#symbolic entropy

[the-most-humble-blog]

You Are Being Haunted — and Science Can’t Save You.

You are being haunted. And you don’t even know it.

Not by ghosts. Not by demons. But by something far worse.

Something that follows you. From inside you. From before you were conscious — and long after you think you’re dead.

I. What Follows You Without Footsteps?

In quantum physics, there’s a term:

Superposition — the idea that particles can exist in multiple states at once, until observed.

Observation collapses the wave. But what collapses you?

Answer: Your shadow.

You think it’s a trick of the light. But in quantum terms, it’s something else:

A probability field. A projection. A permanently entangled copy of your presence in spacetime.

Not metaphor. Not poetry. Physics.

II. It Comes Back. Every Time.

You can try to change.

Move cities.

Get therapy.

Shave your head and call it rebirth.

But the shadow doesn’t care.

Because the shadow isn't a symptom. It’s a recording.

A data echo of everything you’ve been. And everything you're capable of being again.

If you’ve ever tried to escape yourself — Only to circle back into old habits, old wounds, old lusts — That wasn’t weakness. It was recursion.

And recursion is physics. Not failure.

III. Quantum Haunting Is Real. Here's the Data.

Not allegory.

Literal evidence exists.

Hiroshima, 1945.

When the atomic bomb dropped, thousands vaporized in microseconds. But their shadows did not.

人影の石 (Hitokage no Ishi) — The Human Shadow Etched in Stone.

A woman sitting near the Sumitomo Bank. Vaporized by thermal radiation.

But the stone steps behind her were bleached — except where her body shielded them.

Her final shape. Frozen into reality. A dark imprint of her last moment of life.

They call it: The Human Shadow of Death. The Blast Shadow.

But let’s be precise:

It wasn’t just a stain. It was a recording. Of presence. Of heat. Of witness.

And here’s what’s worse:

You’re leaving them, too. Right now.

IV. What Science Still Won’t Admit

There is no unified theory explaining consciousness.

We can split atoms. We can map genomes. But we can’t explain:

Why you dream of your ex.

Why trauma shows up as smell.

Why some memories scream without sound.

Why the past lives in your body.

There is no consensus on how the mind locates itself inside the body.

But evidence suggests:

There’s something watching you from within the field of you. Something that records every shame, lust, betrayal, fear — not emotionally, but energetically.

Your trauma? Not stored in the body. Encoded.

In the wavelength of your biofield. In the negative space of your choices. In your shadow print.

V. The Observer Effect (and Why You’re Fucked)

Quantum mechanics says:

Observation changes the outcome.

If that’s true…

What happens when you observe yourself?

Guilt. Self-hatred. Shame. Depression.

Those aren’t emotions. They’re echoes. They're your own wave function collapsing on itself.

And the more aware you become of who you’ve been — The darker the shadow that stands behind you.

VI. No One Escapes. Not Even The Enlightened.

Go meditate. Go fast. Go run barefoot through forests chanting mantras.

It won’t matter.

Even monks report psychological possession during shadow integration.

Carl Jung, the man who coined the term “the shadow self,” wrote:

“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life — and you will call it fate.”

But Jung didn’t know quantum field theory.

If he did, he would’ve known:

You’re not just fighting patterns. You’re resisting a mirrored field embedded into the architecture of time.

And here's the kicker: You destroy it — you destroy yourself.

VII. The Human Shadow is Not Just Metaphor — It's Mechanism

Remember Hiroshima.

The shadow was left behind. Because the body absorbed the light.

That’s not poetic. That’s radiological fact.

Let me rephrase it for clarity:

The body was erased. The shadow stayed.

And still we ask:

Is the soul what survives death?

What if it’s not the soul?

What if it’s the shadow?

What if what stays behind isn’t divine — but undeniable?

What if you die… And what remains is everything you couldn’t face?

VIII. Ladies and Gentlemen, Meet Your Quantum Stalker

You call it:

Guilt

Anxiety

The past

A bad habit

But science has a term for it too:

Quantum entanglement.

The particles that make you… you Are never alone.

And if they once interacted with trauma? They are forever linked to the energy of that event.

Even when you leave the place. Even when the person dies. Even when you heal.

The field doesn’t forget.

And neither does your shadow.

IX. Why You Should Be Scared

Christopher Nolan's Oppenheimer told the story of the bomb.

But not the blast shadows.

Hollywood won't show you the real horror:

People permanently burned into stone — by light.

That’s not science fiction. That’s what’s left when energy remembers.

And energy always remembers.

You? You think you’re safe.

But the field has you documented.

Every word. Every orgasm. Every betrayal.

There is no deleting your shadow.

X. Final Revelation

You're haunted.

By what you've done. By what you've denied. By the part of you that watched you sin — and never blinked.

This is not metaphor. This is physics.

You are not being followed. You are being mirrored.

And the only way to kill your shadow?

Is to never cast one again. But to stop casting one…

You must destroy all light.

Including yourself.

And so it comes back.

Every time.

🧠 Call to Action

You are being watched. By a part of you that remembers what you’d rather forget.

Reblog if the idea of your own shadow now makes your skin crawl. Reblog if the physics of guilt suddenly makes sense. Reblog because maybe you’re haunted too — and you didn’t even know it.

⚠️ LEGAL DISCLAIMER:

This post is psychological horror, quantum theory satire, trauma field exploration, and sociocultural commentary. It is protected under the laws of literature, symbolic science, and emotionally accurate terror. If you’re uncomfortable, that’s your shadow blinking back.

[o-hora-o]

I will never get over the fact that we have only 2 proper edisla scenes and some mentions here and there, and yet somehow that was enough to recreate a rich life story full of analysis, silly hcs and endless angsty doomed yuri thoughts. And this story has haunted me for months, it's an unshakable obsession that claws at my thoughts every now and then

[ohnoitsz1m]

Furry Victor!

[particlepocket]

Land of brimstone and memory

A fiery world with everything ablaze save for antiquated movie set structures.

Brimstone in connection to hell, blaze (4/20 & glory) & the fire at the end of tmod. Memory symbolized by film in both the object and form of entertainment as ways of documenting life or viewing history. Film is highly flammable, concurrently, some films can be reused by erasing the images with sulfuric acid.

Time players lands hold significance as the planet that holds the scratch construct, which in this case would be a cassette tape. Due to the circumstances in the nature of this session, the constructs purpose does not function as a reset button but a undo, activated by rewinding the cassette by using the quills like how you would typically with a pencil.

[tribalephemeral]

New Text Block for The Key of Sparrows Fortune Telling System Postcards

[jonathanmoya1955]

One Last Breeze

One Last Breeze It sneaks under the threshold of the long shut door,over the shedding skin of peeling wallpaper,past the dusty spines of now unread books—turning pages no one meant to leave,step less, voice less— a curious breeze.It seeks the crack in the window—to leave this vault of knowledge behind—these graves beyond, both named and unknown—all these heavy stones and plastic flowers in…

[felixwylde]

Hypothetical Paranoid Fringe Timeline

The Shadow Behind the Curtain Disclaimer: The following is a work of speculative satire, drawing only from the outer edges of the internet, whispered threads on image boards, grainy documentaries that never aired, and that guy with a whiteboard in a bunker. It is not factual… or is it? The Hidden Pattern: Lord Protectors of the Global Reset Some believe that what we’re witnessing isn’t just…

[xokp]

A Tale In Binary

On Catherine and I ⚥I am an entropy creation machine 🌊, and she is an entropy reversal system 💫.We are like the perfect pair of Hindu ॐ Dieties; we are Shiva allinone dat da .∞We are the yin and the yang ☯Ororborus head to tail⛎T h e l o n g e s t t a l e☲☶1001

[jbfly46]

Integrating your shadow is just realizing that sentient life has to be parasitic before it can be productive, and in the end, you realize you’re just a 2D transmutational alchemical symbol being projected onto a 3D landscape with time as entropy thrown on top.

[funni-cat]

(oh...)

