saphicauthor921

[saphicauthor921]

The steady beep of medical equipment punctuated the silence like a metronome, each tone marking another second that 001 remained lost to them. Violet sat rigid in her chair, her eyes fixed on the still form before her, searching for any flicker of movement, any sign of consciousness returning. The medical bay's harsh lighting cast shadows across 001's face, making her appear even more pallid, more fragile than she truly was.

Four days. Four days since Kharkov had beaten 001 into unconsciousness. Four days of Violet barely sleeping, barely eating, her focus narrowed to a singular purpose: bringing 001 back.

"Your vitals are stable." Violet murmured, more to herself than to her unconscious friend. Her fingers danced across the medical console, adjusting parameters, checking readings for the hundredth time that day. "Brain activity normal. No physical reason you shouldn't be awake."

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and studied 001's face. The bruises had begun to fade, purple giving way to sickly yellow-green. The swelling had subsided. Physically, she was healing. But her mind remained unreachable, locked away in some dark corner where Violet couldn't follow.

"What did he do to you?" she whispered, her voice cracking slightly. "What did he say?"

The memory of Kharkov standing over 001's crumpled form flashed through her mind—his cruel smile, the casual brutality with which he'd struck her down. Violet's hands clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms until they left crescent-shaped indentations in her skin. The pain helped ground her, kept her from spiraling into the rage that simmered just beneath the surface.

The door to the medical bay slid open with a soft hiss. Violet didn't turn, already recognizing the footsteps—light, hesitant, guilty.

"Any change?" Tyche asked, her voice uncharacteristically subdued.

Violet shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. Her relationship with Tyche had grown strained in the days since their return from Salphraxi Prime. Not because she blamed Tyche for what happened—logically, she knew no one could have predicted Kharkov's appearance or his overwhelming power—but because every time she looked at Tyche, she saw the moment when everything went wrong. When 001 faced Kharkov alone while the rest of them were incapacitated.

Tyche moved closer, her usual boundless energy contained, restrained. She placed a small object on the table beside 001's bed—a carved wooden figure, roughly the shape of a star.

"I made it," she explained when Violet finally glanced at it. "Thought it might... I don't know. Give her something to come back to."

The gesture was so earnest, so typically Tyche in its hopeful naivety, that Violet felt her anger soften slightly. "Thanks," she managed, the word coming out more clipped than she intended.

Tyche lingered, shifting her weight from foot to foot. "Eli says you haven't slept properly in days."

"Eli should mind his own business."

"Vi..." Tyche began, then stopped, clearly choosing her words carefully. "You can't help her if you collapse."

Violet's jaw tightened. "I'm fine."

"You're not," Tyche countered, a hint of her usual stubbornness returning. "And Numbers wouldn't want—"

"Don't," Violet cut her off sharply. "Don't tell me what she would want. You don't know her like I do."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implications neither was ready to address. Tyche's expression flickered with hurt before settling into resignation.

"Kael wants to see you," she said after a moment. "When you're ready. Something about the data we recovered from Salphraxi Prime."

Violet nodded curtly, already turning her attention back to the medical console. "I'll go when I can."

Resurgence Orphan 001 Chapter 11

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63851443

[saphicauthor921]

We built a chamber of voices,

each scream a ricochet—

*Too woke!* cracks the left wall,

*Not enough!* shatters the right,

while the center trembles,

a bridge of glass

no one dares cross.

They say the story is a battleground

characters reduced to flags,

love measured in decibels,

art smothered by agendas.

A kiss is either a manifesto

or a corruption,

never just a kiss.

But listen—

beneath the static, a whisper:

*Let them breathe.*

Let the gay prince ache

for his kingdom *and* his knight,

let the lesbian astronaut

chart galaxies *and* her heart,

let their humanity be the arc,

not the asterisk.

