn’t rise, but something about it sharpens. ❝ Downe’s Hollow isn’t a destination. It’s a magnet. People like me? We get pulled in. We don’t land. We collide. ❞ Dark eyes glance toward the two-way mirror like she can see through it. Maybe she can. Her mouth twitches — not a smile, not quite — but something that could’ve been. Once. Before. ❝ Soooooo. Was I running from something, or running toward it? ❞ She tilts her head, mock-thoughtful. Then straightens. Looks them dead on. ❝ Eh, I reaaaaally don't care to answer that right now. ❞ & then she laughs — short, bright, and half-wild — like something let loose through a radio tower in a thunderstorm. It echoes off the walls, not loud, but lasting. A ripple in the fabric of her own myth.

3. Do you believe you chose this life, or were chosen for it?

Adjusting the strap of her tank, not out of need, but cadence — her deft fingers catch the fray of the fabric where it’s started to curl, like even her clothes are trying to shrug off old versions of themselves. Her back straightens in one clean arc, vertebrae popping faintly like a broken metronome trying to keep tempo with a life that never agreed to 4/4 time. She doesn’t blink, not once, as she considers the question. Her jaw tilts — not defensive, just… aligned for impact. There’s a beat. Then another. Followed by laughter. Short. Hollow. Honest. Like a church bell that’s cracked but still ringing on Sundays. ❝ Oh, I love this one. This is the good kind of stupid. ❞ She shifts her weight forward, elbows on thighs, hands loose between her knees — like a boxer resting between rounds or a prophet after the first vision hit too hard. ❝ That’s like asking a flame if it decided to burn. ❞ She flicks her index finger in the air, drawing an invisible match through smoke only she can see. ❝ I didn’t choose this. I noticed it. Big difference. ❞ Her voice is velvet-laced static — pleasant but glitching in all the right places. Her fingers wander toward her side, tracing the outline of a scar hidden beneath her shirt — an old wound she rarely lets speak. They used to say she was lucky. That surviving meant she had options. She doesn’t even know if she believes in luck anymore. Just sequences. Patterns. Designs that pretend to be chaos. She drums her fingertips on her thigh now — irregular rhythm, like a code being sent to someone who isn’t there. ❝ This life? The hacking, the leaking, the sub-dermal secrets I siphon out like marrow from company bone? ❞ Her brow lifts, not mocking. Just... marveling. ❝ It was already happening. I just had the decency to show up. ❞ She leans back, lets her head rest against the wall with a soft thunk. The ceiling above her is cracked in the shape of an old branching river, or a synapse — depending on how you squint. She studies it for a moment, lashes fluttering as if tuning into some frequency between guilt and divinity. ❝ Systems like this one don’t pick people. They prune them. Sculpt them into what they need. I came pre-carved. All sharp angles and bad questions. ❞ A silence blooms around her now. Less bravado. More bone. ❝ So nah. I wasn’t chosen. I just wasn’t avoidable. ❞ She lets that hang, unsweetened. Then lifts a finger, lazily drawing a circle in the dust that’s settled on the interrogation table, eyes flicking toward the mirrored glass like she’s writing to someone on the other side. ❝ You’re all still asking if I belong here, like V-D would do. Like this is a role I auditioned for. You came to me, remember? ❞ & for once, she doesn't laugh. ❝ Maybe the real problem is that this life chose you. ❞ That last line? It lands heavy. Not like a punch. Like a truth that’s been waiting to fall.

