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bananarrlele · 6 months ago

Text

"A Study in Affection"

plot: “mr. silvair attempts to unravel the complexities of human affection for his human partner. struggling to understand love, he embarks on a series of clumsy, awkward, and sometimes failed attempts to bridge the gap between his scientific nature and the intimacy his partner craves." established relationship, living in the otherworld, couple issues, unrequited love, slow burn, emotional angst, introspection, miscommunication/language barriers, unconventional romance, dark athmosphere, suggestive, but no actual sex (no smut). everything written in bold refers to the otherworld language. word count: 5k+.

The cold little room that served as Mr. Silvair's laboratory could easily be described as grotesque. The environment seemed more like an extension of his cold and methodical mind than a space dedicated to medical practice. The stained tiles on the walls, once bright, reflected the pale light from the slightly flickering overhead lamps. Chains hanging from the ceiling adorned the room's edges, standing out as silvered, rusted threats. Moreover, the ceiling resembled a web of deteriorated pipes and conspicuous marks of grime, far from ignorable to the eyes.

In the central part of the room stood a metal table, marred by scars: cuts, scratches, and stains whose origins were better left unquestioned. On that table, the instruments of the monstrous doctor reigned supreme: scalpels, too sharp like ruthless razors, tweezers and hooks in unusual shapes, and syringes ranging in size from practical to utterly questionable. The jars and flasks on his shelves were disparate in coloration and aspect. Some were nearly translucent and strangely pleasing to the eye, while others were as dark as the pitch-black of a cursed night. Some housed creatures, or fragments of them, floating in viscous liquids that emitted a ghostly glow. Moreover, faded and aged papers lay scattered across the laboratory bench, like petals fallen from a withered flower. Their yellowed, fragile edges seemed on the verge of disintegration at the slightest touch, yet the hurried scribbles in black ink remained clear, implacable in their precision. Mr. Silvair’s handwriting was fine, almost ethereal, but hasty, as though every thought had to be recorded before it vanished into the chaos of his analytical mind. Anatomical diagrams, sketches of strange tools, and the flow of liquids in organic systems followed one another, interspersed, suggesting the persistence of carefully laid plans for convoluted practices and experiments.

These convoluted experiments were far beyond your comprehension. They had always been so, and would always remain, no matter how distressed a human heart might feel. Cold, sterile, devoid of sentiment, and strangely fascinating in its functionality. The space was an exquisite portrait of his mind and his nature, so distressing in certain lights yet profoundly intriguing. Undeniably, loving him was a painful dichotomy. The brutal precision of his mind was as admirable as it was overwhelming. How many times had you admired him, standing with his back turned, his long pale hair flowing gently like veils across his back, moving majestically as he traversed the space, immersed in his experiments? His slender, weathered hands, at times healing, at others injurious, were the object of your desire, evoking an incessant yearning that transfixed your chest. Whether watching the doctor dismember pieces of a low-sentience monster or performing sutures with an almost frightening calm, sewing living tissues and intertwining remnants of life as if it were an art, there was something about him that left you in a state of near avidity. He was there, within arm’s reach, yet he seemed so distant. His touch seemed cold and nonexistent, like trying to grasp mist. His presence was a contradiction — solid and unyielding, yet intangible, as if he occupied a space you could never truly enter.

You often wondered whether he noticed the painful chasm between you, a gap carved not out of cruelty but by his very nature. The way his sharp, attentive gaze slid over you as if examining one of his experiments was a lasting reminder of his habitual coldness. Yet still, in fleeting moments like the beat of a heart, there were times when he lingered just long enough for your senses to string together his gestures as fragments of a demonstration of his love.

But Mr. Silvair did not understand the meaning of love. Perhaps love was one of the most meager concepts capable of transcending the doctor's capacity for comprehension. He could not grasp it and would likely never manage to assimilate its ephemeral and unfathomable nature, being so obsessed with cataloging results and his own experiments.

A weary and restless sigh escapes your lips. "Such selfishness of mine. To demand that a ghost like him understand the complexity of love and the relevance of physical touch to human beings. I should be content with the fact that he likes me enough to keep me around — and I wouldn’t trade that for anything in the world." That’s what you thought, your lips twisting in consternation, as you watched him meticulously suture a cut on Mr. Chopped's brow, his precise, impassive hands closing the wound without the slightest tremor.

But deep down, you yearned. You yearned for his touch, for even a single word, something to escape that clinical silence and confess that he loved you. Something to prove that he liked you, not as a domesticated experiment or a laboratory pet, but as someone real, someone who mattered.

The sigh does not go unnoticed by the doctor. His fingers, stained with dark remnants, finish the suture with an almost inhuman precision before resting Mr. Chopped on the cold examination table. The monster, inert and stitched, seems as insignificant as any of his other experiments.

Silvair straightens slowly, the subtle sound of his movements filling the sterile silence of the room. When he turns to face you, his scrutiny is calculated, as if analyzing an anomaly in a body. But this time, there’s hesitation. A minor, almost imperceptible detail suggests that he notices.

“Something wrong.”

He murmurs in his flat voice, devoid of any exceptional emotion. A simple statement, almost scientific, as if identifying a fracture or an irregular heartbeat in some random creature. Yet, for some reason, the way he says it makes your throat tighten.

It was so typical of him: noticing that something was out of place, but never understanding what it was or why.

Then, without warning, he somberly turns on his heels and picks up Mr. Chopped with indifferent ease. The sound of his footsteps echoes briefly before being lost in the silence, leaving you alone in the cold laboratory, enveloped in your own thoughts.

When he returns minutes later, the absence of the bubbly head in his arms only makes the focus of his attention more evident. Silvair stands still in a particular spot in the room, slender and upright like a somber tower of an abandoned abbey, with his hands clasped behind his back in an almost theatrical gesture, and his gaze fixed unmistakably on you, so much so that you feel your own skin burn in anticipation. His posture was clearly inquisitive, as if seeking invisible cracks he might examine and decipher.

But the uncertainties of your heart were superficial and easy to find. It was as though your chest refused to be secretive, or perhaps it was your human nature that contributed to that piercing sensation, like an unending hammer, which made you so vulnerable in relation to the doctor.

“You not well.”

He attempts to approach, his slender, angular silhouette stepping into the dim light illuminating the room.

“Something bother you.”

“Something change.”

He furrows his brow minimally. His expression remains essentially unchanged and impenetrable, but there is a shadow of discomfort there, as if being confronted with a situation beyond his control was something inexorable, distressing to him.

You don’t respond, your throat caught in a strange combination of fear and hope. The desire for him to approach and truly see you, as someone real and complex, almost hurts.

“You different. Me want know.”

The statement sounds like a challenge. An awkward silence then persists for a few seconds, long enough for him to tilt his head slightly. That was a gesture that often accompanies moments of genuine curiosity.

You try to find the right words, but the truth is you don’t know how to tell him that you want something more, something beyond the platonic and scientific care he offers. Furthermore, the language of monsters was insufficient to express what you truly felt and yearned to release. Although Silvair had learned multiple words of your natural language almost flawlessly, it was as if the vocabulary in both expressions was lacking to convey all your frustrations. You take a risk, anyway, the words spilling out like an unrestrained, dragging outpour, alternating between the two languages.

“I just wanted…” — You begin, but feel an unbearable knot in your throat, like tight vines. Silvair remains waiting for your voice, curious to dissect the cause of such profound anguish.

After a long moment, you finally let out, almost like an exasperated sigh:

“I just wanted your touch. I want your care, not just for stitching wounds or manipulating medicine. I don’t just want to be near you. Me want touch. Me want feel loved.”

The impact of the words falls like a hammer between you. Silvair recoils, a fleeting shock passing over his usually relaxed features, as if carved in marble and immortal in their imperturbable beauty. He had never heard anything like this before. For him, touching someone was merely a means to an end — a technical necessity for healing wounds or maintaining control over a specimen. Never to express anything more.

“Me confused. Me not understand love.”

His confession is almost inaudible, as if he were finally admitting his inability to understand anything beyond the boundaries of the rational.

You shrug, trying not to show how painful it is to hear those words from his mouth, even though he didn’t say them with the intent to hurt.

“I know. That’s why it hurts.” — You whisper to yourself, drawing in your lower lip in consternation in a futile attempt to maintain your composure, while those treacherous blue shards escape your eyes like tiny fragments of crystal falling from a cracked stained glass. At that moment, the fissure in your chest, opened by Silvair’s words, felt deeper than the crack slicing through one of the aged laboratory walls, where so many strange things found their way.