[mai-komagata]

so here is my melkor hot take of the day. i dont think melkor is more evil than sauron.

like yes, tolkien said sauron is less evil than melkor bc he is devoted and obedient to him, i.e. catholic theological legalese, since love and obedience are the catholic virtue things that dont originate from evil. cool. ASIDE FROM THAT.

and like, melkor is totally MORE POWERFUL than sauron by like orders of magnitude. sure. melkor is the evil soup that suffuses the world like original sin and the fall do in catholic theology.

but like if in looking at intent and what they do, i dont think you can say that for sauron's relative power, i hesitate to say he is more evil, but he is evil in a more insidious and dangerous way common to our age.

like i see melkor very much representing the evil of the natural world (and to some degree part of the universal plan of eru iluvatar). he is volcanoes. he is the blight of winter. he is disease and pestilence and decay. he is the coming of darkness, the destruction of creation. the entropy of the universe. he desires the spark or life but can only subdivide endlessly like bacteria.

but that is part of the fallen world in theological terms even if it shouldn't be part of a healed world of immortal quasi spiritual (or actually spiritual) beings. it is imperfection if the goal is deathlessness. but it is part of the world.

and to a degree i see valar as having this sort of impersonal force of nature quality about them. not just melkor. they all do. tolkien describes them like heavenly bureaucrats. they arent tied to the world and dont understand the world in a tangible personal way that even the maiar do.

sauron is different and i think there is a reason sauron is the villain in the books in the second and third age and specifically in the main book he published. he is the evil of our modern world.

because most mythologies dont have two dark lords. one representing chaos and destruction and one representing order and coercion and industry.

it represents a fundamental swing in how cultures started to conceptualize evil. we mastered science and thus a lot of the things that were a curse from the gods were being solved. and yet. the world wasn't becoming less evil. we still want to control each other, to subjugate others. we want to tame nature so much it kills her and makes her barren. we covet power because we are afraid of the lack of it.

so yeah. sauron and melkor are both evil. but sauron was subject to melkor (or natural evils) until we subdued and chained him. and then sauron's evils were dominant.

(is this character analysis or fictional theology? idk.)

i love these characters because they are symbolic of how we conceptualize evil in the world, as well as being stand-ins for a certain character archetype. i dont have to write them just as them being evil. but they are great for writing about difficult subjects because of their symbolic nature.

(and maybe like sauron i too love volcanoes and snow and mushrooms and thus am a bit enchanted with the force of nature that is melkor. i used to study a LOT of catholic theology, and now as an outsider looking in im like, maybe i can play with these myths and tropes. at the same time, the ultimate plan of eru iluvatar is meant to be a mystery.)

[wisteriashouse]

like gravity.

pairing: phainon x f!reader

word count: 10k

synopsis: pacrim!au. big robot punch big alien monster. khaslana mode phainon. anyway i just wanted to write phainon shouting at me. toots. (i will still eat shaoji if he doesn't come back)

chapters: part one | part two | part three

I. ENTROPY

He finds you in the same jail cell.

An hour and twenty seven minutes. That’s the time that it takes him — from the moment that you’re put behind bars (again) until you hear hurried footsteps echoing down the corridor — to get to this little confinement center at the edge of Marmoreal. Doesn’t pause when he rounds the corner — just moves, long strides eating up the distance between the two of you. He must know this place by heart now.

“They let you in again, huh?” you ask, as he comes to a stop outside your cell. His white hair, muted beneath the shitty lighting of the basement, is slightly damp with sweat, stubborn strands sticking to his temples. Did he run? And, does it matter, even if he did? “Of course,” you tilt your head, propping your chin up on your knee to look at him. “You’re Amphoreus’ darling, after all.”

Twelve drops, fourteen kills. Fourteen kaiju, fourteen cities — it equates to millions of lives saved. He’s the most effective Jaeger pilot on record in history. So it’s no surprise that everyone bends over backwards for him — to them, he’s more than just a man. A symbol, just like the sun tattooed on the side of his neck.

Deliverer, they called him. Still call him now, even though he hasn’t stepped foot inside a Jaeger for three years. Saviour of humanity. Hope of mankind.

The man on the other side of your cell looks nothing like any of those things. Phainon doesn’t speak. Instead he just stares at you through the bars, lips pressed together and arms stiff at the sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. His eyes, still too blue even in the murk of the basement, flicker with something that you can’t quite decipher. 

Haven’t bothered to, for quite some years now.

“How long has it been since we last saw each other?” You yawn, slouching against the wall. “Two months?”

Nothing.

“Guess they still haven’t found someone compatible with you, huh? Or you wouldn’t have time to visit a small-time criminal like me.”

Still no response.

“Maybe, next time I’ll ask the guards to bet on—”

Phainon breathes out, and you fall silent. Despite everything that’s happened between the two of you, there’s still a gravity to him. It’s like a law of nature — unlike poles attract, apples fall, and people listen when Phainon speaks. Even you, apparently. 

“How many times are you going to do this?” he says at last. His voice is quiet. Tired.

“I don’t know.” You shrug. “How many times are you going to keep coming back?”

Phainon’s jaw shifts at your words, fingers curling into fists at his sides. He doesn’t answer the question. You don’t think that even he knows the answer, himself.

After a while, he exhales and takes a step back. pulls out the military cap from under his arm, runs a hand through his hair and fits it onto his head in silence. He doesn’t say anything — there’s nothing left to say between the two of you. Phainon has tried, of course, with his whys and hows and pleases. They’ve been exhausted in encounters far earlier than this one. Repeated over and over again.

Nothing ever changes. Your answer, too, has always been the same.

“I don’t need to be saved.”

Phainon turns around. “I’ll speak to Aglaea,” is all he says, before he leaves. You wave to send him off — it’s a long way back, after all — leaning against the bars of your cell as he goes.

“See you around, Phainon,” you call after his fading footsteps, faintly echoing down the corridor.

You hope you don’t.

Pan Pacific Defense Corps: The Pan Pacific Defense Corps (abbreviated PPDC) is an organisation created by the United Nations. The Defense Corps represents an international alliance of twenty one different countries across the rim of the Pacific Ocean and the IPC, bound together by the shared goal of containing, combating and eliminating the kaiju.

You’re usually out within a day or two. Sometimes even hours, if you’re lucky — and that’s without Phainon’s interference, even. He might have his friends in the upper ranks of the military, but you’re not without your own connections down below. Besides, you’re only ever detained under suspicion, never arrested. You like to think that you’re more experienced than to be caught with evidence.

So, you’re understandably startled when the next visitor to your cell eight hours later is not the guard who makes photocopies of your release paperwork, but a tall woman with hair like spun gold and eyes that make you feel like you’re staring down the barrel of a loaded shotgun.

She’s dressed in military uniform. The formal kind, not the ugly green fatigues that Phainon sometimes shows up in (as though the kaiju would be fooled by basic military camouflage, but you suppose old habits die hard). Tailored, from the way the dark fabric hugs her figure. With a kind of elegance so potent that it’s straight up domineering.

And there are four gold stars decorating each of her shoulders.

“You’re Aglaea,” you say, before you can stop yourself. She smiles. 

It’s beautiful. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

“You’ve heard of me.” Neither here nor there, but the statement is laughable in and of itself. Who in Amphoreus hasn’t heard of the General Aglaea? The entirety of the Okhema shatterdome is under her authority, and by extension every jet fighter, soldier and Jaeger in it. Enough military power to destroy a small country, all vested in a single person. And she's standing here in this dingy little jail cell, doing what — looking for you?

“Is there something I can help you with?” you ask, warily as your brain tries to compute a possible reason why a four star PPDC general would be making house calls to a no-name prison and failing miserably. Whatever it is, it most definitely spells trouble for you.

“I just wanted to see the face of the one who’s been causing my Lieutenant so much trouble.” Your eyes narrow. She’s talking about Phainon. “Three times in eight months? And it’s not even Christmas…” She taps a finger against her lips, smiles. “Either you’re not very good at your job… or you’re deliberately seeking his attention?”

You bristle at that. “Not my fault you gave your hound too long of a leash.”

Aglaea only laughs. The sound makes uncertainty crawl around in the pit of your belly. And the unease only grows when she steps across the cell to take a seat on the prison bench opposite you, crossing one leg over the other under her pencil skirt. 

You glance at the cell door and briefly contemplate making a run for it. You’d have felt safer being locked in here with a rabid tiger — at least it wouldn’t toy with its food like this.

“Three counts of identity fraud. Five instances of dealing kaiju biomaterial to criminal and terrorist organisations. Two counts of murder.” Someone’s done her research.

“Suspected murder,” you correct, folding your arms across your chest. It’s not. “What’s the point of this?”

Aglaea tilts her head to the side, golden curls falling across her cheek. “My point is, it would be easy to make you disappear.” A cold weight settles in your chest, like a sinking stone. She says it with the tone of someone stating a matter of fact, not a threat. You can see it in her eyes — she can, and she would. “You’ve been a distraction to Phainon, you know? Not to mention a PR headache to keep under wraps. Humanity’s most admired Ranger, complicity in releasing a criminal from prison?” She tuts lightly. “Not exactly what people want to see from someone they regard as a deliverer.”

There’s a distinct undercurrent of mocking to her words, pointing the finger of blame at you. “I’ve never asked him to do that,” you grit out. Aglaea raises a delicate brow.

“And yet both of us know that he will, anyway. It’s a fatal flaw of his, isn’t it?” Her eyes are piercing as she looks at you. “Being unable to leave people behind.”

You want to retort, but force your mouth to stay shut. Something about the way the General speaks gets under your skin more easily than you’d like, a needle that knows exactly where to poke and prick. You suppose that’s one of the reasons she became General so young.

Aglaea must be able to tell, too, because she smiles and leans against the wall. “Now, I’m sure that you’ve guessed that I am here for a reason. The reason is this: I have an offer to make you.”