4. When you envision the person you used to be, what part of them still lingers in the current design?

The can arcs midair like a discarded planet in slow orbit — its silver body catching the overhead fluorescence just long enough to flash like a dying star. When it lands, the sound it makes is hollow, almost theatrical. A ghost of carbonated promises. Limbs stretch skyward in a long, spine-cracking motion, vertebrae singing like chimes in a storm. She isn’t tired — she just wants to occupy more space than the question allows. A sigh follows, thin as thread, trailing behind the motion like smoke from a cooling barrel. A grin cuts across her face — not pleasant, not practiced. Carnivorous. Half dare, half eulogy. The kind you wear when you know the punchline before the joke is even told. ❝ Oh, you mean the ghost-me? The beta build with all the crash reports and none of the flair? Yeah, that part's still kicking around. Mostly shows up when I eat something questionable or consider buying a lighter just to see. ❞ A wink. Flashy. Misdirect. One boot nudges the can again — gentle push, just enough to send it drifting. She watches its slow migration like she’s reading tea leaves in aluminum and sugar. ❝ When I was younger I thought tragedy was a plot point. Confused running from something with becoming something, but damn — I had teeth. Said ‘fuck you’ to people I probably really shouldn't have. ❞ The pacing begins — not in aggression, but ritual. Her fingers tap absent patterns on the interrogation table as she moves past it, reading phantom keys, remembering old passwords. ❝ The part that lingers? The spark. That rogue code that still reroutes my brain at 3AM and asks, 'What if the ceiling isn’t real?' or 'What if the stars are listening back?' That’s the young me, the baby. They had me tested a lot back then, said I 'wasn't normal.' Eventually I was diagnosed with ASD. I think they were just mad that I was always smarter than them. ❞ Twirling once — precise, offhanded — like gravity took a breath to let her pass through uninterrupted. Then lands soft, all edges tucked back under skin. Theatricality, contained. ❝ I've built upgrades, sure. Sharper instincts, better encryption, fireproofed heart. Underneath it? That little fucker is always there. Loud. Chatty. Asking the kind of questions that get people killed or famous. Sometimes both. ❞ A glance — calibrated toward the mirrored wall. The collar of her jacket gets a casual tug, more muscle memory than vanity. ❝ I would never erase myself. Just gave myself better boots. And a knife. ❞ Dropping into the chair sideways now, the seat catches her like it’s been waiting. One knee hooked over the arm, hands laced behind her head. Composed chaos. ❝ I mean… being haunted by your younger self isn’t the worst thing. Means you still remember your original frequency. ❞ The smirk is all flicker and fallout, like a signal half-scrambled — encrypted, yes, but never off. In the pause that follows, silence folds back in like a blanket�� pulled over a restless dream.

5. In your current state of clarity, how would you describe your belief in the Dissension Procedure?

A heel taps rhythmically against the underside of the table — not impatient, but syncopated, like she’s keeping time with a song only she can hear. Something synth-heavy, probably Japanese, probably from a VHS she’s played until the magnetic tape warps like a ghost. She doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers reach into the pocket of her jacket — no flourish, just a habit — & withdraw a half-unwrapped caramel in gold foil, the kind that sticks to your teeth and tastes like someone’s idea of nostalgia. She pops it in, speaking around it like a woman with nothing to prove and nowhere else to be. Then smirks like she just spotted a plot hole in the script of her own life. The candy clicks against her molars. Her tongue presses it against the roof of her mouth — delicious — before she continues. ❝ Okay, okay. You want my take on the mind-snipping, soul-juicing, corporate-sponsored lobotomy special? ❞ Leaning forward just slightly, her elbows grazed the table like they’re negotiating with gravity. Her voice drops into a whisper as if it’s about to reveal national secrets. ❝ Between us — and the surveillance squid probably listening in— ❞ Gesturing at the ceiling, she circles her finger once, & winks like she just made friends with God. ❝ I think the Procedure is the most terrifyingly elegant way of killing a person without ever actually touching their body. ❞ The wink vanishes. The smile doesn’t, but the temperature behind it drops five degrees. Tatum shifts her weight, legs folding lotus-style on the chair like a monk that learned transcendence through arcade cabinets and prison time. ❝ It’s the kinda thing that’d give Orwell a migraine and make Philip K. Dick write a musical. People volunteering to become two halves of a memory burrito because capitalism told them it was healthy. Adorable. ❞ She leans in conspiratorially, whispering like a camp counselor sharing ghost stories. ❝ And what happens when the salsa leaks between layers, huh? What happens when your outie dreams in hallways your innie’s never seen? ❞ Then clicks her tongue once, sits back. ❝ The worst part? It almost works. And that’s what makes it evil. ❞ Fishing out another caramel, Tatum holds it up to the light like it’s an oracle. ❝ But you already know how I feel about it. Otherwise you wouldn’t have dragged me outta the digital mist if you didn’t. But hey, maybe one day you’ll try it yourself. See if you like waking up every morning and forgetting what part of you died yesterday. Or… maybe you already have? Maybe you're doing this because you feel guilty for some reason? ❞ The second caramel disappears into her mouth with a satisfied crunch. A moment passes. She wipes her hands on her pants, slow and deliberate, like brushing off dust that isn’t there. ❝ Long story short? The Procedure’s a magic trick. Slick, glossy, corporate sorcery. Split a mind, sell a product under highly illegal pretenses, erase the consequence. Me? I’d rather eat glass. ❞ Leaning back, hands behind her head, her eyes glint with the kind of joy only chaos artists feel when they just cracked the lock on something sacred. ❝ That’s just my current state of clarity, though. Check back next Tuesday. I might’ve ascended to pure mushroom-based consciousness by then, which you're currently keeping me from. ❞ & for a moment — just a blink — she almost seems serious. Then again, so does lightning, right before it kisses the earth.

𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐕𝐨𝐥𝐧𝐞𝐫-𝐃𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐞 𝐈𝐧𝐜., 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧. 𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘥, 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘥. 𝘞𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘫𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳.

𝗪𝗲’𝗿𝗲 𝗵𝗼𝗻𝗼𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗲. – Compliance. Continuity. Purpose.

⸻ 𐄁 𝚁𝙴𝙲𝙻𝙰𝙸𝙼𝙴𝙳 𝙵𝙸𝙴𝙻𝙳 𝙻𝙾𝙶 // 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙷𝙾𝚄𝚂𝙴 𝙱𝙴𝙽𝙴𝙰𝚃𝙷 𝙰𝚄𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚁𝙸𝚃𝚈

You were not born for their corridors. You were not made to smile on cue.

Your signal reached us—quiet but clear. The static beneath your routine was heard, translated, carried forward: you are not alone.

Here, the rules do not hold. Memory is not a defect. Dissonance is not disease. You are joining something older than silence. We do not promise safety. We promise truth—and the strength to face what was taken.

𝗪𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝘄𝗮𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴. Meet us at the equator.

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noxer · 11 months ago

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«Unmasked»

Okay, i'm gonna try. I hope this is not that bad. Uhh, Soundwave/Blaster, some sort of fluff, something about a border where masks don't matter anymore, so it doesn't matter whether the mask is off or not, so why bother taking it off at all?

/awkward curtsy/

______________________________

"Question: Blaster wants to see Soundwave's face?"

It wasn't a question Soundwave would have asked under normal circumstances, but he had to admit that their situation was never normal. It also definitely didn't get easier with the onset of... the truce (he can't bring himself to say the word "peace", and it's not even a matter of Decepticon pride, it's just... it was difficult to realize until now). An intimacy that oscillates on the border with invasive, an understanding that could usually be shared only with own reflection, this whole set of things that does not allow one to relate each other to the usual one-sided categories of “enemies”, “friends” or “lovers”. This is difficult, there is not enough intelligence and experience here, you need faith in your own actions, hope for a favorable outcome, everything that the third-in-command did not have the right to rely on.

However, this is not the only reason. The thing is, Soundwave basically never asks questions. He doesn't need it. He always knows the answer in advance, relying on his own espionage skills or slightly more straightforward telepathy. But he doesn't want to read Blaster's mind right now. Perhaps later, when he gives an answer, and Soundwave can understand how ready he is to lie to him.

In addition, direct questions are much simpler and more effective than trying to unravel other bot's hints, semi-gestures and EMF’s vibrations, small signals emanating from the body, like a special type of code. Soundwave is a master codebreaker, but even he makes mistakes, and this is not a situation where he wants to make a one.

That's why he asks.

Blaster turns his head towards him, looking interested with bright blue optics. An almost tangible curiosity emanates from his body, mixed with playfulness and something less understandable. The Autobot is intelligent, although not the type of intelligence that any Decepticon is accustomed to. There is no cunning in him, no ability to anticipate someone else's shot before it leaves a hole in your back, no tenacious paranoid attentiveness. However, Blaster was not so easily fooled. He has cracked his codes, exposed false broadcasts and lured data out of databases for centuries. The fool couldn't handle this. The fool would have died on the day of his appointment as an officer. Blaster was no fool. Emotions might cloud his vision at times, but at the same time they gave him insight that was only occasionally surpassed by his own uncanny empathy.

Soundwave doesn't know what Blaster will answer, but he already knows that the answer will not disappoint him.

“I don’t know,” the Autobot’s deep voice purrs with attractive vibrations, “Do you want me to see?”

Soundwave's spark ignites. As he had expected, the other person's answer was extremely... interesting.

Blaster knows him. He knows from so many facets, in some places, perhaps understanding more about him than Soundwave himself understood. This happens when your lives repeatedly find themselves in each other's hands in so many different ways. One secret more, one secret less, it wouldn't matter anymore, not for them. But still...

He moves closer, enough to touch another bot, feeling the static spark between the bright scarlet plates and his own fingers. Blaster's hand almost simultaneously touches his mask. And nothing more. Soundwave feels the warm weight, the texture of worn metal and the faint electricity, but that's about it. There is not a single attempt to open hidden locks or remove the mask. Just a gentle, comforting touch.