The doctor’s gaze drop to the ground for a moment, as if he were genuinely trying to understand, but failing. He seems lost, his hands restless before his body, and you feel a wave of compassion and frustration mixed together. He would never be able to fully understand, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t wish for something more from him.

Then, as if an internal switch had been flipped, Silvair withdraws, the sound of his heavy steps echoing through the room. The door creaks as it closes behind him, leaving you alone with your thoughts and an unexpected emptiness. For a moment, you feel a deep sadness, as if he had taken a part of you with him — something you had never known you expected to receive from someone like Silvair.

The rest of the day was irredeemably dull and dragged on. You sat on the sofa in the small antechamber outside Mr. Silvair's medical inspection laboratory, absentmindedly fiddling with a Rubik's cube that Mr. Masque had given to Mr. Crawling, the latter having generously offered the artifact to you, the one he affectionately called his "favorite human." But nothing could lift your sullen mood.

You turned the cube between your fingers, rotating its colorful faces without focus, as if it were a meaningless distraction. Your mind wandered between the pain of your conversation with Silvair and the endless hours during which he vanished into the vast, gloomy corridors and pathways of the ghosts' apartment. Where might he be now, with his measured steps, the smell of formalin clinging to him, and the crimson metallic richness of blood lingering on his skin, his long locks streaked with dried, vital fluid? His scent, mannerisms, and even his voice were like precious gems in your memory — existent but not within your grasp. It was disturbing how he seemed to occupy every inch, every corner of your mind.

You tried to imagine: had he completely ignored your complaints, shrugged them off, and returned to his pragmatic experiments elsewhere? Was he perhaps even more focused than usual, desperately trying to understand what love truly meant? Or was he simply sitting, lost in some thought you couldn’t conceive?

Your gaze swept across the room, now empty and shadowy, lingering on the shelves filled with jars, scalpels, and preserved specimens. Each one seemed to carry a story, a small piece of the enigma that Silvair was. At the same time, however, the ache in your chest only grew. You had never met anyone like him — so complex, yet so incomprehensible. Silvair was the embodiment of mystery, a cold enigma you longed to unravel but always seemed just out of your understanding.

You sighed, clutching the Rubik's cube in your hands more tightly until the colors began to blur. And once again, you asked yourself: What was he doing now?

While you were engulfed in creeping melancholy for hours and hours, in another dim and desolate room, its walls as cold as a stone embrace, Mr. Silvair idly sifted through a pile of abandoned objects. It was a tolerated habit for the doctor, even though he considered most of these items irrelevant. Among organic samples and scribbled notes, he stumbled upon something unusual: a worn magazine cover with vibrant colors and an eye-catching illustration of two humans in what he vaguely recognized as a kiss.

He approached it, his pale, elongated hands reaching for the booklet with a mix of curiosity and reluctance. It was obvious who had left it there — Mr. Gap. The fissure monster was a sporadic but unforgettable presence. Gap had a habit of appearing with all sorts of items: newspaper fragments, festival pamphlets from non-existent events, and now, a human magazine titled The Secrets of Passion.

There was a small note scrawled in the corner of the cover in messy handwriting, as if Gap had struggled considerably to hold the pen:

“Kiss seems to say heart. I want heart. Give me heart. Kiss like.”

Silvair read Gap's words in silence. The figure of the fissure monster, who would occasionally appear with clippings and fragments of newspapers on the most varied subjects — ranging from trivialities like cookie recipes to stories of a serial killer wreaking havoc — was now immortalized in a curious observation about kisses and human desire. Silvair frowned. What was a kiss, after all, to someone like Mr. Gap? What did the other monster know that he didn’t? Silvair knew his studies had not prepared him for such a question. He had studied anatomy, human behavior on a physical level, hormonal responses, everything that could be analyzed and understood. But love?

He closed the magazine, his rigid hands gripping the cover tightly, trying to make sense of what was stirring inside him. Something moved within his being. Mr. Gap had once again managed to plant a seed of discomfort — or curiosity — in the doctor’s essence. For a moment, he found himself wondering if he could learn the art of kissing, or at least understand why humans seemed to find this gesture so important. And more than that: if the kiss was the key, could it be the gateway to love?

Suddenly, with a faint, restless twist of his lips, Silvair shut the magazine, holding the piece of paper in his hands as though it were a precious object of study. Deep down, he felt that something was about to change. Drastically.

Silvair had isolated himself in recent days, immersing himself in meticulous studies and attempts to understand human gestures of affection. He spent hours poring over those magazines and fragments brought by Mr. Gap, consumed by an unrelenting search for something beyond the physical, something that could truly touch the complexity of love and human relationships.

The magazine he had found held much more than scientific explanations about kisses and touches. As he delved into its pages, something else captivated him: the images. There, on the yellowed paper, he found photographs and illustrations of couples in moments of such intense affection that they seemed to transcend simple physical contact. Bodies intertwined in a way that felt almost mystical, as though they were on the verge of merging into a single entity. It was more than just a kiss, more than a loving embrace. It was an intimacy so profound, so visceral, that he could hardly comprehend it.

The images left him stunned. He observed them, analyzed every detail, every touch, every curve of skin and movement, but he could not grasp the reason behind that energy. He stared at the figures repeatedly, as if trying to decode them.

"Strong contact. Not medicine explain. Me not understand..." he muttered, running his pale fingers through his light hair, visibly frustrated.

Dr. Silvair’s Attempts

PROCEDURE I: “The Mannequin”

The mannequin stood before him, its cold and rigid structure serving as a substitute for human flesh. His sharp gaze scanned every detail of the object, with his fingers firmly positioned to replicate the gestures described in the magazine. His lips slowly approached the mannequin’s face. He pressed them gently against the plastic surface, attempting to emulate the act of a kiss. There was no warmth, no response. The chill of the plastic was a stark reminder of the distance he still had to traverse.

Observations: "Objective: Simulate a kiss on a non-living object to observe physical responses. Result: No emotional reaction observed. Conclusion: As suspected, reciprocity seems to be a crucial factor in human interaction, something that cannot be reproduced without an active second party."

PROCEDURE II: “Self-Imitation”

After failing with the mannequin, Silvair decided to try a different approach: he would be his own test subject. Sitting in front of a mirror, he repeated the motions he had seen in the magazines. His lips touched his own with almost scientific precision. He observed every micro-expression in the mirror, analyzing his own eyes, the way his facial muscles reacted, trying to detect some emotional response in his body. But again, all he felt was the absence of something. The touch generated no internal reaction, no change.

Observations: "Objective: Attempt to experience the act of a kiss in a self-conscious context, observing facial and bodily reactions. Result: No observable changes in physical or emotional responses. Conclusion: The emotional response to the action is not triggered by the mere repetition of the act. The emotional factor appears crucial to eliciting a genuine reaction. Reactions cannot be replicated without a real connection."

PROCEDURE III: “The Monstrous Rose”

Inspired by the magazine’s mention of simple yet symbolic gestures of affection, Mr. Silvair recalled his collection of monstrous flowers — his own creation, with black petals and iridescent edges, exuding a sweet and peculiar aroma that was almost hypnotic. He believed that the symbolic gesture of offering a flower could elicit a stronger emotional reaction, as humans often associated gestures like this with affection.

When he finally entered the little room where you were, half-asleep on the sofa, he observed your figure curled up like a bird with battered wings. The Rubik's cube had already rolled to the floor, having slipped from your hands. When he approached, you looked up at him, surprised.

“Me offer gesture.” — He said, his voice tinged with an unusual softness, extending the flower to you.

You raised your eyes, somewhat startled, but accepted the flower. The fragility of the gesture made your heart leap slightly, and for a moment, the smile on your lips seemed genuine.

“Thank you, Silvair.” — You murmured in your native tongue, bringing the flower close to your face, inhaling its scent of burnt caramel and polished copper. — “Beautiful. But why you bring this to me?”

He watched your reaction carefully, registering every micro-expression. He stood poised and expectant, like someone awaiting immediate validation.

“Me test affection.”

You furrowed your brow slightly, nodding. “Of course, you test. Gestures like this need come from heart, not through testing, Silvair.” You spoke in a tone of gentle reprimand, your voice tinged with lingering frailty. He captured a considerable part of your message, his expression tightening slightly.

He blinked slowly, as though processing your words. “Heart… not functional in this context. Me try again.”

You sighed as he retreated, taking the flowers with him, which now seemed like a failed experiment.

Observations: “Positive reaction observed: increased heart rate, pupil dilation. Receptiveness to symbolic offering generates some level of emotional bond but is insufficient for deep or intimate engagement.

Additional Consideration: “The symbolic significance of a gift may generate an emotional response, but it does not equate to a deeper or more intimate interaction. The flower functioned as a marker of interest but not as a gesture of complete emotional surrender.”