The purists howl *Propaganda!*

The zealots chant *Progress!*

But in the quiet, a child reads,

untangling the noise—

finding herself in the margins,

a hero in the silence

between shouts.

Echoes fade.

Truth is not a slogan,

but a slow, stubborn bloom.

Let the story be the soil—

deep enough to hold

both roots and wings,

where every color grows

without permission.

[saphicauthor921]

001 slowly approached Kael, her steps hesitant, as if the air between them was weighed down by unspoken pain. "Sorry for, um… hurting you, I guess," she murmured, her voice uncertain. But then her expression hardened, raw emotion bleeding into her words. "It’s just—you made me *relive* it. Why? Why did you do that?" There was pain in her voice, in her eyes, in the way her fingers twitched as if resisting the urge to lash out again.

Kael met her gaze, unwavering. "Because," he said, his tone steady yet firm, "I needed you to face the trauma head-on." He let the words settle before continuing. "Vorylium is important to your power. The raw energy of the Etherflow courses through it—untamed, limitless. That’s why it’s such a valuable fuel source… and why it can help you grow even stronger."

His words hung between them, but 001 could only hear the echoes of her past, the ghosts that Voryllium had dragged back to the surface.

Tyche opened her mouth to say something about Kael, but Violet quickly shook her head, silently signaling for her to let 001 handle it herself. Tyche sighed, her arms crossing as she leaned back, silently waiting to see how 001 would respond.

She knew this was 001's moment, and despite the urge to step in, Tyche trusted her friend to handle the situation in her own way.

001 stared at Kael, her jaw clenched so tight it ached. "Is strength all you care about?" Her voice trembled, but not from fear—from fury, hot and raw. "You said I could be more than a weapon. Now you’re saying my pain is just… noise to you?"

Kael’s mask of stoicism slipped—just a flicker of guilt in the twitch of his brow. "That’s not what I—"

"You drowned me in it!" she spat, stepping closer. The air reeked of ozone, her fists sparking faintly with unstable energy. "You didn’t just make me relive the mines. You made me lose her all over again. And for what? To prove I’m still broken?"

Kael’s gaze dropped to the Voryllium shard glinting on the floor between them. "To prove you can survive it," he said quietly. "If you fight a General like this—distracted, angry, hurting—they’ll exploit every scar. And if you die?" He met her eyes, voice hardening. "That blood is on my hands. Not yours."

001 laughed—a brittle, shattered sound. "You think I care about blood right now? I feel her, Kael. Every time I touch that damn mineral, it’s like she’s dying in my arms again. And you knew it would hurt me. You knew."

Silence thickened. Kael’s throat bobbed as he swallowed whatever apology he’d rehearsed. "There’s no ‘better way’ to grow power like yours," he said finally. "Only through fire."

001 turned away, her shoulders rigid. "Then let me burn alone next time." She paused at the door, voice softening to a wounded rasp. “And Kael? Fire doesn’t make you stronger. It just leaves you empty.”

The Voryllium shard hummed faintly in the silence, its glow dimming as her footsteps faded.

Violet leaned her head down the hallway, making sure 001 was out of earshot before turning back to Kael. With a sharp smack to his shoulder, she shot him a glare. "She's absolutely right, Kael. The fuck is your problem?"

Tyche nodded, her expression stern. "Yeah, that was seriously uncool. You left her a complete wreck." Her voice held a mix of disappointment and concern, clearly upset by Kael’s actions.

Kael dragged a hand down his face, the weight of command etching lines deeper into his brow. "I had to get through to her," he said, his voice fraying at the edges. "That pain’s got its claws so deep, it’ll kill her. Or worse—get someone else killed." He turned to Violet and Tyche, his jaw tightening. "We’ve got a time bomb on this ship. The Etherflow isn’t some parlor trick—it eats people. And right now? It’s feeding on her rage like a damn parasite."