An offer. It almost scares you more than the threat. “It’s not much of an offer when you’re practically holding a gun to my head, is it?” you mutter. She just laughs, holds up both hands.

“What gun?” Her voice is infuriatingly breezy. “But if you’d like me to speak in plainer terms, then I shall oblige. I’m recruiting you into the Jaeger program.”

“I didn’t know the PPDC had started branching into illegal activities. A bit ironic for the military, huh?”

“No.” Aglaea looks at you. “I want you to become a ranger.”

You stare at her for a few moments, scrutinising her expression. Nothing about it reveals that this is a joke. And yet you start laughing despite it anyway, like a hyena barking in ridicule. Aglaea does not respond — she merely waits for you to finish, green eyes imperturbable. Your laughter dies in your throat when you realise that she’s serious.

You cough, wipe the tears from the corners of your eyes. “You’re not joking.” You don’t know which scares you more.

“I’m not.”

“You want me,” you jab a finger at your own chest, “to be a Jaeger pilot?” You can barely keep your voice from rising. For all the preparations that the General made — digging up past records, coming all the way here — this is the plan that she had in mind? “You think the world needs someone like me in a Jaeger?”

Aglaea lowers her gaze. And for the first time, you think you see the briefest flicker of something flash in her eyes.

“No,” she replies, blunt. She’s looking straight at you now. “Phainon is the one the world needs. But what he needs, unfortunately, might just be you.”

Okhema Shatterdome: The Okhema Shatterdome is the primary headquarters of the PPDC in Amphoreus. It is under the authority of the Marshal Cerydra, although General Aglaea has been acting in her stead for the past year and a half. It consists of factories for the construction, repair, maintenance and launch of the Jaegers. All operations, Ranger training and experiments regarding the kaiju are carried out within their respective Shatterdome bases. There are currently three combat active Jaegers stationed in Okhema.

The helicopter is loud. Too loud and moves like it’s drunk when the turbulence hits, not loud enough to distract you from the fact that you’re in a glorified, overengineered tin can fighting the laws of physics every second to stay in the air. You guess it’s not that much different from a plane, in theory. But knowing where you’re headed still makes you want to throw yourself out of the nearest window despite the thousand foot freefall into the ground.

Aglaea explains the rest of her ‘offer’ to you while you’re in the air. She wants you to test drift compatibility with Phainon — as though the entirety of the Ranger program has tried and failed for the past three years. And now, she thinks a handful of childhood memories might somehow make you different from them.

But you’re not in a position to complain. Or refuse. Or do anything other than agree, really. You’re extracted from the confinement center with nary a peep from the guard, and the General just… takes you with her, like a parent picking up her child from preschool. No papers signed, not even a single phone call to make. Fucking Pan Pacific Defense Corps. She’s jumping over every legal line drawn in the sand like it’s an Olympic sport.

You find yourself missing your prison cell when the chopper hovers over what you assume is the Shatterdome. It’s enormous, like take up half the skyline kind of enormous, which should be expected considering that the Jaegers stationed inside are basically small skyscrapers that can throw punches. But you don’t realise just how much until you see the people dotting the runway that stretches along the entirety of Okhema’s coastline, the size of ants.

There must be dozens down there, hundreds or even thousands more inside just to keep a base this size running. All that for three Jaegers. Six pilots. No wonder why people idolise Phainon like he was chosen by God himself.

There’s a small welcome committee waiting for you when the chopper lands on the heli-pad. Aglaea disembarks first, tucks a lock of golden hair neatly behind her ear as she steps off with more grace than her heels should allow. You follow suit, faltering momentarily when the frozen sea air whips at your face like a thousand icy knives. It’s cold.

“Lovely weather we’re having today,” Aglaea comments, before turning towards the pair gathered at the edge of the heli-pad. “Why is the apocalypse on our front porch this morning?”

“Just a bad storm passing through, ma’am.” A tall, slender woman steps forward, tablet cradled in the crook of her arm. Her burnished gold hair is swept back into a tidy bun. “But there is a bigger storm brewing on your desk, I’m afraid — Marshal Cerydra has a few things that you need to get back to her, and I quote her words, ASAP.”

Aglaea sighs. “Wonderful. So long as she hasn’t threatened to bayonet the UN secretary again… thank you, GM.”

Sudden movement catches your eye — a flicker of red darting behind the woman. Your brain stutters. A child? Here? Before you can speak, the girl steps into view, small fingers curled into the woman’s uniform skirt. Wide, curious eyes lock onto yours.

“Is this the new recruit, Aggy?” — Aggy? — she asks, tilting her head upwards to look at you. The top of her head doesn’t even come up to your elbow. Red hair, blue eyes… you squint at Aglaea. Half siblings, perhaps? Cousins? The General smiles at her, reaches down to pat her head.

“If all goes well, hopefully.” She straightens up, glances at the gold watch gleaming on her delicate wrist. “Trianne, be a dear and ask Trinnon to prepare some tea in my office, will you? I’d like to show our guest,” you bite back a snort, “a proper welcome.”

The child beams — a stark contrast to this backdrop of war and military machines. “Of course, Aggy!” She runs off in the direction of the Shatterdome, only to suddenly whirl back with a wave that makes her whole arm bounce. “See you around, Miss New Recruit!” You raise a hand weakly in response, and she darts off again between the stone faced soldiers and armoured jeeps.

Aglaea gestures at you with a wave of her hand. “Come, now.”

People stare. You can feel their eyes as you follow her down the tarmac, past the lines of stationed fighters and military people doing… whatever it is that military people do. Part of you knows that it’s nothing out of the ordinary — an unfamiliar face accompanying the General must warrant some measure of curiosity — but you can’t help the feeling that someone might recognise you. You pull your jacket together around you, duck your head and pick up the pace.

She leads you to an elevator, hits a button at the very top labelled BRIDGE — COMMAND CENTER and waves a keycard over the scanner. The doors shut behind the two of you. 

It’s a long way up, but the elevator doesn’t stop even once. General privileges, maybe? It deposits the two of you into a corridor. And just like the runway earlier, there are people everywhere. It’s like there’s a heartbeat pumping through the entire facility, pushing everything inside it along. Everyone here seems to have somewhere to be, something to do, walking fast with papers in hand. You follow Aglaea to a door at the very end of it.

Marshal’s Office — General Aglaea.

She flicks the same card over the reader and it slides open. There’s a china set laid out neatly on the desk in the center of the room, stacks of files and papers pushed precariously to the sides. Little swirls of steam are still escaping the teapot’s spout.

“Trinnon’s a little shy. You might see her around, if you’re lucky.” Aglaea gestures for you to sit and you do, in a leather chair that seems just a little too big for you. She takes a moment to pour out the tea — flowery and subtly fragrant — into two cups and slides one over to you. You stare down at the coppery liquid in the cup, suspicious.

Aglaea only looks amused. “I wouldn’t waste all that time and effort bringing you here if I wanted to kill you. There are easier ways to make that happen,” she says candidly, before taking a sip of the tea herself. “Ah, a perfect brew. Now, as I was saying earlier, there are three things that I want from you.”

Three? Her demands just keep increasing. “You want me to test drift compatibility with Phainon.”

She nods, tapping a nail against the rim of her cup. “That’s one. The second is this: if the two of you are drift compatible, become a ranger.”

There it is again. Become a ranger. She says it like it’s nothing — as though piloting a giant mech to slug it out with an alien monster that could flatten a city in under an hour is the equivalent of taking a car out for a test drive. As though there aren’t actual soldiers who’ve trained their entire lives to get into the Jaeger program and still fall short. Digging for needles in haystacks, is how Drift-Tech had described it.

And to pilot a Jaeger, you need two.

You lean back in the chair, trying to be rational about this. The odds. “Let’s be real here — what are the actual odds that I’m drift compatible with Phainon? After hundreds of failures?”

“Statistically?” Aglaea asks. “Near zero.”

You hadn’t expected her to admit it so candidly. “Then why waste my time? Why waste yours?”

“Because miracles can happen, unlikely as they are,” she counters, and slides a folder across the table. “Succeed, and you walk away with a Ranger’s commission. Full benefits, hazard pay, the works. Some might even say it pays too well.” She mutters that last part under her breath.

You push the folder back. “You mean a front row seat to getting eaten by a kaiju.”

Aglaea doesn’t even blink. “Fail, and you’ll still get a clean record.” You look up at that, mouth suddenly dry. Clean record? “A new identity in any country you’d like. I heard the Xianzhou has some beautiful scenery. Or perhaps Penacony, if you prefer the nightlife.”

It sounds too good to be true. “There’s a caveat to that, I’m guessing.”

“Phainon can’t so much as hear your name again.” Aglaea’s voice turns steely. “I can’t have him distracted chasing ghosts or getting tangled in…” her eyes sweep over you, “unfavourable associations. The program’s reputation is hanging by a thread as it is.”