After the episode with the monstrous flowers, the night dragged on in silence, filled with a quiet tension that lingered in the air. The laboratory was illuminated only by a soft light that fell over the notes scattered across the tables and the flasks containing mysterious substances. Silvair was engrossed in his thoughts, the tip of his pen furiously scratching paper, his focus fixed on his observations. You watched him while lounging carelessly in a chair, your legs hanging over its arms. You bit the tip of your thumb absentmindedly as something churned within you, responding to his dissociated behavior. The silence had become nearly unbearable, as had his repeated absences. If before it was agonizing to witness him steadfastly preserving his immutable exteriority, never attempting any kind of affection, seeing him obsessively conducting literal and absurd experiments to determine love and turn affection into a performative, perfectly calculated act was an even more tormenting experience. You felt excluded — and more than that, you felt an ever-growing need for something more between you two, something beyond studies, the clinic, and his cold behavior.

The suffocating silence between you was unbearable, and the impulse overcame reason. You approached him cautiously, positioning yourself behind him and wrapping your arms around his waist. Your fingers, hesitant at first, slid across his cold torso. Your touch was gentle, a silent invitation for something more intimate.

He finally stopped writing but did not move. His body remained rigid, motionless like a statue.

“Why so distant?” — You asked, pressing your face against his shoulder, seeking some sign of reciprocity.

“Me busy.” — He replied, his voice as cold as ever, but there was something else there — perhaps a note of uncertainty that didn’t escape your notice.

Your frustration grew heavier. You slid your hand lower, attempting to draw his attention, but he caught your wrist, halting any further progress. He wasn’t harsh, but his grip was firm enough to make it clear he didn’t want this.

“Not now.” — He said, releasing your hand and returning his focus to his notes.

You stepped back, hurt. The words were simple, but they carried a devastating impact. He didn’t lift his eyes to you, didn’t notice the gleam of tears threatening to escape as you walked away.

“Alright." — You murmured, your voice trembling. — “Sorry.”

When you left the room, the sound of the door closing echoed louder than it should have, as if sealing an abyss between you two.

Mr. Silvair remained still for a few moments after your departure, the pencil suspended in midair. His mind, normally so focused, seemed scattered.

“Intimacy…” — He murmured to himself, recalling the figures from Mr. Gap’s magazine he had examined days earlier. Images of intertwined hands, deep kisses, and bodies so close they seemed symbiotic. He remembered a note written in Gap’s erratic handwriting:

“Love strange. Bodies together, mind too. Sex? Kiss? Very strange. But good?”

Intimacy and sexuality echoed in his cloudy mind, interweaving uncomfortably. At the time, he had dismissed Gap’s erratic scrawlings as a disconnected ramble, but now, recalling your pained expression, something inside him began to shift.

“They try. Me fail?”

He shut the notebook forcefully, the sound reverberating through the empty room. For the first time in a long while, he felt something that could be described as regret.

A few days had passed since Silvair’s initial, frustrating attempts to comprehend the complexities of human nature. The tension between you had reached a silent breaking point, like a rope stretched beyond its limit. He spoke little, and you even less. But his silence always felt calculated, while yours was laden with emotions that could not be translated into words.

That morning, an unexpected accident occurred during what seemed like an innocent game with Mr. Machete — a friendly duel of blades and laughter, a competition of skill, escalated beyond what it should have. The playful match resulted in a deep cut on your left thigh, far more severe than anything reasonable for a mere game. Mr. Machete’s blade had slid more smoothly than anticipated, slicing through the skin and leaving a wound that stretched across a considerable portion of your leg.

Silvair acted quickly, faster than usual. He did not show panic, but his movements were swifter and more precise than normal. With you seated on the inspection table, he brought his tools and began cleaning the wound. Despite the pain, you noticed something different about him. His hands, which always moved with unwavering firmness and methodical precision, trembled slightly.

“You scare me.” — He murmured as he applied antiseptic, his eyes fixed on the wound as if avoiding your face. There was an irritation in his tone that you couldn’t quite define, a discomfort that spilled into his voice. — “You not should play like that.”

He sighed softly, the sound barely audible in his reprimand. “You stop this need. Not do again, not with them.” — He seemed to hesitate before adding. — “Not with machete man. Careful you must be. Should.”

“Don’t worry so much!” — You said, offering him a soft smile to ease his indignation. — “Me know you try care for me.”

“Not just about the cut.” — He murmured, more to himself than to you.

His fingers, in an involuntary movement, touched the edge of your thigh, the skin around the wound. The sensitivity of the area, paired with his gentle touch, made your body flinch slightly — but not from pain. It was his proximity, the way he seemed to feel the suffering you were enduring without truly knowing how to handle it.

Suddenly, Silvair’s hands moved up to your face, touching your cheeks with an unexpected delicacy. His fingers, cold and trembling, traced the lines of your face as if trying to understand every contour, every expression you offered, like an impossible equation to solve.

His closeness made your heart race in anticipation. His presence was intense, as though he were on the verge of doing something even he didn’t know how to accomplish. You felt the tension between you rise, charged with something ready to reveal itself, though neither of you knew how to act.

He hesitated, perhaps unsure, but his focus never wavered from you. Silvair seemed unable to withdraw, unable to let go of you, and this was unexpected. It was a fine line between desire and hesitation, between human impulse and his incapacity to comprehend it. When he finally leaned in closer, his face coming dangerously near yours, his touch against your skin seemed to dissolve the barriers between you.

The air was thick with hesitation, but without warning, he leaned in further, his lips brushing against yours softly, as though trying to understand something he still could not define. The kiss was uncertain, hesitant, reminiscent of the first time he had tried to mimic the gesture with the mannequin. Yet there was something profoundly human about it, something he, perhaps unknowingly, longed to grasp.

But this time, there was something more. A shiver ran down your spine as he deepened the kiss, his lips moving with increasing firmness, as if trying to unravel the mechanics of a gesture that had now become part of him. He explored the softness of your lips with the tip of his tongue, touching them with unusual gentleness, yet also with an impulse that spoke louder than words. Silvair tasted you, and something stirred within his chest, something he could neither name nor explain. He pulled you closer, his touch assertive, strong, commanding — yet his hands moved to cradle your face delicately, soothingly, as though he feared breaking you. One hand traveled further, gripping your waist firmly, as if to show you the depth of his desire, which he could barely comprehend himself.

The kiss grew more desperate, less measured, almost voracious, with the caresses reaching a peak of urgency. He felt your breath, ragged against his skin, quickened to match his, and with slow, deliberate movements, he lifted you effortlessly, placing you on the cold surface of his inspection table. His hands never left you, lingering near, almost possessive, as he leaned over you, his features focused and intense. His hand traveled over your skin with more confidence, touching places where he felt the vibration of your body beneath his fingers.

His tongue intertwined with yours, now bolder, yet retaining the same careful attention as if deciphering the meaning of every touch, every movement. His fingers glided smoothly, exploring the curves of your body with reverent silence but an intensity that grew, as though trying to absorb every fragment of warmth you emitted. He touched you with a tenderness that concealed a quiet hunger, as though it were his first time allowing himself to feel the warmth of affection, the discovery of care, and the growing desire for something deeper, something genuine.

As your lips parted momentarily, just long enough for him to catch his breath, Silvair kept his forehead pressed against yours, his manner captivated and almost possessive. His breath was heavy as he whispered, more to himself than to you:

“Fascinating...”

He lifted his gaze, the movement delicate, almost attentive, as if he were trying to decipher the rhythm of your breath, the scent of the air around you, every minute detail in his surroundings. The blindfold that covered his eyes was no impediment; on the contrary, it seemed to heighten his perception, creating a sharper sense of closeness, as if he could feel every beat of your heart, every soft sigh you let out. His hand slid to your waist, the touch firm yet purposeful, as though mapping your presence through the sensation of your skin.

With a slow but resolute motion, he tilted his face, planting a kiss along the line of your jaw, then down the curve of your neck, with the same curious care as before. Yet this time, there was something more deliberate in every touch.

“You make me curious. Me want… discover more.”

And without saying anything further, he leaned in again, his lips capturing yours once more, this time with an intensity that promised he was far from finished with his exploration. The promise of something more lingered in the air, carried in his touch, in the force of a desire he seemed to still be struggling to name — a desire he now seemed determined to unravel, piece by piece, like an enigma he was unwilling to abandon.

“Tell me, is this… what you wanted? What you have been waiting for?” — He asked quietly, brushing his thumb over your lips gently in an electrifying motion. “This human desire mean, yes?” — His voice, hoarse and intense, reverberated like a promise of a lost paradise, echoing in your ears as he struggled to murmur the words in your language.