A bitter laugh escaped him. "You think I like making her relive that hell? Every time she flinches, I see my daughter’s face...the way the empire gave her nightmares. Every damn time." His fist clenched, knuckles whitening. "But if she doesn’t claw her way out of that tunnel? We all burn."

His gaze was unwavering, but his voice softened—a rare crack in the armor. "Ask them. Ask Ryn. Ask my daughter. They’ll tell you—I’ve buried too many friends to let another name join that list. Even if it means she hates me.”

Violet and Tyche both clenched their jaws, the frustration simmering beneath the surface. Tyche looked away, clearly trying to keep her emotions in check, but the tension was palpable. The silence stretched on for a while, heavy and uncomfortable, before Violet finally broke it with a deep, clearing breath.

[saphicauthor921]

001 stood in the ship’s gym, her fists crackling with Etherflow as they crashed into the punching bag over and over. Her breaths were ragged, her knuckles raw, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. The rage and instinct drove her forward, each strike sending a shockwave of energy through the room. Every impact wasn’t just against the bag—it was against time itself, dragging her back to the past, to the mines, to her.

Two years and three months ago.

The day had been endless. Hours of backbreaking labor in the Zarkovian mines, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on her like the jagged walls of their prison. When their break finally came, 001 barely had the strength to move. She collapsed onto the cold warehouse floor, staring up at the blank ceiling.

Then, warmth.

271 lay beside her, wrapping an arm around her in a way that made the emptiness feel less crushing. Held in her arms, 001 felt—just for a moment—safe.

"Please don’t join them," 001 whispered, her breath uneven, panic creeping into her voice. "What if you die?"

271’s voice was steady, certain. Her words echoed in 001’s mind, branding themselves there. "I won’t."

That moment replayed in her mind like a curse. Over and over. The certainty in 271’s voice. The warmth in her arms. The crushing silence that followed.

With a final, furious strike, she hit the bag so hard the metal chain snapped, sending it hurtling across the gym. It slammed into the ship’s wall with a heavy thud, leaving a dent in the metal.

001 stood there, her shoulders rising and falling with each labored breath, hands shaking—not just from exhaustion, but from the weight of memories she could never outrun.

001 heard a sharp whistle of appreciation from the door, and as she turned, she saw 271 leaning casually against the doorframe. "Impressive," she said with a warm smile, before, in the blink of an eye, vanishing. Replacing her in the same spot was Violet, still wearing that same confident, knowing smile.

She spoke with an almost playful tone, "But I think you need more than just destroying gym equipment to…help yourself." Violet walked over to a nearby bench press, sitting down and patting the spot next to her. The silent invitation was clear—she wanted 001 to sit down.

[saphicauthor921]

reblog if you support:

• pre- or non-hrt trans people

• genderfluid/non-binary people who want hrt

• genderfluid/non-binary people who don't want hrt

• pre- or non-op trans people

• tall transfems

• short transmascs

• fat/plus size trans people

• fem trans men

• masc trans women

• transmascs who don't/can't/won't bind

• transfems who don't/can't/won't tuck

• transfems with wide shoulders

• transmascs with wide hips

• genderfluid/non-binary people with facial hair or tits

• genderfluid people whose presentation is static but their gender is not

• non-binary people whose desired presentation is how society says their agab should present

• transmascs who bind but still have a visible chest

• non- conventionally-attractive trans people

• non-conforming trans people

• non-"passing" trans people

• non-stereotypical trans people

We don't all fit into cisnormative society's bullshit stereotypes!

I'm trying to prove a point to some transphobic relatives. Back me up tumblr.

[saphicauthor921]

As they walked toward the dropship, the difference between it and their main vessel became glaringly obvious. The dropship gleamed under the dim hangar lights, its metal plating smooth and nearly untouched by time. The systems were top-of-the-line, humming with quiet efficiency—sleek consoles, pristine wiring, no jury-rigged repairs or flickering displays. It was the kind of transport that belonged to a high-ranking fleet, not a crew constantly scraping by on whatever they could scavenge.