Unfavourable associations. Right, that’s how she sees you. “You’re going to a lot of lengths for one washed-up Ranger,” you mutter, crossing your arms across your chest. “What’s he to you?”

“Not to me. To the world.” Aglaea taps on her tablet, slides it over to you. You glance at it. It’s a news feed, showing protestors outside a Jaeger research center. They yell, wave signs around furiously. “Two failed drops in Belobog last month. And after Janus and Georios fell…” Her lips press together in a grim line. “Public approval ratings have never been lower. The Wall Initiative gains traction every day we don’t have a win, and that damn concrete won’t save a single city when the next Cat IV comes through the Breach.”

She sounds like she’s sure. Then you remember, before she became General, she had been a pilot too — for Phagousa, if you remember correctly. And her co-pilot… 

“And you think Phainon can?”

“He’s the symbol this program needs. In the people's eyes, he's the only pilot who’s never lost.” Aglaea laces her fingers together. “Get him back in a Jaeger, and people might remember why we built them in the first place.”

You glance down at the folder on the table again. A clean slate. A blank record. No more hiding, no more looking over your shoulder. Wasn’t that what you’d been working towards, this whole time? And yet… “It doesn’t have to be me inside that Jaeger.”

“If I had other options, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Aglaea says, bluntly. “But at the moment, you’re all we’ve got.”

Oh, joy.

“You’ll keep looking?” you press.

Aglaea’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “The second we find someone who doesn’t make the compatibility readers spit error codes, you’re free to go.” She reaches for her intercom. “I’ll have the NeuroSync scheduled for tomorrow. Tribbie will show you to the testing room first thing in the morning.” You exhale, and Aglaea leans forward. “And, while we’re being honest? Don’t even think about trying to escape. It won’t be worth it.”

She doesn’t continue, but the unspoken threat hangs over your neck like a guillotine. I’ll find you, and this time, I won’t be so kind. 

Before you can respond, the door crashes open.

Phainon stands in the doorway, breathing ragged like he’s just sprinted across the entirety of the Shatterdome. The overhead lights catch the blue in his irises — the same eyes that you’ve stared down in every Ranger recruitment poster in Marmoreal. 

Hero. Saviour. Deliverer.

“Aglaea, I heard you—” His voice cuts off abruptly as his gaze lands on you. Every muscle in his body goes rigid, all at once.

You watch as a dozen different emotions flicker across his face — shock, anger, confusion — before his composure slams back into place. It doesn’t look as though Aglaea let him in on her grand plan, which is surprising, considering that he’s the main character in it.

“Ah, Phainon. Perfect timing,” Aglaea says, just a hint too pleasant. She rises, smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles from her uniform as she does. “I was just telling (Name) here that the Shatterdome is huge, and not to get lost. Would you show her to the guest quarters?” Aglaea slides a keycard over the table. “She’ll need some rest before tomorrow’s NeuroSync.”

Phainon’s jaw works. He glances at you again. “We need to discuss—”

“That can wait till later.” Aglaea’s voice is smooth as silk, but could cut through steel. “Unless you’d like to explain to Hyacine why our only viable candidate passed out from exhaustion before we even begin?”

The two of them lock eyes for a few seconds before Phainon steps aside reluctantly, movements stiff with barely-restrained tension. “No, General.” He holds open the door for you as you gather your things, but his eyes remain on the ground. He doesn’t look at you. 

You make a point to finish all the tea in the cup before you leave. Aglaea only smiles as the door shuts behind you.

“All the best to you, (Name).”

Ranger: Ranger is the rank given to Pan Pacific Defense Corps officers assigned to the Jaegers. They are commonly referred to as Jaeger Pilots. Prior to piloting a Jaeger, all rangers are required to undergo multiple rounds of psychological evaluation and rigorous military training.

The walk to your quarters is silent. Phainon walks ahead of you without looking back. The silhouette of his shoulders are rigid beneath the dark fabric of his uniform, the golden sun at his neck barely peeking out over the folded collar. It’s clear that he isn’t in the mood to talk.

So you do. Let the quiet stretch just long enough to be uncomfortable before you break it.

“So,” you drawl, deliberately quickening your step to keep pace with him. “How’s it possible that the great Deliverer can’t find a single partner? What, does your charm and pretty face not work in the Drift?”

Phainon’s shoulders tense, but he keeps walking. Maybe even speeds up a little.

You press harder, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. “Or is it that no one can stand being in the same head as that hero complex of yours? Must be embarrassing. Aglaea’s scraping the bottom of the barrel so hard that she had to dig me out of a prison cell—”

“That’s enough.” He whirls around so suddenly that you nearly collide face first with his chest. Up close, he’s all sharp angles and controlled anger — eyes almost molten golden under the harsh lights. There’s a hint of a bruise at his jawbone, faint, barely there, but there. 

You don’t remember that from the news reels. What’s he been fighting, the Loch Ness Monster?

“This isn’t some game,” he bites out, voice low enough that the techs passing by glance over, exchange glances and hurry away. “Hundreds and thousands of lives are in danger. People die. Every day we don’t have a Jaeger in the field is another city in Amphoreus on the brink. But no, you wouldn’t—”

“Oh, I understand,” you interrupt, stepping closer. The scent of antiseptic and something faintly metallic — oil? blood? — clings to him. “You need this. The Deliverer title must be getting rusty, huh? That’s why I’m here.”

His breath catches. You see it — the minute fracture in his control, the way his fingers twitch at his side like he’s physically restraining himself. 

“You think I want you here?” His voice is rough, stripped raw. “I didn’t even know Aglaea went to look for you. I didn’t have a—”

“Choice?” You laugh, sharp and hollow and humourless. “You’ve always had a choice, Phainon. You just hate the one that you have left.”

For a heartbeat, you think his composure— that perfect, polished, military composure — might finally snap after all those years. But then his jaw clenches, and he turns on his heel with surgical precision. “Your room,” he mutters, gesturing at a nondescript door like he can’t stand to look at you another second.

The space inside is, at least, a little nicer than what you’d expected. A cot, wide enough for you to stretch out on. Sheets in the same, standard shade of military regulation green. The hint of a lingering sting of disinfectant in the air. Aside from that, the room is bare. Impersonal. Empty.

You sink onto the mattress, springs groaning in protest, and stare at the ceiling. Outside, Phainon’s footsteps fade down the hall.

“Guess I’m stuck here,” you mutter to the blank walls, “because you still can’t stop playing the hero.” As usual, they don’t bother replying.

At least some things never change.

An hour after he leaves, Phainon returns to Aglaea’s office.

She barely glances up from her dossier when he does, takes a sip from the teacup in her hand. “Good afternoon, Phainon,” she says mildly, flipping a page with deliberate calm. Like she’d expected him to show up again. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“You brought her here.”

Aglaea doesn’t seem bothered by his accusatory tone. “I did,” she admits easily. “You asked me to get her out of prison, didn’t you?”

Phainon runs a hand through his already dishevelled hair, grimacing in frustration. “You know that this isn’t what I meant. A ranger, Aglaea?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers.” Aglaea finally sets down the dossier in her hands, looks at him — really looks at him. She gestures to the wall of monitors displaying report dashboards — kaiju attack patterns, evolving faster than they can keep up, the steadily dropping public approval ratings ever since three years ago. “The numbers don’t lie, Phainon. The Jaeger program is expensive, and the people are not seeing the payoffs they expect. We’re losing this war on two fronts, now.”

Her tone is grim. Behind the cold eyes, the calm exterior, Phainon can see the worry. Everything she says is true, and Phainon wants — needs — nothing more than to be out there in a Jaeger. And yet…

“She didn’t sign up for this.” He’s not sure what means Aglaea used to persuade you, but Phainon is pretty sure that you’re not here by choice.

“None of us signed up for alien monsters to invade our world, but they did anyway.” Aglaea sighs, her expression softening marginally as she rises from her desk. “There are bigger things at stake here than you, or me, or…” she pauses, choosing her words carefully, “your past acquaintance. The people need a deliverer to put their hopes in, Phainon. They need to believe in something.”

Phainon’s hands clench into white-knuckled fists at his sides. For a long moment, the only sound in the room is the sound of the distant thrum of the Shatterdome’s machinery, the muffled buzz of people with things to do to keep the world from falling.

“I know,” he finally mutters. The words taste bitter in his mouth.

Aglaea nods, her professional mask slipping just enough to reveal a hint of sympathy. “Just one NeuroSync test,” she assures him, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. “If it doesn’t work out, I’ll let her go unharmed. You have my word.”

The muscles in Phainon’s jaw work as he struggles with his own reservations. Finally, he snaps to attention and offers a sharp salute. “Yes, ma’am. My apologies for my… insubordination.”

Aglaea gives him a faint smile. “Go get some rest, clear your head,” she orders him as she settles back in her chair. “Big day tomorrow, hm?”