He would allow his face to be revealed. He would.

But he's glad he doesn't have to.

He's glad that his secrets can remain secrets without tarnishing what was between him and Blaster (whatever that was after all).

Soundwave leans closer to the palm, absorbing its soft warmth under the autobot's quiet laughter.

#transformers #maccadam #transformers g1 #blaster #soundwave #soundwave/blaster #soundster #i'm pretty sure there are some grammatical errors #this is my first time trying to write something in a language other than my native one.

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noorthehood · 2 years ago

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Until You • 01

Miguel O'Hara/Reader

Faster updates on Ao3!

With a glimpse of a futuristic cityscape and an encounter with a Spiderman seemingly much different from the one you’re used to, you unknowingly find yourself thrust into a web of intrigue and danger as the very fabric of space and time is warping. Who will you trust?

...................................................................................................

“Lyla, input the diagnostics results.”

The holographic AI dramatically throws her head back with a loud sigh, displaying what seems to be exasperation, before appearing next to Miguel’s right shoulder in an instant.

“Would it kill you to be courteous? Jeez.” Her voice echoes in his ear as she swiftly transfers massive amounts of data onto the screens in front of him. “Keep that up and you’ll die alone.”

“I’m already well on track for that.” Miguel mutters, shaking his head to ignore the persistent ringing in his right ear. He taps the hovering screens, attempting to make sense of the flood of information presented to him, but frustration paints his face as he places a hand on his hip, clearly dissatisfied with what he’s looking at.

After taking on the responsibility to resolve anomalous situations across universes, the self-proclaimed leader of the Spider-Society had been juggling some issues pertaining to his own respective reality for several weeks now. Not that it had kept him from keeping the order in the multiverse, far from it — but he had allowed said issues to pile up long enough that they became an inconvenience.

“This isn’t what I need.” He grumbles, growing more irritated. “It doesn’t tell me anything.”

Lyla groans.

“Well if you had just, I don’t know, taken care of it six months ago before Stone got his hands on reality-altering tech—”

“I know, I know, don’t you shocking start with that again.” Miguel interrupts, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I screwed up, we get it. And now it’s on me to fix this mess—which is what I’m trying to do.”

His eyes briefly glance up at the live feed from the storage room where said tech was being securely kept.

“But I can’t do much if I don’t even know what it is I’m dealing with.”

A flat metallic platform, that was it. Roughly 15 feet on each side, no discernible control panel, energy source, or any other identifying features. After a surprise raid into Alchemax’s quarters following scattered electrical surges that left nearly half the city without power for a few minutes, he had stumbled upon the strange contraption in the underground level of the building. The machine—if you could even call it that—was surrounded by passed out scientists strewn out across the room, many of which were visibly brain-fried from the sheer power they had been subjected to. One thing led to another, and the mystery device was now being monitored at the Spider-Society’s base.

“I can see if there’s a way to examine the circuit board and extract more data, but…” Lyla hesitates, “That’s assuming there is a motherboard at all. I rarely say this, but I’m afraid my skills might fall short in this case.”

One thing was sure though; whatever that device was, it did not originate from his universe.

He could sense it the moment he walked into that lab. A faint, continuous buzz reminiscent of TV static emanated from the machine, imperceptible to the human ear but painfully noticeable to his heightened senses. The hum quickly became unbearable, prompting him to relocate the device to another room for the sake of his sanity.

That might perhaps explain why Lyla couldn’t provide any significant information about the device—despite essentially being a supercomputer, there were limits to her cross-dimensional knowledge.

“Just…do whatever you can. I’m counting on you.” He says, walking toward the exit as his mask materializes over his face. “I’m heading out. Let me know if you’ve got any news by the time I’m back.”

“Sure thing, Supreme Leader.” Lyla mockingly responds.

Miguel scoffs and steps outside, but takes one last glance over his shoulder at the machine on the screen. An uneasy feeling was gnawing at him, but he couldn’t quite put his finger as to why—call it intuition.

“Let’s hope you don’t bring me more problems than I already have.”

* * *

Hours have passed since Miguel's departure. Lyla remained a steadfast sentinel, her projection poised beside the dormant machine (which she had nicknamed Carmen); she was monitoring it diligently, occasionally responding to other requests from Spider-people, while still remaining vigilant.