001 slowed her pace, eyes narrowing as she took in the immaculate ship. It felt out of place, an anomaly in their worn-down reality. Every detail of it, from the polished hull to the whisper-quiet thrusters, only made the cracks and creaks of their actual home all the more apparent.

She finally spoke, her voice edged with disbelief.

"Why does… this tiny transport look more intact than the ship we actually live on?" Her fingers ran over the smooth metal as if expecting it to flake away, revealing the same patched-up mess they were used to. But it didn’t. It was real. And that unsettled her more than it should have.

Violet’s lips curved into a wry smile, her eyes gleaming with a mixture of pride and mischief. "Because I made this," she said, her voice carrying a confident edge. She gave a slight nod toward the door, her hand motioning for the team to move forward. "C’mon, everyone on."

As they stepped into the dropship, the interior was just as pristine as the exterior—sleek control panels, cushioned seats that didn’t creak under pressure, and a cockpit that practically whispered luxury. Everything about it felt like it belonged to a fleet that actually had resources, not a crew held together by luck and questionable repairs.

001 settled into her seat, her expression twisted in confusion as she eyed the controls. She ran a hand over the smooth dashboard, her fingers brushing against interfaces far more advanced than what she was used to. Finally, she turned to the others, brow furrowed.

"So… how does this thing even move?" she asked.

Tyche shut the door with a soft thud, watching as it slid closed with a hiss, sealing them in. Violet moved swiftly to the helm, settling into the captain's chair with an air of practiced confidence. She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes meeting theirs. "Like this," she said, her voice steady as she activated the controls.

The dropship’s engines rumbled to life, a deep, resonant hum that felt impossibly smooth compared to the groaning protests of their main vessel. With a barely noticeable shudder, the ship lifted off the hangar deck, its thrusters engaging with precise, effortless control.

As they ascended, the bay doors yawned open, revealing the vast stretch of space beyond. The only barrier between them and the void was the shimmering blue haze of the oxygen shield. Then, with a controlled burst of speed, they punched through it, the transition seamless—no turbulence, no resistance, just the quiet hum of technology working as it should.

Beyond the shield, the backdrop of endless stars stretched out before them, punctuated by the looming presence of Zorkaahvi Prime. The planet dominated their view, its swirling cloud formations casting shifting shadows over the rugged surface below. From the dropship’s vantage point, Zorkaahvi Prime stretched beneath them, a striking blend of crimson and sapphire hues. Vast valleys of red grass rippled in the wind, their color a stark contrast against patches of deep blue terrain. Towering spires rose in perfect circular formations, their sleek, alien architecture resembling clustered cities from above.

Scattered across the landscape, winding rivers and shimmering lakes carved through the surface, their waters reflecting the planet’s dual-colored sky. Small towns nestled in the valleys, their structures dwarfed by the looming presence of jagged mountains and massive caverns that plunged into the depths of the world. It was a planet of extremes.

Tyche’s smile softened, a hint of sadness in her eyes as she gazed out at the vastness beyond the ship’s window. "You know, Olive wanted to take me to the stars," she murmured, her voice quiet, almost lost in the hum of the ship. "But I clung to home. Probably would’ve for years to come if I had the choice. But... to be here, and see the majesty of it all... it’s so amazing." Her gaze lingered on the stars, her mind drifting. "I just wish I could share the view with them... I miss them so much..."

Violet’s hand gently patted her back, offering the kind of sympathy that spoke louder than words. "We know, Life Support," she said softly. "We’ll get them back. But right now, I need your head in the game, okay? Can you do that for me?"

Tyche took a moment, her eyes steadying as she let out a slow breath. "Yeah," she nodded, her voice stronger now. "I can do that... Thanks, Vi."

Violet gave a small nod, her expression softening before she turned her attention to 001. "No problem. How about you, Numbers? This is your first new planet." Her gaze shifted, an unspoken challenge in her eyes, as though daring 001 to take in the moment, just as Tyche had.