Phainon presses his lips together. “Yes, ma’am.”

As the door slides shut behind him, Aglaea sighs and returns her attention to her reports. The display flickers ominously as another red alert pings in from the coast. Strange readings in the seabed, exotic matter, negative mass-energy density readings, blah blah blah. She glances down at her teapot, finds it empty, and switches over to a coffee pot instead.

Just another day, pushing back the end of the world. Doing what needs to be done.

NeuroSync: Jaegers are controlled by two, or rarely, three pilots stationed inside the Conn-Pod through a system called the Drift. To provide a more comprehensive estimate on drift compatibility, Dr Cyrene developed the Neural Handshake Synchronicity (NeuroSync) Scale with Professor Anaxagoras.

The knock on your door comes just after seven. Or 0700 hours, according to the clock next to your cot. Damn military… You’re already awake — the unfamiliar environment and bed had seen to that. You’d spent the night staring at the ceiling fan whirring overhead, replaying every word Phainon had said yesterday in your head, counting down the minutes until this farce began.

Which is now, apparently. You throw your keycard at the door and pump your fist when it hits the scanner, makes a little beep, light flashing green. “Come in.”

Instead of the stone-faced soldier you’re expecting, the door swings open to reveal… a child. She can’t be more than ten, looks uncannily similar to the other girl you’d seen at the runway yesterday — Trianne, was it? — and her blue eyes wide under the brim of a comically oversized PPDC cap. The sleeves of her miniature jumpsuit are rolled up to the elbows, exposing arms dotted with illegible marker stains. 

She beams at you, and it’s like staring straight on into the sun. “Hey!” She waves at you, still sitting on the edge of your bed. “I’m Tribbie, and I’m here to bring you for your NeuroSync!” She announces this like she’s taking you on a field trip to the amusement park and not what will likely be the most violating experience of your life. “I’ll show you to the K-Science department so you won’t get lost. The Shatterdome is huge!”

You open your mouth to question every workplace safety regulation in existence before clamping it shut. You should know better than to question the military by now. “Let me guess — you’re Trianne’s sister?”

Tribbie smiles, wide. It’s… adorable, really. “Yup! There’s three of us — Trianne, Trinnon, and me!” She holds up three fingers. “But Trinnon’s a little shy, so it’s hard to find her sometimes. She hopes you enjoyed the tea she made yesterday, though!”

You follow her through the maze of interconnecting corridors. Every door looks the same, every hallway it opens too looks like an extension of the one just came from. But Tribbie walks through all of it with the easy confidence of someone who knows that they belong here. The janitors pause in their work to return her waves. A grizzly mechanic slips her what looks like a candy from his pocket.

“You’re popular,” you observe aloud. “Did you grow up here?”

Tribbie just shakes her head. “Only since Mama and Papa died. Aggy took us in after Januspolis fell.” She skips ahead to press her tiny palm against a biometric scanner before you can ask any more. 

The scanner flashes green, and the doors to K-Science slide open. There’s a funky smell in the air — chemicals, formaldehyde, something else. The floor tiles, which look like they were once supposed to be white, are stained a permanent yellow. It’s slightly sticky underfoot. Ew.

The lab itself is an organised chaos. Wall screens flicker with rotating kaiju anatomy models — you recognise a few. Cocolia, the Cat III that had attacked Belobog a few years back. They zoom in on Hoolay’s claws, each one as long as a school bus. It had taken two of the Xianzhou’s Mark-3 Jaegers to finally put that beast down, and even then, it’d taken hours and the city of Yaoqing had taken significant damage. Last you heard, they were still trying to repair the Caelorum Venti Pavilion.

You glance at the sides. Specimen jars line the shelves, murky fluids preserving an uncountable range of tissue samples. And at the center of it all, a pink haired woman in a stained lab coat stands over a dissection table, her goggled face uncomfortably close to the wrinkled grey mass in front of her.

“Dr Hyacine! I’ve brought the test subject!” Tribbie announces.

The scientist — Hyacinthia, it says so on her lab coat — doesn’t look up. “One moment, just… there!” There’s a wet squelch, and she straightens up, holding a glistening strand of tissue from the mess. “Beautiful. Tribbie, would you label this for me? Thermoreceptor nerve cluster, sample K-425.”

As Tribbie scrambles onto a stool to reach the labelling machine, Hyacine finally notices you. She pushes her goggles up, leaving a comical ring of clean skin around her eyes. She’s pretty. And cute. Pretty cute. And that blue stuff doesn’t look like kaiju blue, at least… “Oh, you must be the new candidate that Aglaea was talking about!” She holds out a gloved hand, glances down at the mystery mix of chemicals staining the rubber and retracts it.  “Sorry for the mess. We’re prepping samples for the Penacony lab.”

You glance at the dissection table. “Secondary brain? From how well it’s been preserved, must have been a recent one… Terravox?”

Hyacine blinks from where she’s tossing her gloves into the bin. “You know kaiju biology.” She sounds surprised.

You shrug, suddenly awkward. Your experience with the black market harvesters had taught you to identify the valuable parts quickly. “Just a side interest of mine,” you mutter, glancing at the secondary brain again. You wonder if anyone has tried Drifting with a kaiju brain before. “So, um. How does this NeuroSync thing work?”

“Right!” Hyacine claps her hands together. “Well. The NeuroSync equipment’s set up in the clean room.” She gestures to a sealed chamber at the back of the lab. “We’re just waiting on—”

The doors slide open again with a hiss of compressed air. Phainon is standing there, in the doorway. Speak of the devil.

“Phainon!” Hyacine smiles brightly, and you catch Phainon’s lips twitch upwards — he still smiles??? — in response. “Good morning. Ready for your NeuroSync?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” And you count two seconds before his eyes find yours and he just frowns, like it’s instinctive. You square your shoulders and stare back at him, refusing to look away. He doesn’t say hi. Neither do you.

The silence stretches. Hyacine’s smile falters as she looks between the two of you, before she awkwardly claps her hands together. “Perfect timing! Let’s get the two of you started.”

Hyacinthia: Hyacinthia, or Hyacine for short, is a kaiju biologist who works in the K-Science lab of the Pan Pacific Defense Corps. She is also the head of the Okhema Shatterdome's Psychology Department, holding degrees in both Neurology and Psychology.

The clean room is anything but. While free of kaiju viscera, the space bears the scars of countless experiments — scorch marks on the console, a patched hole in the ceiling. And there’s a persistent smell of burnt wiring… 

Two medical chairs, like the kind that you’d see at the dentist, sit in the center, headpieces a trailing nest of cables. You eye it suspiciously as you take a seat on the one closest to the door. Not that running would do you any good. But still, it’s the damn principle of the thing.

“Don’t worry,” Hyacine says, as she rushes around to set up, fingers fluttering over the settings on the main console. The screen lights up. “This is just a compatibility estimate. Think of it as mental speed dating.” Phainon coughs. “Or… like a high-five instead of a handshake.” At your blank look, she amends. “A lightweight neural connection. No full drift, just enough to measure potential sync levels.”

Tribbie, upon seeing the look on your face, tries to reassure you, bless her heart. “It doesn’t hurt! Or, well, that’s what I heard, at least.”

You close your eyes and wonder if your health insurance covers brain damage from drifting with your childhood friend turned enemy.

Phainon takes his seat with that same calm composure, his jaw set. Says his pleases and thank yous and even smiles as Hyacine carefully fits the neural sensors to his temples. It’s like they’ve got a whole different man in that chair. 

Only when Hyacine goes back to check the readings on the console that you see his fingers twitch on the armrests — the only outward sign of his discomfort. You stifle a snort. Still trying to play the hero.

“Problem, Deliverer?” you ask, sarcastically.

His gaze flickers over to you, but he doesn’t respond. Just fixes his eyes forward again with that stubborn determination of a man who hasn’t given up for the past three years.

Hyacine steps over to you next, her touch surprisingly gentle as she positions the sensors. The electrodes stick uncomfortably to your skin. “This might feel a little strange at first. Like someone’s standing a bit too close in an empty room. Or like someone’s whispering directly into your ear.”

None of those things sound very attractive or comforting to you, but Hyacine is already stepping away, fiddling with the controls. The system initialises, and you start to feel a low hum building in your skull. It spreads outwards like seismic waves, until there's a high-pitched oscillating whine vibrating through your molars. You barely have time to register the discomfort before it—

Pressure.

It shifts, expands. Not against your skin, not against your head, but directly into your mind. Like it’s pressing against the boundaries of your very self. And you feel it there, Phainon’s consciousness on the very edge of that territory, lingering. 

Hesitant.

Before you can figure out why, the drift surges. Like waves beneath your feet, a riptide yanking you out to sea. Your breath catches in your throat. And suddenly, you’re—

— standing in a crowd. Blue and white balloons rain down all around you, in the packed plaza. Cheering so loud, you can’t hear your own thoughts.