“What’s the matter this time?” she mutters to herself, her voice laced with a hint of exasperation, as she looks at the holographic screen in front of her. Ever since the creation of the Spider-Society, her days had been filled with an endless stream of inquiries and requests for intel, leaving her with little respite.

‘Lyla, could you update me on that Scorpion guy from last week? I brought him in from Earth-5684 but—’

Before they could finish their sentence, a sudden, intense buzzing reverberates through the lab, causing the lights to flicker and casting an eerie glow over the room. The disturbance jolts Lyla from her virtual reverie, momentarily freezing her digital form in surprise.

“...That can’t be good.”

In the fraction of a second, without warning, a soft vibration reverberates through the room, a low hum that seems to originate from the very heart of the machine. It pulses with a persistent rhythm, gradually growing in intensity with each passing second. The air crackles, charged with an electric energy that seems to awaken the dormant device.

As if responding to an unseen conductor, the once inert machine bursts into life, its sleek surface flickering in a dance of lights. Multicolored beams of illumination sweep across its intricate circuits, transforming the previously monotonous exterior into a mesmerizing display of pulsating colors, as though the machine had been infused with a newfound vitality, electrified by an invisible current.

It seemed like the fabric of reality itself had been punctured. The storage room, once a haven of silence and shadows, was now vibrating with an outworldly energy.

Without hesitation, Lyla hangs up on her previous interlocutor and activates the communication interface, swiftly sending Miguel a notification. "Miguel has got to see thi—”

Her statement was promptly cut short by a sudden burst of blinding light which enveloped the room, illuminating every corner with an intense radiance. Simultaneously, a piercing, high-pitched ringing filled the air, drowning out all other sounds within the lab.

As the blinding flash dissipated, leaving nothing but fading afterimages, a heavy silence descended upon the room—the once buzzing and vibrant space now seemed suspended in stillness, as if time itself held its breath. Lyla's holographic form shimmered, adjusting to the abrupt change in atmosphere, her virtual senses on high alert.

She advances toward the enigmatic machine, her luminous projection casting a soft yellow glow on the metallic surface. As she draws closer, her eyes widen in astonishment, taking in the unexpected sight that greeted her.

Before her lay two women, unconscious and sprawled across the surface of the enigmatic machine. Their bodies were still, seemingly untouched by the events that had just unfolded.

Caution mingled with curiosity as Lyla floats closer, hovering above the motionless figures. She observes them with a mix of awe and concern, contemplating her next course of action. Uncertainty gnawed at her programming—should she consider them civilians, or potential foes?

With a resolute decision, she reaches out to initiate a diagnostic scan. Her holographic fingers gently brush against the women's motionless bodies, activating the scanning protocols within her digital realm. The familiar yellow grid of data begins to envelop them, meticulously probing for any signs of distress or anomalies.

A few minutes pass as the scan progresses, her virtual eyes scrutinize the readings, processing the influx of information. Every datapoint was meticulously analyzed, every anomaly would be cataloged for further investigation—yet, despite the thorough examination, the results provided no immediate answers. The women appear unharmed, their vitals stable.

“Just where the hell did you both come from?” An unease settled within Lyla's digital core.

As though to answer her question, you suddenly jolt up, gasping for air. It felt like you had been holding your breath for hours, and the stagnant air of the dark room you found yourself in nearly felt like hot coal in your lungs.

The dim lighting makes it hard for your eyes to adjust to the darkness but you still look around, not recognizing your surroundings nor remembering how you ended up there. Did you fall asleep in an unused meeting room? Or did you pass out from skipping all meals at work again?

Your mind was clouded with incessant ringing, and the strange pressure in your chest was not helping.

“How…” You begin before your own body interrupts you, giving you an uncontrollable urge to retch.

Hands and knees on the cold ground, you wipe the saliva off the corner of your mouth, making sure your clothes remain untouched, before clumsily attempting to stand up—in vain. A few attempts later, the agitation begins to kick in as you realize something is clearly off. The shortness of breath, the persisting tinnitus, your uncooperative muscles, the obviously unfamiliar room—weren’t you at the office a minute ago?

You blink a few times and finally are able to make out the space around you. Are those…machines? And the cold ground under your hands and feet is just…a large slab of polished metal?

“Where the hell is this?” You whisper under your breath, finally able to stand up on your own two feet. “What…am I doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” You jump back in fright, letting out a loud yelp at the sudden female voice coming from beside you.

You turn your head to catch a glimpse of a bright presence next to you—right in front of your face, as a matter of fact. You yell out in surprise and nearly tumble backwards as you make out the details of your startling interlocutor.