001’s eyes widened, the vibrant hues of the planet reflected in them. A slow smile spread across her face, and for a moment, the weight of their mission seemed to fade. She pressed a hand against the glass, as if trying to reach out and touch the wild, untamed world below.

“…This planet…” she whispered, her voice filled with something rare—pure, unfiltered wonder. “It’s chaotic… it’s free… it’s… it’s beautiful.”

There was no order to its landscapes, no symmetry in its design. And that, more than anything, made 001 feel alive.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63851443

[saphicauthor921]

Meet Starbit, our lovable spaceship mascot! Starbit is a wholesome and adventurous vessel, eager to take you on an unforgettable journey through the story of Resurgence. With a heart full of wonder and a passion for storytelling, Starbit thrives on sharing tales of hope and heroism. But beware—Starbit has no patience for tyrants and will always stand against oppression. Buckle up and let Starbit guide you through an epic adventure!

[saphicauthor921]

After a few more tests, 001 found herself standing in the center of a simulated battlefield, surrounded by the cold, mechanical forms of Empire droids. The same droids that had once loomed over her, their faceless steel visors staring down as they enforced the Empire’s will. The same droids that had imprisoned her. That had stolen years of her life. Her grip on the weapon tightened as memories surged, raw and unbidden.

Two years ago.

Cold. That was all she felt at night.

The damp, unyielding ground pressed against her skin, offering no comfort, only the constant ache of exhaustion. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, metal, and something worse—the faint, lingering scent of death. The screams had long since stopped. That didn’t make it any easier.

She curled into herself in the darkness, the only light coming from the dull red glow of the droids patrolling overhead. Their movements were precise, calculated—never wavering, never hesitating. They did not care if the slaves were awake or asleep, if they were cold or hungry. The Empire had programmed them for one purpose: efficiency. And efficiency had no room for mercy.

Slavery was unbearable, but it was routine. And for most, routine was survival. Keep your head down, meet your quota, and live to see another day. But not everyone could accept that fate.

Azure didn’t.

He was different.

Tall, lean, and battle-worn, but not broken. His piercing blue eyes gleamed with something none of them had left—purpose. He refused to go by a number, refused to bow his head, refused to let the Empire strip him of his identity.

And people followed him.

"You all know what to do," he had whispered in the dead of night, his voice a quiet spark in the suffocating darkness. "If we strike at the same moment, we can overwhelm them. Take a ship. Escape. Be free. If you trust me."

And they did.

He inspired something dangerous—hope. Hope that they could be more than tools, more than disposable cogs in the Empire’s machine. One by one, they swore their loyalty, whispering their oaths when the droids weren’t listening. The plan was set. The moment would come.

But fear is louder than hope.

023 was afraid.

He wanted to protect them all—believed, in his heart, that if he gave up Azure, the rest would be spared. That a single sacrifice would be enough to appease the Empire.

He was wrong.

001 remembered the way the air had smelled of burnt flesh and ozone as blaster fire tore through the gathered slaves. The way their bodies crumpled like discarded dolls, their eyes frozen in shock, their lips still parted mid-scream.

Two hundred.

Two hundred men, women, and children butchered for daring to dream of freedom.

Azure was the first to fall, his head held high even as they executed him in front of everyone. 023, the traitor, was the last. His pleas for mercy meant nothing to the Empire.

001 had survived only because she had stayed out of it.

She had lived, but at what cost?

Now.

The simulation flickered, but 001 barely noticed. Her breathing was shallow, her fingers trembling. The droids in front of her shifted, waiting for her move.

For a moment, she was back there, in the damp, suffocating darkness. Watching. Helpless.

Not this time.

Her grip tightened. Her heart pounded.

And then, she moved.