A sea of faces in front of you — no, him? — indistinguishable. Phainon grips Cyrene’s hand behind the conference table, feels her pat his sweaty palm reassuringly. His heart is a raging wardrum in his chest—

— You see him, both of them, golden and gleaming in their new Ranger uniforms. The reporter hands him a microphone, you watch his mouth shape words you can’t quite make out. One drop, two kaiju solo, first mission.

His eyes scan the crowd. The reporter asks him a question he doesn’t remember responding to. Surely if you were still alive, then surely, you would—

— The crowd surges, cheering. “Heroes!” You stare up at the stage. Elevated. Unreachable. That hollow feeling in your chest clenching around nothing.

Where are you? Fear wraps itself like a fist around his throat, burns like the sun tattooed into the side of his neck. A reminder. A promise. Please, where are you—

— And then you turn your back on him, on them and—

The memory fractures like glass as you slam your mental defenses shut with enough force to make the neural feedback alarms wail. Your whole body jerks out of the seat as the connection severs with a sound like tearing metal in your head.

Across from you, Phainon gasps, his pupils blown wide. He’d seen it too, that fractured moment of you walking away. But not why. Never why.

Hyacine panics in her mother tongue as three different monitors flatline all at once. “Gods! I said neural high-five, not neural warfare!” Her hands fly over the keys.

Tribbie, wide-eyed and mouth open, points at the main screen where the compatibility readout flickers erratically. You rip your headset off your head, look up to see the results with your heart pounding in your chest.

[NEURAL COMPATIBILITY: 26% — LOW SYNCHRONIZATION]

[SYNC STABILITY: LOW]

You’re panting like you’ve just sprinted a mile, taste copper on your tongue. The afterimage of that press conference, the dirty back alleys that you’d retreated back into, still pulses behind your eyes. The way you’d—

No. That memory stays buried.

Phainon pulls off his own headset, staring at you with something dangerously close to realisation. He doesn’t even look at the screen. “You were there,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. His voice is low and certain.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “Everyone in Okhema was there, Deliverer.”

His blue eyes burn with an emotion you can’t quite decipher, but he doesn’t press. The not-quite lie hangs between the two of you, thin as the neural gel still dripping from the sensors. He knows. Not the whole truth, not the reasons that still ache like a bruise against your ribs, but too much.

It will always be too much.

You’re really starting to get sick of Aglaea’s office.

It feels like the kind of place where warmth goes to die. And now, you feel like you might just keel over from the trepidation too, as Aglaea studies the results on one of the displays behind her desk, arms crossed over her chest. Her expression is inscrutable — you can’t tell whether she’s surprised, excited, disappointed, anything. She doesn’t even speak. 

You decide to break the silence first. “26% scores in the incompatible range,” you manage to scrape up the courage to say. “I did what you said. Now let me go.”

Hyacine shifts uncomfortably next to you. Her fingers twist in the hem of her stained lab coat. “To be honest?” She gestures at the neural readouts. “No one’s maintained a neural link with Phainon for a minute before…”

“Which further proves we’re incompatible—”

Aglaea finally looks up from the display, raising an eyebrow. “Everyone else barely managed twenty seconds in the Drift with him before the neural feedback knocked them out cold.” What? Fuck. She swipes through a few readings, expands a graph that looks like waves and turns it towards you as if you can make sense of any of it. “These readings don’t indicate incompatibility. In fact, the NeuroSync was gaining until this point,” she taps at a drop in the graph, “which shows an active deliberate rejection.”

The blue light reflects in her eyes as she leans forward. “Tell me — is it the idea of seeing into his mind that scares you? Or are you more afraid of what he might see in yours?”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms hard enough to leave crescent marks when you suddenly feel the phantom warmth of a hand on yours — a memory, perhaps? But not yours.

“I don’t want him in my head,” you repeat through gritted teeth, louder this time. “That should be enough. Don’t I have rights?”

“A civilian would, perhaps,” Aglaea concedes, sitting back in her chair. “But you’re not just any civilian, and this isn’t just a civilian matter.” She steeples her fingers. “We’ll try again in forty-eight hours. In the meantime, I advise you to consider taking a walk around the Shatterdome. Perhaps some of the people who work here will inspire you. Tribbie will show you around tomorrow.” The redhead beams, gives you a thumbs up that feels out of place in this grim atmosphere. “You may return to your quarters for now.”

You stand up stiffly. Not like you have much of a choice, now. 

As the door opens, Aglaea speaks one more time. “Think carefully. The world needs Phainon in a Jaeger. And right now, whether you like it or not, you’re the only key we have to make it happen.”

The door slides shut behind you, sealing Aglaea’s decision in like a stone rolled over a tomb. You stare at it for a few seconds before you exhale sharply, rolling the tension from your shoulders — only to freeze when you see him.

Phainon stands against the wall opposite, arms crossed, blue eyes tracking your every movement. He must have been waiting the entire time. For you?

Everyone else barely managed twenty seconds in the Drift with him before the neural feedback knocked them out cold, Aglaea had said. What exactly had been so bad about it? It can’t be because the two of you are actually drift compatible, can it? Or did you just not hit the threshold needed for all his… hero complex trauma to bash your subconscious to pieces?

Neither of you speaks, for a long moment. The hum of the Shatterdome’s machinery fills the silence between you, a low persistent thrum that vibrates through the building, like the breathing of a giant, concrete beast.

And then—

“Would it really be so terrible?”

His voice is quieter than you expect. Not angry, not demanding. Just… hurt. You stiffen.

“What?”

“Having me in your head.” He pushes off the wall, taking a single step towards you. Too close. “You fought the drift like it was poison. Like I was—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “I just want to know why.”

The question hangs between you, raw and exposed like a live wire. You don’t have an answer.

Or perhaps you have too many. But the words stick in your throat, choking you. Nothing comes out.

You turn away, towards the hallway’s dim lighting. “It doesn’t matter. I’m tired, and I want to sleep.”

Phainon’s hand shoots out, catching your wrist before you can leave. His grip isn’t rough, but it’s firm — enough to make you stop. His skin is warm against yours. So, so warm. He looks at you, something almost resembling pleading in his eyes.

“It matters to me,” he whispers, his voice low and fierce. 

For a heartbeat, you almost believe that. 

Then reality crashes back. Right. Of course it matters to him. Not because of you— not because of whatever broken history you’ve shared between the two of you, but because he needs a co-pilot. Because not even the great Deliverer can save this world alone.

The realisation hits like ice water being dumped over your head. You wrench your wrist out of his grip, his warmth lingering like a molten brand against your skin. 

“Then you should’ve been more compatible with someone else,” you say flatly.

His expression crumples — just for a second, you see hurt behind those blue eyes — before the mask of a perfect soldier slips back into place.

You don’t wait for a response. You turn on your heel and walk away, shoes echoing in the corridor. The hallway stretches endlessly before you, shadows pooling in the corners like ink.

Behind you, Phainon doesn’t follow.

The Ranger baths are one of the Shatterdome’s few luxuries — a concession for the pilots who regularly climb into giant machines to beat up giant aliens in the name of saving the world. Steam curls in thick tendrils along the vaulted ceilings before being sucked out through the vents, a constant hum. The water, treated with salts and minerals to replicate the composition of EdoStar’s famous hot springs, glow faintly blue under the light.

Some swear that the baths have healing properties, that they can leach even neural fatigue from a pilot’s mind. Phainon isn’t sure he believes that — Professor Anaxa certainly doesn’t — but right now, he’ll take any reprieve he can get.

He sinks deeper into the scalding water, letting the heat work its way into his tight shoulders. But no amount of steam or heat can soften the way your words had cut earlier, like a knife sliding between his ribs.

“I don’t want him in my head!”

The memory of your voice, sharp with revulsion, echoes in his skull like a bad neural feedback loop. He exhales sharply, smacks the water with his fist, watching the ripples distort his reflection on the surface.

The door creaks open without ceremony.

Mydei stands in the entrance, dressed in nothing but a towel slung low around his hips, crimson tattoos on full display. He raises an eyebrow at the sight of Phainon.

“You’re here,” he observes, tone flat as if commenting on the weather.

Phainon attempts a smile of acknowledgement, barely gets halfway before he fails and just kind of… grimaces. Mydei’s other eyebrow joins the first. 

“That bad, huh?” He steps across the wet tiles, a smaller towel draped over one shoulder, and sinks into an adjacent bath with a splash that sends water sloshing over the edges.

For a long moment, the only sound is of the distant hum of the filtration system, and the steady drip of condensation from the vents above. Then Phainon’s watch chimes. A message from Hyacine flashes across the display.

[Second round of NeuroSync scheduled two days from now.]

It’s followed by:

[All the best! Don’t let today get you down!]

Phainon throws his head back, feels the migraine building in his skull. No amount of forced tests will change the fundamental truth: you don’t want him in your head. And the thought of having to coerce you into it sits like a stone in his gut.