You arched an eyebrow, letting out a soft, provocative laugh.

“If you have to ask, perhaps something is still missing from your research, doctor.” — Your voice was low and measured, careful to ensure he caught every meaning and syllable, but tinged with mischief, as your fingers slid to his neck, tracing short, almost electric touches. It was a gentle but daring gesture as you pulled him closer. — “Me demonstrate, yes?”

Silvair’s lips curled into a faint smile, despite being unable to see, as though he already knew exactly what you meant. He tightened his grip on your waist, his fingers firm but still containing an unexpected gentleness.

“Demonstrate?” — He repeated slowly, as if savoring the idea, his tone deeper now. — “Me think good. But you not expect me gentle all the time.”

Before you could respond, he acted. His hands, which had rested on your waist, slid to the middle of your back, pulling you against him with determination. His lips, previously hesitant, now gave themselves fully. With an almost cruel tenderness, he traced the outline of your mouth with his tongue, as if issuing a silent invitation. Each touch was a promise, a wordless request for entry. His fingers traced a slow, suggestive path along your thigh, gradually climbing toward the center of your body. Each touch, every subtle caress, sent shivers throughout your entire being, and you felt as though you might melt under his dissecting hands, arching gently like a flower unfurling in the sun on his inspection table.

Between kisses, you drew a deep breath, a faint whimper, and a slightly tense laugh escaping against his lips.

“Not bad for someone who’s learning. Fast learner.”

He paused, the laugh escaping his lips a small victory.

“Then, teach me.” The command was clear, but the accompanying promise was even more enticing. With a firm motion, he leaned you back, your body becoming an instrument in his hands. The intensity of the moment overwhelmed everything, and you realized, with a mix of surprise and satisfaction, that he had finally let himself go.

Thin, translucent tears of joy adorned the corners of your eyes, inevitably. In that moment, you finally understood that what he sought wasn’t merely understanding but surrender. And in that moment, you knew: he was learning how to love.

phew. this was laborious, but so much fun to write. giggling, kicking my feet, and twirling my hair for this man, no lie. it's really interesting to write for silvair, and I've been wanting to do so for weeks. he’s so complex, and his inscrutability and unusual gentleness are captivating. i’m sure these traits would leave anyone confused in a relationship. mr. silvair would be kind in terms of care and service, but terrible when it comes to communication and effective displays of affection, so I wanted to explore this issue in this long text. the ending is suggestive because I think that learning would inevitably lead to situations like the one narrated. who knows... maybe I’ll write more. my thirst for mr. silvair never ends :) it's christmas eve in my homeland (brazil), and for those who are reading and are in the same territory as mine, or at least on a similar rhythm/time zone, merry christmas eve! to the fans of mr. silvair out there, consider this text a gift. we urgently need more stories about this man, like, ASAP. thank you so much if you read all of this, and have a lovely day or night! ♡ (this text is open to corrections and edits. english is not my native language, and the original was entirely written in portuguese. time for some sleep, finally.)

#mr silvair x you #mr silvair x reader #homicipher #mr silvair x mc #homicipher x reader #homicipher x you #mr silver #mr silver x reader #mr silver x you #suggestive cw #other characters #mentions #i want to shag silvair so bad #the doctor is mine #thirst so unhinged got me writing 5k words for this man

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l00kingatthem00n · 20 days ago

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Hyperlaser x reader fluff?.. with a slight suggestiveness at the end but not too much i just want fluffffff heh

━━ YOU AND I INTERTWINE.

WARNING: self-depreciation [only some from hyperlaser] - for the most part, it's fluffy, with only a vague and singular instance of suggestive content at the end.

The day is over. With the starlight filtering through Blackrock's smog, Hyperlaser and you spend the rest of your night rambling away at your shared bed.

HYPERLASER HAS LIVED MOST OF HIS LIFE IN SOLITUDE. Even with the presence of his beloved kitty, he’s known loneliness more than he’s known himself. Though, he’s meant to be this way, always will be meant to be this way. A faceless soldier meant for the thrill of the kill. A tool to be used. A somebody that fades into obscurity. He’s not supposed to be anybody, not supposed to be someone to trust, not supposed to be someone to love, even. An oppressive silence is all he’ll ever know, accompanying each and heavy thought of his. Save for the reassurances of Princess, who only softly purrs and rubs against his hand to momentarily distract him from the weight of his mind. Ultimately, to live in Blackrock is to do nothing but surrender yourself to the ambitions of those above you.

Despite the beliefs that he has found himself following, you seem to make him think otherwise. Within the cold cordilleras, the imposing industries, the shadowed streets, you are warm and tender; an unfamiliar part of this society that’s built itself upon a relentless pursuit for invention and innovation. You regard him as if he’s anything but he’s believed himself to be. Not a mercenary made for malice, not an instrument to be played, not a nobody. No, to you, he’s your trusting lover Hyperlaser. It’s an idea so beyond him, so unfathomable still even as you pepper kisses to singed skin and murmur your adorations. He’s only known himself and that loneliness that lingers with him. But, you’re here with him. You’re in his cheap apartment, sitting on the edge of his mattress waiting for him. The starlight, though muddied by the smog of near laboratories, cascades incandescently through his windows. He’s as mesmerized as you are.

Before you can even realize, he’s by your side. It’s the training that allows him to be silent. Hyperlaser sinks into the mattress, not even a creak of the old thing with his added weight. You don’t notice his presence. You’re too interested by the snow that blankets the streets tonight. Carefully, cautiously, his hand rests against your shoulder. Surprised and startled, you jolt as you hastily snap your head towards him. He can see your widened eyes and your lips curved into something like a frown. Though your features soften just as quick, offering him a long sigh then a disapproving click of your tongue. He can only consolingly chuckle at your face. A tender squeeze to your shoulder, along with a brief kiss are his wordless means to make amends. You half-heartedly swat him away. Your voice is rough and hoarse, whether to be from exhaustion or lack of use is yet for him to discern.

“Think we should attach a bell to you or something, like how Princess wears one,” you joke. “You keep scaring me.”

“Sorry.”

You press a kiss to his cheek, letting the texture of his scarred skin linger on your lips before snorting at his apology. He feels your hands rest on his waist. They slowly creep upwards, then are completely wrapped around his torso as you pull the two of you down onto the worn foam of his bed. He hears you quietly grunt at the impact of being wedged between his figure and the mattress. Hyperlaser can only be thankful for deep shadows cast into the room. If you saw the pigment on his cheeks, he wouldn’t be hearing the end of your teasing words.

“Oh, don’t be,” you hum, “But, I think we’d both prefer if I don’t throw something thinking you’re an intruder or whatever.”

He raises an inquisitive brow at your proclamation.

“Don’t go breaking my things, please. I work hard to at least furbish this place for you.”

“Maybe it’d be good if I break things. You clearly don’t get my style and I don’t like that tacky vase in your living room.”

“I like it. The pattern and colours are nice.”

Despite the darkness, despite how he’s nestled himself against you, he can sense the distasteful expression upon your features. Even then, Hyperlaser settles himself more comfortably in your embrace. You’re so warm compared to him. He’s worn layers upon layers of turtlenecks and coats to not be nipped by the bitter cold. And yet, you’re embracing him and you’re practically warmer than all of his fabrics. He knows you’re about to berate him for his design tastes. Somehow, someway, that’s always the contention you have with him. It’s not the fact that he’s been hired numerous times to indiscriminately kill. It’s the fact that he chose to have his kitchen be a ‘nauseating green’ once and you chastised him for a week about it until you bought white paint to cover it up.

“Hyperlaser. You’re losing me,” you huff at him. “It’s a plant vase that is dark blue and brown with polka dot patterns.”

“It’s supposed to represent you, me and Princess. Have you ever thought about that?”

“I am not going to be charmed by that. That’s total shit. You’re so lucky that I chose to deal with you and your tastes.”

It’s his turn to huff at you. A sharp exhale through his nose as he begrudgingly loosens himself from your hold, towering over you as you’ve immediately withdrawn your touch on him. Hopefully, you’re not too serious about this vase conundrum. Nevertheless, he’d rather you not simmer in your fury, even if it’s only pretend. And so, Hyperlaser does his duty as your lover and goes to make amends once more. He leans down to go, careful not to crush you with his weight. He slightly parts his lips, ready to feel your own against his. Except, you snap your head away from him once more and even put your palm between the two of your mouths.

“Seriously?”

“Throw that vase out, I’m demanding you do that, Hyperlaser.”