Violet's forehead creased and her grip on her data pad tightened. the readings clearly showing 001's distress and anger. a flash of sympathy in her eyes before she shook herself a bit, taking a sip of coffee, and going back to monitoring her. violet knew if it became too much, 001 would stop the program. the fact she hadn't meant all was well for the time being. At least Violet hoped so. "She's strong willed." Violet observed, mostly to herself but also to Kael who stood by her.

001 stared down as tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision before falling, one by one, onto the cold, simulated floor. Each drop echoed in the hollow silence, swallowed by the hum of the training program. Her chest heaved, her breath ragged, but beneath the grief, something else stirred.

Rage.

It clawed its way up from the depths of her soul, raw and consuming. The anguish, the helplessness, the years of stolen time, stolen freedom—stolen self. It burned inside her, a fire too fierce to be contained.

Her fingers clenched around the hilt of her weapon, knuckles whitening as she let the fury take hold. She moved before she could think, her body driven by something primal. With a wild swing, she brought the Etherflow Axe crashing down, striking the nearest droid. The blow sent it reeling, sparks erupting from its fractured casing.

She wasn’t trained, wasn’t skilled. Her strikes were erratic, fueled by emotion rather than precision. But it didn’t matter. The droids fell one by one under the sheer force of her onslaught. Each swing carried the weight of every moment of suffering, every silent scream she had swallowed, every stolen dream.

Until only one remained.

Her pulse thundered in her ears as she turned on it, the axe whirring with energy in her grip. She lunged, bringing the blade down with brutal force. Then again. And again. She didn’t stop, couldn’t stop.

Metal shattered, wires tore, circuits sparked and died—but she kept going, long after the droid had collapsed into a heap of unrecognizable scrap.

"You stole my life." she screamed, her voice breaking. The axe slammed down.

"Stole my dreams!" Another strike, harder this time, sending shards of metal flying.

"Stole my identity!" Her vision blurred, her arms trembling. "Now I don’t even know who I am!"

Her breath hitched, her strength finally giving out. The axe slipped from her grasp, clattering uselessly to the floor.

And then, she fell.

Her knees hit the ground, her shoulders shaking, her body wracked with something deeper than exhaustion. Fury. Sorrow. Loss.

She curled forward, fingers digging into the floor as a broken whisper left her lips.

"Who… who am I?"

The silence that followed was deafening.

[saphicauthor921]

Resurgence: Orphan 001

Humanity is extinct. Or so the universe believes.

For ten millennia, the cosmos has been ruled by an iron-fisted warlord, where countless worlds suffer under tyranny, and hope is nothing but a forgotten dream. Deep in the brutal mines of Zarkovia, a nameless girl known only as 001 has spent her life in chains, her past erased, her future non-existent. Survival is her only purpose until the day everything changes.

When a daring band of rebels storms the mines, 001 is thrust into a world she never imagined—one of starships, rebellion, and the terrifying possibility of freedom. But she is more than just a survivor. She is the last human. And the key to overthrowing the empire.

Haunted by the ghosts of her past and struggling to reclaim her identity, 001 must decide whether she will be a weapon of vengeance or something more.

Blurb for my book!

[saphicauthor921]

A few friends asked me about prints so I created a RedBubble shop. I purchased a few items to ensure the quality was good. My favorite is this tote bag. If you're interested in prints you can find them at: PixieMoonMagic.redbubble.com

[saphicauthor921]

But just as that thought crossed her mind, a deafening roar filled the air—a ship’s engine cutting through the toxic sky. For a brief moment, the suffocating fog above split open, revealing a sliver of the universe beyond.

“…They’re beautiful,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the chaos. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she felt something other than exhaustion. Awe.

Then, the gunfire started.

Blinding streaks of plasma tore through the air, slamming into the patrolling drones with pinpoint accuracy. Sparks erupted as their metallic bodies collapsed, limbs twitching, circuits frying. Before she could process what was happening, he appeared—dropping into the fray like a shadow given form.