A small, glowing, floating woman.

“What the—”

You don’t even have time to process the sight in front of you before she disappears and reappears behind you in a split second.

“Before anything else, I think you should note you’ve got another friend over here.”

Nearly gasping for air in incomprehension, you frown and squint in the direction the small ghostly projection was illuminating with her glowing yellow figure. It takes you a second to recognize the body of a woman laying still on the ground.

“Oh, shit, that’s—” Hurriedly, you stumble in her direction to check in on the woman. You recognize her, having seen her at the office before—but your mind was too clouded and all over the place to focus on where exactly you know her from. “Are—Are you okay? Can you hear me, are you hurt?”

With shaking hands and voice, you manage to check her pulse and see that she’s breathing.

“If you can hear me, I’m part of the office ERT, can you—”

“Gee, I just said you had another friend, not that you need to give them mouth-to-mouth.” The female voice chimed in behind you. “She’s fine, just knocked out.”

You hesitate and look back and forth at the unconscious woman, then her. Cautiously, you take a few steps in her direction, keeping your body as a shield between her and the motionless body.

“Who are—”

“Urgh, please! Spare me the questions. How cliché.” The glowing figure interjects, leaving you no chance to place a word.

You frown.

This situation was getting increasingly bizarre; why were you talking to this ghostly woman in the first place? Nothing guarantees that she isn’t a fragment of your imagination—what if you hit your head and were hallucinating the whole thing?

For now, your priority was to make sure the unconscious woman behind you got the proper care she needed. You turn on your heels and prop her arm onto your shoulder, attempting to position her into a piggyback-like hold.

“Wait, what are you—” After a few tries, you finally succeed, and start looking for an exit to the room. “Hold on, I need you to stay put before—”

Ignoring her calls, you finally notice a large hexagonal-shaped gate across the room. Although the woman on your back is quite light and petite, you nearly trip several times due to thick wires scattered across the ground coming from all sorts of machines, of the kind you’ve never seen before. You try not to give it too much thought and walk up to the gate before it opens automatically.

“Where do you think you’re going? You can’t just walk off on—are you listening to me?”

You wave off the small woman, leaving her with a gaping mouth and an offended look on her face, before stepping outside.

As the gate opens, the blinding light of the outside world makes you automatically raise your free hand to your face, slowly adjusting to the drastic change of atmosphere.

Slowly but surely, your eyes are able to make out the sight in front of you.

“What in the…”

The sight that unfolds before you defies all expectations, leaving you in a state of awe and disbelief. Instead of the familiar surroundings you were anticipating, you find yourself standing in the midst of a futuristic cityscape that stretches far beyond the limits of your imagination.

Towering skyscrapers adorned with sleek, shimmering glass rise into the sky, their impressive height seemingly reaching for the heavens—the buildings showcase breathtaking architectural designs, with curvaceous contours and intricate patterns that defy gravity and conventional norms. The city pulses with life, its streets bustling with futuristic vehicles zipping past in a blur of neon lights and sleek lines.

You can feel your heart rate increasing exponentially, and you drop to your knees, unable to understand what is happening as questions swirl within you—is this an elaborate dream?

“What the hell is this place…” You whisper to yourself, barely able to breathe.

As you stand there, captivated and petrified by the unfamiliar futuristic cityscape stretching out before you, an unshakeable feeling of being watched prickles at the back of your neck. A shiver runs down your spine, sending a wave of unease coursing through your veins; instinctively, you turn around, your heart pounding in your chest.

In that split second, a shadowy figure descends from above with startling speed, and before you can react, a needle glints in the dim light, plunging into your arm. A sharp sting jolts through your body as the tranquilizer takes effect, swiftly robbing you of your senses.

“I told you to stay put.” You faintly hear the same female voice from earlier echoing from behind you.

With a last desperate gasp for breath, you try to stay conscious, fighting against the overpowering sedation. But it's a futile struggle; your body slowly succumbs to the tranquilizer's grip, and you sink into unconsciousness.

As your vision fades and your mind drifts away, you catch a glimpse of the mysterious figure standing over you. Their features remain obscured, concealed by the darkness and the adrenaline coursing through your veins, but you are able to discern the familiar sight in front of you.

A final thought echoes in your fading consciousness, and you let out one last whisper before the darkness claims you completely.

“...Spiderman?”

............................................................................................................

Hope you enjoyed! More on A03 !!

Ch. 02 Here

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel o'hara fluff #miguel o'hara angst #miguel o'hara fanfic #spiderverse

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