“It’s not that bad. I think you’re overreacting, love-”

“You don’t throw it out, I’m not staying over for a week.”

He was going to open his mouth to make a quip, but you’ve only further sealed whatever witty words were about to slip. Hyperlaser blinks; once, then twice. He doesn’t know how, nor does he know why. But, the subject of this vase has become a serious matter that is almost serving as a trial of trust for your relationship. Still, you avert his gaze and his touch with a soured expression. You hold it for a surprisingly long time. As much as it amuses him, seeing you so determined for whatever reason. He relents, just for you. With a hand around your waist, Hyperlaser flips the two of you on his bed. Now, you’re draped on top of him as he draws patterns onto your skin.

“Yeah, yeah,” he hums casually, though that smile of light-hearted exasperation curling across his lips is not unnoticeable. “I’ll throw it out for you.”

“Gods!” You cheer victoriously. “Thank you!”

Then, before he knows it, you’ve slotted your lips along his. A warm sensation lingers once you kiss him. He savours your taste on his tongue, slick muscle prods at the seam of your mouth for he greedily wants more. But, so do you, as you allow him entrance. Maybe, it’s not the best for him to muse as you’re going at each other’s mouth. Hyperlaser supposes he can blame the long times he’s had ruminating and ruminating on whatever comes to mind. As he hums contently against your lips, it’s still beyond him that you trust him and that you love him.

Hyperlaser has lived most of his life in solitude, after all. Despite the company of his dear cat, he’s begrudgingly luxuriated in the presence of himself, letting himself muse and muse until the work that he’s thought himself only good for comes to disconnect him from his consciousness. And yet, you’re here. You’ve welcomed yourself into his life and told him that he’s more than what he thinks he is. You’re strange, beyond strange to him. It’s not even your gripes with his design choices that make him think so. It’s that you’re willing to lay with him, lavish him in your affections in spite of all he does. Maybe, he shouldn’t let himself stay skeptical. Maybe, now, he should savour the present moment. Considering Blackrock’s ruthless ambitions and desires, who knows how long something good like this will last? The two of you pull away to catch your breaths. Hyperlaser can feel you resting yourself more comfortably atop his chest. He hums quietly, pulling you closer and adjusting. The starlight from his window only wanes. It must be getting late. Just as he’s about to bid you goodnight, though.

“Hey, I think you could still make up for me you know~” You teasingly drawl. “Since you were so mean to me.”

Your hands are beneath his shirt. The sensation of your fingernails dragging along his lower abdomen, only stilling to hook into the waistband of his boxers and provocatively tug at the fabric.

“...Hm.”

It must be such a shame to you when he gently rolls over, practically crushing you beneath him. He can hear you grunt and growl at him from below. Your attempts at trying to free yourself from him are endearingly futile as you writhe and squirm.

“No.”

“Come on!”

AUTHOR'S NOTE: i like to write the banter 🔥BUT YAY!! FINALLY POSTING SOME ACTUAL STUFF AFTER BEING ACADEMICALLY STEAMROLLED FOR THE PAST MONTH!! should the stars align perfectly, i hope everything will be alright and can finally finish my queue this month LOL. thank you for your patience!! take care everyone :)

#sfw #mainly tagging it that #like i said at the beginning #its like one instance and thats it SOS #and i dont read it as being CRAZY suggestive #phighting x reader #phighting! x reader #hyperlaser phighting x reader #hypleraser x reader #roblox x reader

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blueiscoool · 2 months ago

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1,100-Year-Old Sealed Amphora Found in Shipwreck off Turkey

An extraordinary discovery has been made in the crystal-clear waters off the Kas district in Antalya, Türkiye. Archaeologists conducting underwater excavations with the help of robotic technology have recovered a 1,100-year-old sealed amphora, igniting excitement in the world of archaeology.

Led by Associate Professor Hakan Oniz, Chair of the Department of Conservation and Restoration of Cultural Heritage at Akdeniz University’s Faculty of Fine Arts, a 20-person dive team has been working meticulously on this groundbreaking project.

The excavation is carried out under the “Heritage for the Future Project” by the Ministry of Culture and Tourism, on behalf of the Antalya Museum.

Excavating the depths with robotic precision

Focusing their efforts near Besmi Island off the coast of Kas, the team utilized advanced underwater robots to conduct excavations several meters below the surface. At depths of approximately 45-50 meters, the divers successfully retrieved a sealed amphora from the wreckage of an ancient ship, a moment described as thrilling by the team.

Rather than being brought directly ashore, the amphora underwent an initial conservation process before being transported to the Akdeniz University Underwater Archaeology Laboratory in Kemer. Using microscopes and specialized magnifying tools, experts carefully examined the artifact. Then, specialists from the Antalya Regional Conservation Council and laboratory restorers meticulously opened the sealed amphora for an hour, employing chisels, hammers, and delicate instruments.

A glimpse into the past, locked away for over a millennium

As the ancient seal was broken, archaeologists eagerly examined the texture, content, and even scent of the material inside the amphora to determine its nature. Samples have been collected, and detailed scientific analyses are now underway to identify the contents with certainty.

The opening of the amphora and the preliminary examination of its contents were exclusively documented by Anadolu Agency.

Ancient trade routes revealed

Speaking to Anadolu Agency, excavation leader Associate Professor Hakan Oniz shared that the merchant vessel likely originated from the Gaza coast in Palestine and sank during a violent storm in the Mediterranean around 1100 years ago.

At that time, Gaza was a major exporter of olive oil, and it is believed that wine was shipped from the region of Sarkoy-Gazikoy in Tekirdag as well.

“This was a trading ship that visited multiple ports during the ninth and 10th centuries, a period dominated by Abbasid rule. Although amphoras thought to have carried wine were found onboard, it is unlikely that the local Palestinian population consumed wine at that time. Instead, it may have been intended as gifts for Christian pilgrims or travelers visiting Jerusalem,” Oniz elaborated.

‘A unique find that defies time’

Oniz emphasized the rarity of the find, stating, “It is incredibly rare to discover an amphora whose seal remained intact for more than a millennium. It could contain olive pits, olive oil, wine, or even fish sauce—but it might also be something entirely unexpected. Opening the amphora was thrilling, but awaiting the final analysis is even more exciting.”

Long road ahead for scientific analysis

Professor Meltem Asilturk Ersoy from Akdeniz University’s Department of Materials Science and Engineering noted that this was her first time studying the preserved contents of a sealed amphora.

Describing the interior contents as “muddy samples,” Ersoy added, “We aim to understand what has happened inside over 1,100 years of exposure to underwater pressure and temperature variations.”

“A single test is not sufficient. We need multiple analyses to corroborate our findings, so this process will be lengthy. By combining the analysis results with historical knowledge from the era, we aim to offer significant insights to the world of science and archaeology,” Ersoy said.

Meanwhile, Rabia Nur Akyuz, the restorer-conservator who handled the desalination and opening of the amphora, highlighted the delicate nature of the process. “We had to ensure that the artifact remained wet at all times to prevent the external deposits from drying out,” she explained.

#1100-Year-Old Sealed Amphora Found in Shipwreck off Turkey #Antalya Turkey #amphora #shipwreck #ancient artifacts #archeology #history #history news #ancient history #ancient culture #ancient civilizations

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jeremiahhawkinsfanfics · 2 months ago

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VIKTOR’S BACK OPERATION 🩻💉😱

Extract from Jayvik Loving is Caring - Chapter 7

Read the whole fic on AO3

The Piltover clock tower chimed six times, each ring reverberating in his skull. Viktor’s eyelids grew heavy, the pull of sleep too powerful to resist. The exhaustion was overwhelming, but his mind was caught in a whirlwind of memories. As the tide of sleep surged over him, it dragged him into unconsciousness, his lamp still burning bright and the pencil slipping from his fingers.

Through the fog of his fevered dreams, memories began to leak in. He was fifteen again—bent over his cane, his back twisted in pain. He stood in Singed’s laboratory, barely clothed, surrounded by instruments that seemed as ancient as they were terrifying. The glint of copper screws, rows of syringes, and sharp, gleaming scalpels shimmered on the counter.

“On the table.”

The Doctor’s voice, cold and commanding, echoed through the cavernous room. His words repeated in a never-ending loop, an eerie chant that made Viktor's skin crawl. His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out all other sounds, while his breath came in shallow gasps. Sweat slid down his body, each drop a cold reminder of his fear.

He looked at the table. He had seen so many test subjects lie on it… and he saw what happened to them. His heart pounded so loud in his ears that he could barely hear anything else. His breath was short, nearly erratic, and sweat trailed down his body in thin, tickling streams that felt like crawling spiders on his skin.