Sleek armor hugged his frame, reflecting the dim torchlight with a dull sheen. He moved before the drones could react, his weapon a blur. A sharp, calculated step forward—his blade carved through the nearest machine, severing its torso in a single, precise arc. Without hesitation, he twisted, pivoting low to avoid a plasma shot before driving his weapon upward, slicing clean through another drone’s firing arm.

One enemy remained, recalibrating its aim. He didn’t give it the chance.

In a fluid motion, he raised his weapon—energy crackled along its edge, pulsing with power. Then, a swing. Not reckless. Not wild. Precise. A controlled wave of energy surged forward, cutting through the final drone, reducing it to little more than molten scraps.

The battlefield fell silent.

She barely noticed. Her gaze drifted upward, past the smoke, past the wreckage. The brief gap in the fog was already closing, swallowing the stars once more. Yet, for that fleeting moment, she had seen them.

Not the warrior. Not the battle.

The stars.

And for the first time in her life, she felt something stir within her. Not hope in him. Not in rescue.

Hope in the universe itself.

Kael smirked, his eyes flicking toward one of his crew. “Tyche! You know what to do!”

A figure stepped forward, her movement effortless, like she’d already predicted the outcome of this fight. The dim light caught the glint of a dog tag resting against her collarbone, the metal swaying slightly with her stride. Golden hair framed a face of sharp confidence, her soft purple eyes locked onto the chaos ahead with a look that was equal parts amusement and calculation. She wore a black leather jacket, its spiked shoulders giving her the air of someone you wouldn’t want to cross—though the grin tugging at her lips suggested she enjoyed it when people did.

She charged her weapon, a sleek sub-machine gun that hummed with a faint, electric whirr as its charge built up. Its matte black surface gleamed with an almost unnatural sheen, with a complex holographic sight built into the scope and an energy pulse chamber that emitted a soft, blue glow. Her gloved fingers wrapped around the ergonomic grip, her confidence palpable in every movement as she rolled her shoulders, preparing for what seemed like an exercise.

"On it," she said, her voice smooth, carrying the quiet certainty of someone who had never once doubted their own odds.

Without hesitation, she launched herself forward toward 001. This girl—reckless, almost naive—charged in like she had no concept of danger. A fool, surely. She was bound to be shot down within seconds. Yet, as if by fate’s favor, the bullets whizzed past her, missing by inches. Some enemy guns jammed mid-fire, while others inexplicably misfired. A grenade landed at her feet, but it didn’t explode. It was a dud.

She fired her weapon with ruthless precision, the gun practically humming in sync with her movements. Her shots were wild, yet unnervingly accurate, each one finding its mark. The majority of the rounds hit critical points—headshots that dropped enemies with cold efficiency. The gun discharged with a sharp crack, the sound of energy pulsing through the chamber with every shot.

Before 001 could process the chaos, the strange girl ducked behind cover beside her, eyes scanning the area, ever alert.

Tyche gazes at the girl, her voice soft but firm. "You need to come with us! I mean... it’s gotta be better than all this, right? You'll have to trust us. I'll explain on the ship."

001 hesitates, eyes wary. "I don't know... How can I trust you?"

Tyche lets out a long sigh, offering a small smile. "Because you’ll get to see the stars."

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63851443

[saphicauthor921]

001 nodded, her hands trembling slightly as she took the first bite of her cheese and ham sandwich. It was a simple meal, nothing extravagant, but the moment it hit her taste buds, an explosion of flavor flooded her senses. The creamy cheese, the buttery bread, the tender ham—all of it came together in a way she had never known food could. The texture, the warmth, the richness... it was everything she had never realized she was missing. To the average person, it might have been a mundane meal, but to her, it was nothing short of a revelation. This... this was joy. This was what food could truly be—something to savor, something to enjoy.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63851443

[saphicauthor921]