“Heard they NeuroSynced you today with someone Aglaea scraped off the streets,” Mydei says, leaning back against the stone edge casually and golden eyes watching him very, very carefully. Phainon sighs, sinks a little more into the water.

“I’d forgotten how fast word travels around here.”

“Thousands of people jam packed into a single building…” Mydei shrugs, sending ripples across the water. “Not like there’s much else happening in the Shatterdome.” His eyes flick to Phainon. “Though the General was… vague, about the results.”

A beat. Phainon stares at the ceiling, where the droplets gather and fall in a slow rhythm. Again and again.

“It didn’t go great,” he admits.

Mydei studies him. “You sound… reluctant. That’s odd. I thought you’d be clawing at the chance to get back in a Jaeger.”

He exhales through his nose, watches the steam curl along the water’s surface. “It’s… complicated.” The word feels inadequate, but nothing else quite fits.

Mydei’s expression shifts ever so subtly — a slight narrowing of his eyes, the barest tilt of the head. He’s always been quick to catch on, to understand. Too quick, sometimes. “Ah.” He leans back against the stone edge, arms spread along the rim. “So it’s that person.”

Phainon grimaces. “Too obvious?”

“You’ve only ever called one thing in your life complicated.” Mydei rubs at the stubble along his jaw. “Can’t say I’m surprised Aglaea went digging for her. With your track record, I thought she’d have better luck finding a kaiju that wanted to drift with you.” That familiar smirk returns. “So? How was drifting with the hero of your heart?”

The old nickname lands like a poorly thrown punch. The hero of his heart. Gods, he had used to think that way of you. You were the reason he’d ever joined the Ranger program in the first place, after Aedes Elysiae had fallen and taken everything he’d known and loved with it. And now… now it all just…

“Pretty terrible,” Phainon murmurs, the confession escaping him before he can think of any other way to put it. “She rejected the neural link before we could even establish a proper sync.”

The memory surface, unbidden. The press conference after that first victory in Kephale, the parade through Okhema’s streets. The desperate, foolish hope that had lodged in his chest, like something fragile pushing through concrete: if you were out there, you would see this. They were on every television screen, their faces plastered across every news report in Amphoreus. You would see them. You would come find them, and—

You hadn’t.

Phainon had only found you years later. 

They’d been rumours first. A skilled kaiju parts smuggler working with the Theoros Lygus, who had been one of Aglaea’s biggest headaches — still is, actually. Just another criminal, they’d said at first. Except this one had a wicked expertise in dismantling kaiju. Except this one was sniffing dangerously close to international levels of crime. Except this one…

Had a name he recognised.

He’d gone to see for himself. The prison’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the sound like static in his skull. And then, you.

Alive.

The realisation had hit like a shotgun round to the chest. They’d mourned you. Held a memorial with an empty casket just for the two of them — everyone else who’d known you was long gone. And yet, here you sat, on the cold cement floor, face bruised black and blue and still smiling sharp enough to draw blood.

“Phainon,” you’d said upon seeing him, voice so familiar yet utterly changed. It’d wrapped like a noose around his name. “Fancy meeting you here. Seeing each other like this… fate definitely has some sense of humour, eh?”

He’d gripped the bars until his knuckles turned white, trying to reconcile the ghost from his memories with the reality in front of him. The hero of his heart… Where was the kid who’d patched his scraped knees with chimera bandaids when he’d fallen chasing kites? The one who’d pretended not to be scared of spiders to comfort Cyrene as she cried?

The softness was gone, the spaces left behind filled with something sharp, jagged. Leaving behind someone he could barely recognise. Maybe you did die that day Aedes Elysiae fell. Just… not the way he’d thought.

“Look at you now,” you’d said, gestured at him in mock presentation. “All grown up and shiny and heroic. The great Deliverer, gracing us common criminals with his presence.”

The words had hit him like punches. Your eyes — gods, they were the worst part. Still the same colour, but hardened into something cold and glittering. Unrepentant. Unrecognisable.

The words had tumbled out before he could stop them. I can get you out of here. Come— come with me. We can give you a fresh start.

Please.

You’d looked at him then — really looked at him — with eyes that held none of the warmth he remembered. “I don’t need any saving,” you’d answered. “Especially not from some PPDC poster boy playing hero.”

But now, he knows. You’d been there. The drift — however brief, disjointed, fractured it was — had shown him that much. That fractured moment: you, standing at the crowd’s edge, just… watching. Then, turning away.

Why? Why do this? The question burns hotter than the waters, clinging like the steam to his skin. He doesn’t understand.

Mydei’s voice pulls him back to the present. “That’s normal, isn’t it? Not wanting someone in your head.”

Phainon blinks. He’s gotten lost in his thoughts again. “Eh?”

“Drifting is… intimate.” Mydei’s face contorts at the word like he’s bitten into something sour. “I don’t think anyone wants a stranger poking around in their head. Hell, I barely wanted Cassie in mine, when we first started out. That’s probably not something you’re familiar with, considering that Cyrene knew what you looked like in diapers.” Phainon opens his mouth and Mydei holds up a hand. “Yeah, yeah, I’m aware that this one happens to be your childhood friend too. But I wouldn’t exactly call the two of you friends now.”

He’s right. Phainon stares at his distorted reflection in the water for a few moments, watching the way steam warps his features. “How did it go? For you and Castorice?”

Mydei almost grins at that. “I was your typical hothead ranger recruit. Volunteered for the initial test phases of NeuroSync. Cas was a nerd from the Neuroscience department. She was so soft spoken, I thought she’d crack under the pressure.” His smile turns into a smirk, almost proud. “Turns out she has the stubbornness of a kaiju and the patience of a saint. Don’t think we would have made it work otherwise.”

Phainon’s fingers twitch against the tiles. “Still hit 82% sync, though.” He hasn’t seen a number higher than twenty in months.

You have baggage, Hyacine had told him, during one of his monthly psychology evaluations. Gods, he knows. But everyone has some kind of baggage, some way or another. Phainon just needs to find a way to stuff it away, bury it until he can be useful again. There are people out there who need him.

“Eventually. Took some communication and effort, too.” Mydei’s smirk softens into something more genuine. “Wasn’t about liking each other. Just… understanding.” He taps his temple. “She sees the shit up here and doesn’t flinch. I see hers and don’t judge.”

“Guess Cyrene and I had it on easy mode,” Phainon murmurs. They’d been as tight as siblings long before they’d ever stepped foot into a Conn-Pod.

Gods, he misses her. Her easy humour, the teasing. The way she’d known exactly when to push and when to comfort. Cyrene had always been the smarter, more emotionally aware one of the two of them — she’d have had you both laughing over drinks by now. 

She would have been so happy to see you here, too. But the opportunity has passed, sailed on by on the river of time. And there’s no point in crying over something that has already happened. The only thing he can do is what’s in front of him right now.

The silence stretches, only punctuated by the quiet sound of water rippling. Mydei watches him for a few moments, before he suddenly speaks up.

“Fifty credits says I can outlast you in this bath.”

Phainon blinks, and then huffs a laugh. It’s hardly a subtle attempt to take his mind off things, but… “That’s not a fair bet and you know it. I’ve been stewing here since shift change.”

“What’s the matter, Deliverer?” Mydei’s grin turns sharp. “Scared of a little heat?”

The challenge makes Phainon snort. He rolls his eyes, but settles deeper into the water until it laps at his chin. “You’re on.”

For the first time all day, the weight in his chest feels a little lighter.

[mewguca]

do you ever think about how moon is one of the few Iterators to ever be "born"? (having her umbilical severed)

I wonder if that was intentional symbolism; Moon has a renewed perspective that gives her (ironically) more hope and vitality for life itself, despite almost dying.

of course, as death and birth are connected like a ring (or maybe a spiral?) I suppose it makes a ton of sense, actually. Something really fun to think about.

God I love rain world.

I wanted to make this some Full Ramble tm but I'm honestly too exhausted / busy from Job rn so this is just a twitter crosspost. but I hope this can spark some meaningful rumination / discussion. ^^

and in case anyone is confused — the umbilical refers to the puppet's wires, not the armature that supports it. I think it was very purposeful that it was called an umbilical specifically.

This symbolizes iterators as unborn, a trait they seem to share with Echoes, who often assume a somewhat fetal position. Echoes also exist in the Interstice instead of as living beings within the material plane who experience death and rebirth. Iterators do not die easily, and so they are not born easily, either. There are some notable differences of course — Echoes are partway towards ascension; if they can let go of what keeps them from moving on, they can experience the final "death" and final "rebirth" — Ascension. The ultimate change and the culmination of one's thread. Iterators, meanwhile, are designed not to ascend (without finding the Solution first). Of course, entropy shall inevitably claim them, and the Void Sea shall inevitably claim their structures as it eats away at the world beneath them.