In lethal silence, the Doctor was preparing his tools, calmly filling tubes with strange liquids, and sharpening his scalpel.

Viktor’s eyes were drawn to Rio — swollen and floating in formaldehyde — and every instinct in him screamed to run.

Run as far away from here and never come back.

Run before it was too late.

Run for his life.

But Viktor couldn’t run. His back — his damned, traitorous back — left him no choice.

“Do you need help?” the Doctor asked, his voice unbothered by the terror Viktor was trying desperately to mask.

Viktor took a shaky breath and forced himself to ignore all his most critical instincts. “At least if it fails, I’ll die. Not like Rio” he thought bitterly. Cold comfort.

With every ounce of willpower his fifteen years of existence had to offer, Viktor stepped forward and climbed onto Doctor Singed’s operating table.

“Lay down.”

His muscles locked up. His whole body fought against the command. But he forced his limbs to obey, folding onto the cold metal surface, lying on his stomach. Never in his whole life had he ever felt more vulnerable, laid bare under the cold, emotionless gaze of a man that he had seen perform countless unspeakable experiences before. His hands trembled, and he clenched them into fists so tight his knuckles went white.

“Does your mother know you’re here?” he asked, checking the long — far too long — needle of a syringe.

“Y-yes…” Viktor stammered. “T-Told her. Said I’d be b-back home… late.”

“You do realize you’re not going home tonight?”

The words ran like ice through his spine, chilling him from tailbone to crown.

“I… I…”

“If the operation is successful, it will take a few days to heal. She will worry.”

Viktor’s words caught in his throat, suffocating him.

Then came the leather restraints, clicking around his limbs, pinning him to the operation table like that poor little larva that didn’t survive its painful vivisection. He was trapped.

His stomach churned. Viktor clenched his jaw, fighting the rising nausea, fighting the panic that screamed for him to flee. All alarms rang full force in his brain. Get out. Run. Scream. He could feel Rio’s presence behind him. His eyes burned, but he refused to cry.

“Shhhh… It’s okay… I will tell her.” the Doctor’s voice slithered around him, meant to soothe but only amplifying his terror.

Cold, gloved fingers traced the curve of his twisted spine. Viktor squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the sensation.

“You understand that even once this is done, it won’t be straight, right? It will take months to correct your posture. You’ll have to wear the corset I built—for the rest of your life.”

Viktor nodded, his teeth clenched so hard that he feared they might crack.

“Out loud.” Singer ordered.

“Yes. I. Understand.” Viktor’s voice shook, but he forced the words out.

He was craving the chemical oblivion of anaesthesia to deliver him from this devastating fear.

Just start already. Let the gas knock me out.

“Good.” Singed replied, satisfied.

Singed continued to move slowly around the table. Viktor could hear the metal and glass cluttering moving around him. Not seeing him was even worse.

Then the small gas mask appeared in the Doctor’s hand. Viktor’s heart raced, and his breath caught in his chest as Singed methodically fitted the mask over his face.

“Deep breaths”

Viktor obeyed, but the gas burned as it filled his lungs, acrid and foul. He fought the urge to cough, feeling his body begin to shut down as the chemical fog filled his senses. The air in the mask grew thick, suffocating.

“Janna, let me fall asleep. Please. Let this be over.”

Over the wild beat of his heart, his hurling instincts, and his breathe echoing in the smelly mask, he could overhear the countdown of Singed echoing endlessly on the walls of the cave.

For an endless, terrifying second, Viktor realized this may be the very last thing he would hear in his entire life.

“Janna, please…” he begged in silence, as he felt chemical coma swiping him away. “Please, let me live…”

Suddenly, knocks resonated through the cave – strong, heavy… alien.

More knocking, sharper this time. Someone was pounding on a door. But… Singed’s lab never had a door.

A voice broke the thin veil of sleep — faint at first, then clearer, louder

“Viktor? Are you in there?”

“Jayce?” Viktor’s thoughts stuttered in disbelief.

The dream twisted and shifted, everything spiralling out of control — and Viktor fell.

He jolted awake, breathless, eyes wide with fear, his face and neck slick with cold sweat.

He was back in his dorm. His room. Not in his mentor’s laboratory.

A trembling hand pressed against his chest, feeling the frantic thud of his heart.

He was safe.

He was alive.

Thank you for reading 😊

Read more on AO3

#jayvik #viktor arcane #arcane #fanfic #jayce x viktor #jayce talis #act 1 viktor #arcane jayce #act 1 jayce #ao3 #viktor #singed #zaun #zaunite #viktor teenage years #teenage viktor #loving is caring #jeremiah hawkins

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fuliginnous · 4 months ago

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The Yin and Yang of Engineering: Jinx/Viktor

Chap. 1: Tinkering with the absurd.

The scent of scorching metal and candle wax lingered in the air, mingling with the residual ozone of active Hextech. The laboratory existing as an ecosystem of its own — a microcosm of calculated order, in which every movement was rigorously orchestrated, every instrument meticulously placed, every breath synchronized to the steady hum of interconnected machinery. The crisp scratch of graphite against parchment, the measured clink of tools — the usual praxis. Something, however, had already begun to disrupt its equilibrium.

Viktor sensed the disturbance before he saw it. A minute displacement in the air pressure, a fractional shift in the ambient acoustics; the subtlest irregularity. Then, the faintest creak from above.

He let his fingers continue their measured course along the Hextech circuitry before him, grip steady, focus ostensibly unscathed. A test, in part—to see how long the anomaly would linger before announcing itself.

He had already detected the pair of pendulous blue braids dangling into his peripheral vision; had already cataloged mass, velocity, and descent trajectories should the anomaly, as anomalies often do, spiral into a paroxysm of unpredictability.

"You look very ugly from this angle, y'know?" came the snickering, upside-down voice. The words were laced with a gummy, lopsided grin.

Viktor let out a stolid, measured exhale, slowly tipping his head up. “And you resemble a bat.” he replied evenly, tone as measured as his calibrations.

The statement elicited a gnarly laugh from Jinx, who was suspended from an overhead beam. Her entire body was folded into an improbable pose, legs hooked over the steel girder as though gravity were merely a suggestion.

The neon glow of Zaun’s skyline bled in through the lab windows, casting fragmented light over the contours of her rounded features, the faint smudge of soot dusting her jawline, the subtle asymmetry of her pupils—one slightly more dilated than the other. A tell, perhaps.

Viktor merely adjusted a stabilizer. “Should I begin to question how you got up there?”

Jinx twisted midair with a surprising economy of movement. The vertebral rotation was precise, controlled—almost acrobatic.

Then, without warning, she let go. Viktor tensed, a reflexive tightening of his grip on the edge of the workbench. The poor scientist had already begun to map trajectories, force differentials, probabilities of injury, only for the jinx to land in a perfect crouch, one hand brushing the floor for balance before springing up with the fluidity of a creature built for unpredictability.

Jinx twirled once, for no discernible reason other than self-amusement, then flopped onto one of his worktables, her limbs sprawling on the surface with careless abandon.

“So, Doc?” Jinx drawled, tilting her head toward the intricate lattice of Hextech components strewn before him. “whatcha cooking up in that fancy contraption of yours?”

"A minor enhancement,” he answered, gesturing at the faintly pulsating gemstone embedded in the device. “One that may stabilize Hextech output during large power draws. We—” he hesitated, momentarily considering whether to lump himself in with Piltover’s more refined approach "—some of us forget how violent these energies can be when not properly harnessed.”

“Violent energies, violent minds,” she mused, referring to his earlier statement, while patting down the dust on her patchwork trousers. “Nothing a little disorder can't fix.”

“Entropy requires boundaries,” Viktor corrected, keeping his voice gentle despite the admonition. “A container. Else it consumes itself and everything around it.”

"Alright, philosopher," she snickered, "so, what you're telling me is 'no boom'?"

“Absolutely not. No utility whatsoever in explosions."

Jinx's ebullient expression dropped to a saturnine one. “Boring,” she huffed, scrunching her nose. “why are you like this?”

“Functionality,” Viktor returned evenly, “is not contingent on spectacle.”

“Roger that.” she sneered. Jinx twisted at the waist, swinging gently like a pendulum.

She peered at him through the electric haze, turning a small metal sphere over in her hand—one of her bombs, he surmised, judging by the labyrinth of tiny, improvised coils etched along its surface. It was disarmingly compact, unpolished, but brimming with haphazard brilliance. There was artistry in its asymmetry, like a half-remembered blueprint from a dream.