001 nodded, her hands trembling slightly as she took the first bite of her cheese and ham sandwich. It was a simple meal, nothing extravagant, but the moment it hit her taste buds, an explosion of flavor flooded her senses. The creamy cheese, the buttery bread, the tender ham—all of it came together in a way she had never known food could. The texture, the warmth, the richness... it was everything she had never realized she was missing. To the average person, it might have been a mundane meal, but to her, it was nothing short of a revelation. This... this was joy. This was what food could truly be—something to savor, something to enjoy.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63851443

[saphicauthor921]

[saphicauthor921]

Book front cover? Voice opinions!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63851443

[saphicauthor921]

001 steps out of the shower, trailing wisps of vapor that cling to her skin like phantom fingertips. The air hums with the citrus-clean scent of revitalized water systems—ozone and something faintly metallic, sharp against the lingering musk of survival she’s still scrubbing from her pores. She towels her hair with slow, deliberate strokes, savoring the friction of towel cloth against scalp, every nerve ending singing alive, alive, alive.

The tunic slithers over her shoulders like liquid night, fabric cool and heavy as a midnight storm. Static clings to its hem, sending faint indigo ripples cascading down the bias-cut panels—not black, but the hungry void between dying stars. The asymmetrical neckline bares her collarbone, pale and stark as a fracture line in marble. Beneath it, a single strap glints, surgical in its precision, anchoring her to this fragile performance of normalcy.

Her hands tremble as she fastens the lounge pants, their geometric embroidery prickling against her fingertips. The pattern isn’t merely iridescent—it breathes, nano-thread circuits reacting to her body heat, glowing faintly where trauma and time have left their pale cartography on her hips. The flats whisper against recycled-air vents, soles thinner than prison-yard patience, yet they hold her weight like a promise.

When the choker snaps shut, its alloy teeth biting cold, she catches her reflection in the fogged glass of the shower cubicle. A stranger stares back—all sharp angles and borrowed elegance, a weapon sheathed in shadow silk. Her breath hitches. This isn’t armor. Isn’t camouflage. The clothes fuse to her skin, second-flesh tailored for someone who expects tomorrows. She rolls her shoulders back, tendons creaking. The mirror-mirage mimics her.

For the first time in years, the gesture feels… true.

http://archiveofourown.org/works/63851443.

[saphicauthor921]

001 steps out of the shower, trailing wisps of vapor that cling to her skin like phantom fingertips. The air hums with the citrus-clean scent of revitalized water systems—ozone and something faintly metallic, sharp against the lingering musk of survival she’s still scrubbing from her pores. She towels her hair with slow, deliberate strokes, savoring the friction of towel cloth against scalp, every nerve ending singing alive, alive, alive.

The tunic slithers over her shoulders like liquid night, fabric cool and heavy as a midnight storm. Static clings to its hem, sending faint indigo ripples cascading down the bias-cut panels—not black, but the hungry void between dying stars. The asymmetrical neckline bares her collarbone, pale and stark as a fracture line in marble. Beneath it, a single strap glints, surgical in its precision, anchoring her to this fragile performance of normalcy.

Her hands tremble as she fastens the lounge pants, their geometric embroidery prickling against her fingertips. The pattern isn’t merely iridescent—it breathes, nano-thread circuits reacting to her body heat, glowing faintly where trauma and time have left their pale cartography on her hips. The flats whisper against recycled-air vents, soles thinner than prison-yard patience, yet they hold her weight like a promise.

When the choker snaps shut, its alloy teeth biting cold, she catches her reflection in the fogged glass of the shower cubicle. A stranger stares back—all sharp angles and borrowed elegance, a weapon sheathed in shadow silk. Her breath hitches. This isn’t armor. Isn’t camouflage. The clothes fuse to her skin, second-flesh tailored for someone who expects tomorrows. She rolls her shoulders back, tendons creaking. The mirror-mirage mimics her.

For the first time in years, the gesture feels… true.

http://archiveofourown.org/works/63851443.