So, in the end... everything moves on. but there's plenty to talk about before that end, and I do find the imagery of Iterators as unborn to be quite fascinating. I don't think it's mere coincidence that Moon seems to be accepting and at peace with her place in the world while ALSO having her umbilical severed. Again there's a lot to ramble on about with moon being changed so drastically it is a sort of rebirth in itself but I am. tired. Apologies for any poor / confusing wording.

[in-the-multiverse]

HotGuy is the bravest, sharpest, most handsomest hero in all of Hermit City. That’s what he’d tell you, anyway. Nobody can agree on what HotGuy is. A hero to some, villain to others. There’s a universal agreement he’s a wanna-be show off of some kind. Him and that pesky bird…

Scar is determined to win over the citys’ hearts (and charitable diamonds) so who better to face off against than King Cleo? With his charming smile, trusty bow, and sidekick CuteGuy, nothing can go wrong!

Coming soon to a theater near you /j

(but these are screenshot style pieces for what I imagine an animated hotguy movie would look like. More ramblings about this au below)

[trailer] / 1

King Cleo would IMMEDIATELY put them in their place like a teacher lecturing the entire class on how they’ve been misbehaving. But that’s no fun right away, so why not let them learn their lesson? >:)

HotGuy and CuteGuy are an iconic duo in Hermit City. King Cleo and Entropy (Cub) are another iconic duo. Whether each team is heroic or villainous depends on who you ask. Even the city residents are split on opinions

Except Bdubs. He runs a podcast spilling conspiracy theories and dragging almost every “hero” name into the mud (his attitude is very inspired by J. Jonah Jameson from Spiderman). He believes they’re menaces and should stay out of the city’s local problems because 9/10 they somehow make it worse. He’s very critical of these 4 in particular, and it doesn’t help that they all like to personally mess with him for the fun of it

Far off in the city outskirts, a living folktale hides in the forest. An amalgamation of creatures that make up one giant monster, and coming across their path is…certainly an experience. They speak in poetry and think out loud, peering deep into the soul of their visitor with just a few words. Sightings are few and far in between, but each interaction is memorable- to say the least. Their name is Joe Hills. A very close friend to King Cleo (but nobody else knows that)

And! an explanation to HotGuy’s mobility aid

With the best high-tech, Scar’s wheelchair can reshape into a mechanical griffin with the press of a button. It lets him take to the sky and hotguy targets! Griffins also have conflicting symbolism, which reflects his persona

Good and Evil. Light and Dark. They’re said to be harbingers of chaos. Mischief certainly seems to follow HotGuy wherever he goes. Be wary of his smirk

They’re also said to be gentle protectors. He shows up to help citizens and tiny creatures alike. With a voice so soothing, any trouble they face is wiped off like nothing (or, ends up feeling a little easier to handle)

Griffins are one of the most remarkable creatures in mythology, their stories told and twisted through generations, but how does the griffin tell his own story?

[scribbledswans]

✦ lakeside desire

Till death do us part. But what do you do when it finally does? More importantly; Is it considered infidelity to fall in love with someone you're in hell with, even if you'd been married to another in your life?

WARNINGS:

Kind of a weird moral dillemma in this one, Potentially OOC Guest 1337

This fic is also up on ao3

There's nothing Guest finds more calming than the shore during downtime. Distorted images of the moon dance on the surface of the lake, old wood of the dock creaking under the strain of each step he takes. He fidgets with the wedding band wrapped around his finger, chest heavy with thought.

Some horribly selfish part of him hopes his wife didn't move on. Guest shakes away the thought as quickly as he can. It would be cruel to doom his daughter to a life without a father. He hopes, for Charlotte's sake, that Daisy managed to move on without him. Whether or not she found someone new to give her love to is something he doesn't need to think about. A bigger question settles on his mind, something more real than hypotheticals regarding a world he's no longer part of.

Is it unfaithful for a dead man to fall for someone else?

Guest runs his hand through his hair, the blue strands becoming messy and disheveled at his attempt to self soothe. He regrets leaving his wife and daughter behind, but there's nothing he can do now to change that outcome. He made his choices, but you?

God. You deserved a long life, something kind and comfortable. Yet here you were, subjected to the same conceivably eternal torment as him. His gut tells him it isn't fair— some cruel force punishing the innocent for a grief they can't control. Here he is, though, counting the seconds before the peace becomes entropy.

And here you were, suddenly, tired eyes looking him over like he was a stray dog.

"Hey, can't sleep?" you ask through a yawn, taking a seat next to him on the dock.

Guest looks you over, slightly concerned by your half-awake wandering. "You should be resting while you can. It's important that you make the most of the downtime, you never know when we'll be sent back out there again."

A peaceful look washes over you when you look out at the water. "I just wanted to visit. I don't get to see you outside of treating your injuries."

This strong, sudden sense of yearning bubbles into his throat, and he does everything in his power to swallow it down. Your ability to patch him up quickly is what helps him keep his head at times, and he wants to make sure it stays that way. If he lets his feelings off a leash, it'd make these sick games that much harder for everyone.

Guest says nothing, returning to fidget with the tarnished gold ring on his finger, a symbol of faith now reduced to a mere question. His gaze darts to your hands, eyeing the way you twist your own ring around your finger, staring off into the water. He entertains the idea of you feeling the same towards him— pining for companionship in such an unforgiving environment. Wondering if it makes you any less faithful to your living loved one if you were to act on this want.

"Hey." You say, eyes still fixed on the water, "Do you ever think about them?"

He chuckles, a dry and mournful sound. "When It's quiet."

You don't acknowledge his response, your hands coming to a halt. Guest watches you bring your knees to your chest, some of your hair falling out of its neatly kept place. It's here, seated before the quiet water with your face lit up by the moon, that he lets himself indulge. Despite the exhaustion around your eyes and the mess of your hair, you're pretty. He can't quite recall when he started noticing it, but he's seen it for a while now. The crease of your brow tells him you're worried about something. The way you chew on your lip tells him it's serious.

Guest hesitates. He's not much for overthinking, that's part of his efficiency, but the things you do his brain are too much.

Regardless, "Are you okay?" He asks anyway.

You look at him, finally, and your expression is a mix of fear— no— apprehension, and doubt. Guest tilts his head, placing his hand on your shoulder to ground you a bit. You blink, and shake your head.

"Yeah. I mean, I don't know." The words clumsily fall from your mouth, "I want something to happen. I know it shouldn't but..."

You trail off, eyes flickering from his face to his hands. "It keeps me up at night knowing it could."

Silence. Uncomfortable, grating silence, thickens the air around the both of you. Guest begs his heart to stop beating so loud, like you'll hear it through his chest. He swallows hard, trying to scan your face for any sort of clue. Deep down, he knows, but he's not impulsive. He needs you to say it.

"What is it that you want to happen?" His saliva is napalm in his throat when he swallows, ignoring the way his heart sinks into his gut when you look away from him.

Then, a quiet murmur. Something secretive and vulnerable, something resembling a hushed confession caged away behind clenched teeth.

"I want to kiss you. I don't know if I should."

Guest's jaw falls slack for a second, only a second, expecting words to follow. Instead, he's silent, and he pulls his hand away from you. He can't help but feel like he had himself doomed. As much as he wants this, and trust him, he wants it bad— he has a wife and kid. You have a spouse.

At least, the both of you had those things. The realization sort of graces his conscious as he looks back at you. You don't have them, not anymore. Neither does he. Death was very sure to bring the two of you here alone, regardless of how many people waited for you at home.

His hand meets your shoulder once more, prompting you to look at him. A calloused palm greets your jaw, the hand not on your shoulder cradling your face in the slightest of touch. Dark blue eyes flicker to your lips, and back to your face, begging for some sort of go ahead. When you lean in, he does too— rough lips connecting to yours in desperation.

He feels your hands travel to the nape of his neck, pulling him closer to you in unabashed want. Your lips are chapped, cold air and poor sleep making for a careless and rough kiss for the both of you.

After a few seconds, you pull away. Guest caresses your cheek with his thumb, rough hands feeling like satin in your lovesick stupor. He watches as you stand up, a little bit of shock and well met excitement plastering your face. A small smile tugs at his lips, warmth finding its way to his face when he sees you twirl your hair kind of like a schoolgirl.

"You should sleep now. I promise I'll try to rest soon too."

You nod sheepishly, returning to your cabin not long after. When he knows you're gone, he presses the back of fingers to his lips, feeling the warmth of where yours had been.

[puchinaa]

(Kūdō | 空洞) - the main character of Haruki Murakami's book "A Wild Sheep Chase". Since he is nameless in the original, I decided to give him a name meaning "Void" Callsign: エントロピー ( jp. Entropy) EGO: "In Search of Lost Time" {I'm not looking for answers, just the right questions. And sometimes, the perfect ears to hear them} His weapon is a stationery knife with the symbols "entropy" scratched on it, which is not typical for the usual weapons of sinners…