She pressed the sphere into his palm. “Try to make this stable now, yeah?” her tone brimming with the same sardonic twang she always carried. Yet beneath that, a flicker of sincerity: an invitation to test the boundaries she had set.

Viktor’s metal brace squeaked softly as he shifted his weight, accepting the device with steady composure, analyzing the craft with composed fascination. “I am usually up for a challenge,” he replied, a faint thread of wry humor lacing his tone. “However… I must insist you not hang from my rafters again without warning. The structural integrity—”

“Yeah, yeah," she immediately interrupted him, snorting, "... deal."

Viktor set the bomb gently on the worktable and glanced at her. In the silent seconds that followed, there was no condescending tut-tut of a Piltover academic, no sanctimonious lecture of what she could have done better. Merely an unspoken accord that if they could each appreciate the other’s mania—and keep its calamitous potential in check—there was something worth building there.

He adjusted a delicate filament, the faintest suggestion of amusement sparking behind his amber eyes. “You mistake methodology for rigidity,” he randomly mused, glancing sidelong at Jinx.

Her nose wrinkled again, waiting for him to elaborate.

He rolled his wrist as he set a filament connector. “A scientist does not calculate every step merely to banish unpredictability. Calculation is comprehension—to understand a system so deeply that you know precisely where to push and when to pull. Not to prevent chaos,” he added, letting the final phrase hang, “but to direct it.”

Her lids flickered in hesitant acknowledgment; skepticism warred with fascination in her mismatched gaze. “So what you’re saying,” she pressed, “is that you do like messing with things, you quaint, boring guy.”

A soft hum escaped Viktor’s throat, ignoring the insults. “The core of invention is not the mere desire for control, but curiosity,” he continued. “The difference,” he said mildly, “is that I prefer my experiments remain intact by the end of it.”

She slid off the table and prowled around the lab, trailing her fingers over metal and wire, rifling through blueprints.

Jinx moved like she thought in tangents: erratic. Nonlinear. Pausing here, skipping entire sections there, only to circle back if something caught her eye again, in what one could call a stochastic, staccato fashion.

Viktor, wisely, did not intervene. He had long since learned that when it came to Jinx, indirect engagement was often a more effective deterrent than forbiddance.

Eventually, she plopped herself down at a workbench—one cluttered with Viktor and Jayce’s shared diagrams—scrunching them aside with a careless sweep of her forearm. Surprisingly, she took pains not to knock them to the floor or tear them. An almost incongruous note of consideration from someone so prone to what Viktor could only describe as deliberate rascality.

Jinx stretched until a series of pops echoed through the quiet workshop, then rummaged in her satchel. Out came the neon-splashed paraphernalia she called her toolkit: coil springs, nuts and bolts of questionable origin, and—of course—her beloved spray cans in garish, candy-colored hues. The stark contrast against Viktor’s methodical array of polished metal components was almost comical.

Yet neither commented on it. Viktor, engrossed in refining a fractal array for stabilizing Hextech surges, offered only the occasional sideward glance. Jinx, with her usual lack of ceremony, fished out a crude welding torch and got to work assembling... something. If the shape seemed headed toward destructive potential, Viktor refrained from remark—he had long discovered that sharing space with her was a delicate dance better navigated by trusting in her ad-hoc, if not entirely safe, sense of boundaries.

Hours passed in near silence. In place of conversation was the rhythmic hum of the lab, the hiss of flux as Viktor soldered circuit boards, the faint crackle of Jinx’s blowtorch. Occasionally, Jinx broke the hush with a sudden whoop or guttural holler, purely to see Viktor jump at the unexpected noise. Each time, she dissolved into snickering laughter. He responded with measured exasperation, arching one brow but saying nothing. Even so, a trace of bemusement flickered across his features, as though he found her antics strangely disarming.

Eventually, the overhead lamps dimmed, a subtle reminder that the hour was growing late. Viktor powered down his apparatus with a final flip of a switch. Jinx, yawning in an exaggerated manner, began stowing her things in a scuffed leather pouch. "Think 'm headin' out now. Night night."

"Night."

The woman had already crept back up with the grace of a nimble rat, scaling the ceiling pipes, her long electric blue braids once more dangling upon Viktor's forehead as he scarcely managed to push them aside. She then made her way to the same improbable entryway through which she had crashed into the lab, quietly humming an off-key tune before vanishing into the sooty shadows beyond.

Viktor, by contrast, had continued his work undisturbed, denying himself even the basic luxury of sleep. When his eyelids finally began to grow heavy and he awoke from a brief micro-slumber, elbows unceremoniously propped on the workbench, he caught, in a dazed haze, the blurred image of a bizarre object with distinct animalistic contours, stationed before him as though it were unnervingly staring at him.

Instinctively, he flinched, covering his head as if to brace himself for the expected detonation which, surprisingly, never came.

The odd bitzer remained still, with no sign of malevolent nature, glimmering quietly under the workshop’s neon gloom — a squat, mechanical monkey-like figure sporting metallic plating with a grotesque smile and an odd coil in its belly.

Viktor raised a brow as he took note of the small sprig attached to its left hand, that held the monkey's weight into an erect position while seemingly mimicking the scientist's own ligneous cane. His attention was then captured by the bright yellow post-it affixed to the metallic ape with a messy bit of tape, scribbled in a deliberately sloppy handwriting:

“name's cookie... he looks like you. yuo can keep it :o)

– J”

Beneath it, a wonky smiley face scrawled in lurid neon ink, as asymmetrical as its creator’s grin.

It elicited a smile from him, who examined it as it rested upon his palm. Albeit a bit rough in its form, the artefact appeared to be crafted with a certain intent, perhaps even care. He pressed a button to test the mechanism, still half-expecting an explosive cacophony. The monkey’s tiny arms flailed in a spasmodic dance, beginning to tremble as if preceding detonation, only to splutter out a few confetti which landed on his ivory jacket. Viktor shook his head, his expression softening to one of amusement.

He let his index carefully trail over its metal plating, before placing it on his workbench beside the half-finished stabilizer, the neon-paint smudges glaring against the refined Hextech casing. For all the incongruity, there was something undeniably… charming about it. Perhaps endearing even. He'd later hang it up in a corner of the lab, a testament to the newfound, improbable synergy.

For the first time since Jayce's abandonment of the lab in pursuit of his councilor duties, Viktor perceived a vague sense of vacancy following the disappearance of Jinx and her shenaningans, which alongside his exhaustion finally prompted him to call it a day and go home, an unfortunately rare occurrence for the inventor.

In truth, this measured respect and fascination had begun well before Jinx’s impromptu acrobatics in Viktor’s laboratory — it had taken root, ironically, in moments where they’d never even met face-to-face.

Viktor recalled being urgently presented with the disarrayed collection of fuliginous, hazardous mechanical constructs—agglomerations of metallic scraps, remnants of gunpowder cartridges, and nearly comical embellishments of dubious taste, alarmingly rumored to have derived from Silco's inner circle.

"The configuration is... rough, though there certainly is a certain knowledge of engineering, if not mere intuition." Viktor mused, carefully examining the device's labyrinthine wiring and ingeniously modified spark fuses of the complex apparatus beneath him.

"Would they be capable of figuring Hextech out?" Jayce wondered aloud, his steps resonating an anxious rhythm across the chamber's floor.

"Eh," Viktor hummed pensively, "I wouldn't exclude it. The possibility does exist."

"With a complete lack of the theoretical basis? No, no. Years of research and tests only for some... sick, delinquent mind to comprehend and emulate so effortlessly? No chance." he quickly retorted, the firm incredulity in his voice coming across as an attempt at self-regulation rather than genuine conviction. "This is merely a... well-thought attempt at scare tactics. To intimidate us into allowing independency."

"The absence of formal theory, or proper equipment, only serves to underscore the inventive potential of such mechanical artistry." Viktor countered, "If only such acumen could be channeled towards something more... constructive." he then mused, lithe fingers delicately twiddling with the disassembled filaments beneath him.

"Potential? Viktor, this is sheer madness. These are seeds of entropy threatening to contaminate the flourishing utopia that is Piltover. I can not tolerate nor allow this, and may be obliged to..." he paused, simultaneously recalling Medarda's words and anticipating the partner's disapproval, "take countermeasures."

The statement did, in fact, earn a mild glare from Viktor, who was intently scanning the device's subversive wiring.

"If I recall correctly, weren't Hexgems, too, violently volatile in their raw form?" Viktor extended his arm, the servos in his brace whirring faintly as he aligned the titanium-tipped cutters with the wire he had deduced to be the linchpin of the circuitry,

"Volatility is often the embyron of great potential," he continued, finally neutralizing the bomb, "the only requirement being the correct catalyst to refine and stabilize its essence."

#arcane #viktor arcane #jinx arcane #viktor x jinx #jinx x viktor #jinxtor #rarepair #there are so many parallelisms..#two sides of the same coin #perhaps #they are both insane engineers #from zaun #gasp!

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mindblowingscience · 11 months ago

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Fundamental physics—let alone quantum physics—might sound complicated to many, but it can actually be applied to solve everyday problems. Imagine navigating to an unfamiliar place. Most people would suggest using GPS, but what if you were stuck in an underground tunnel where radio signals from satellites were not able to penetrate? That's where quantum sensing tools come in. USC Viterbi Information Sciences Institute researchers Jonathan Habif and Justin Brown, both from ISI's new Laboratory for Quantum-Limited Information, are working at making sensing instruments like atomic accelerometers smaller and more accurate so they can be used to navigate when GPS is down.

#Science #Physics #Quantum Physics #Global Positioning System #GPS

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bardic-tales · 2 months ago

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Day 4 | Diana Ravenscroft | Day 6

31 days of FF 7 Headcanons: Day 5: Relationship with Materia

In the world of Gaia, materia is often treated with reverence, caution, or strategic utility. For Diana Ravenscroft, however, materia is not a means to survive or a conduit to the Planet’s will. It is a subject, a specimen, and a locked vault of planetary memory and divine architecture she has every intention of dissecting and decoding.

Today’s exploration delves into Diana’s uniquely clinical relationship with materia: not as a user or believer, but as a scientist seeking to master the unmasterable. This entry examines how her fixation on materia’s genetic, divine, and metaphysical properties reflects the core of her worldview. Her fixation is one where understanding demands domination, and awe is always forced to kneel before knowledge.

Possible Trigger Warnings: body horror, experimentation, forced implantation, medical trauma, non-consensual modification, scientific exploitation, violence

Diana Ravenscroft’s relationship with materia is one of scientific detachment and intellectual scrutiny rather than mystical reverence or practical reliance. She views materia not as a tool for battle or survival, but as a rare biological and metaphysical phenomenon: a crystalline compression of planetary will that can be categorized and weaponized. In her eyes, materia represents the intersection of science and the divine, a place where her obsession with understanding supernatural forces can be made manifest. Unlike typical Shinra operatives who use materia for combat efficiency, Diana prefers to extract and analyze them in controlled laboratory settings, stripping away their mythos to reveal their inner workings.

While she is more than capable of using materia herself, Diana rarely does unless absolutely necessary. Her style of work doesn't lend itself to battlefield magic. She delegates that to enhanced test subjects, SOLDIER prototypes, and controlled experiments. When she does wield materia, she does so with surgical precision, preferring types like Contain, Gravity, or the elusive Enemy Skill materia. Her use is never emotional or instinctive. It’s calculated, data-driven, and often tied to live experimentation, especially when testing the resilience of genetically modified subjects.

During her obsession with the divine and Bianca Moore, her fascination with materia intensified following the discovery that certain individuals can naturally absorb or synthesize materia-like energy without external conduits became an obsession. Diana began experimenting with materia implantation, theorizing that materia could be used as a medium for permanent genetic alterations if properly stabilized. Her labs became host to grotesque trials in which subjects were forcefully fused with materia, often resulting in catastrophic failure, but in the rare case of success, she documented cellular regeneration.

This belief turned into an obsession, pushing her to experiment with corrupted and forbidden materia: dark, unstable shards extracted from ruins or rumored to have been tainted by proximity to the Planet's wounds. She wasn't content with the standard elemental and command sets. Diana sought materia tied to ancient knowledge and the boundary between life and death. Her fixation reached a crescendo when she attempted to create a hybrid materia using a demonic cells extracted from Bianca and an Odin summon materia. Though the project failed catastrophically, it marked another pivotal moment in Diana’s descent into scientific fanaticism.

In the end, Diana doesn’t see materia as a source of wonder or connection to the Planet. She sees it as a key. A key to unmaking death, to controlling gods, and to rewriting the boundaries of human evolution. Her relationship with materia mirrors her relationship with people: cold, instrumental, and exploitative. Yet, buried in her clinical approach is a flicker of awe she will never admit. This is an unspoken reverence for the cosmic architecture of a world that still dares to defy her scalpel.

@themaradwrites @shepardstales @megandaisy9 @watermeezer

@prehistoric-creatures @creativechaosqueen @chickensarentcheap

@inkandimpressions @arrthurpendragon @projecthypocrisy @serenofroses

#31 days of headcanons #31 doh: ff #31 doh: diana ravenscroft #31 doh: day 5 #fwc: ff #ff vii oc #characters: fwc #characters: fwc: ff #au: canon divergent #bardic tales #bardic-tales #headcanon: au #oc: diana ravenscroft

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arctrooper69 · 1 year ago

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Helpless

Hello friends! I'm gonna try to get through a good chuck of Febuwhump this year!

Prompt #1: Helpless @febuwhump

Warnings: Imperial!Tech. Mentions of needles and implied torture.

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It wasn't the fact that you couldn't move that frightened you the most. Neither was it the blinding lights of the laboratory, nor the frigid metal table that chilled your naked skin. It was the goggled clone who entered into the room behind Dr Hemlock.

"T-Tech?" The words were barely a whisper.

Dr Hemlock chuckled, "I'd like to introduce you to my new science officer. You will be under his care from here on out. I suggest you comply with his direction or things could become rather unpleasant and I don't think any of us want that."

Your heart pounded, chest tightening, threatening to choke you with every beat. You glared, the initial fear quickly succumbing to rage. "Kriff you! What did you do to him, you monster!?"

Hemlock seemed unaffected by the outburst, and simply pressed a small button.

A cry of pain wrenched itself from your lips, jaw snapping shut as a burst of electricity coursed through your body. It was over as soon as it had begun, leaving muscles to twitch as you gasped for breath.

He tutted, "Like I said, cooperate and things will go much easier for you."

He turned to the clone, "Report to me immediately if you find anything useful."

"Yes sir."

Hemlock nodded and briskly turned and walked out of the room.

"Oh Tech..." You sighed with shakey voice, unable to stop the tears running from the corners of your eyes. A mixture of horror and guilt settled deeply in your gut, threatening to poison every thought. "What did they do to you!?"

Tech was silent. He turned to a console across the room.

"Subject is alert and attempting to use emotional appeal to influence the decision making of the chief science officer." He spoke to himself, typing something into the console in front of him.

"Tech!" You shouted, tugging at the restraints,

"Answer me, dammit!"

He was silent for a moment. "Subject appears to be agitated and aggressive. Cooperation will need to be coerced if behavior continues."

"Please talk to me..." The anger seemed to melt, flooding you with a warm, heavy helplessness and heartbreak as he turned to you.

This was not your Tech. It couldn't be. That curious light behind his eyes now deadened into a steely emotionless logic.

"Please..." You pled quietly once again, "Don't you remember me?"

He pulled a metal tray beside him filled with various tools and instruments.

Gloved fingers palpated your inner arm drawing a silent gasp. For a brief fraction of a second your heart jumped at his touch - a body's hopeful instinct seeking that physical connection. Those hands had touched you before, but never so callously - never so cold.

"Relax, this will not harm you. I simply need to collect a few blood samples."

If you closed your eyes, maybe you could imagine that you were back on the Marauder. Maybe you could send yourself back to remember how Tech's fingers passionately caressed over your skin - anything to dull the cold precision of his current examining.

You jerked, pulling against the restraints that held you back. The needle didn't hurt as much as much as the look of indifference in his eyes.

"You used to love me, Tech. Don't you remember?"

He entered something into a datapad and looked up.

"This will go a lot easier if you cooperate."

You pulled against the able again, attempting in vain to rid yourself of this prison.

He regarded you cooly as he walked back to the tray beside the table. "I would advise against that."

"Please!" You pled, tears once again running down your temples, "Use that big extraordinary mind of yours to realize this is wrong!"

He was silent again. You tried to meet his eyes but he simply turned away, grabbing something off of the tray.

"Tech, please!" Your wrists were sore and raw, stinging and burning as the restraints bit at them once again, "I won't let you do this!"

He turned back to face you.

"I do not need your cooperation to gather these results. Fighting me will only make this more unpleasant for you. It is your choice."

He paused, allowing you to consider the options. Anger won over the sorrow.

"Kriff you."

He sighed, "Very well."

A barred restraint snapped across your shoulders and chest and another across your forehead. You felt them tighten - squeezing and pulling - until they allowed not even the smallest wiggle.

"Tech!" You gasped, "Please! You know me! Please don't do this!" Your voice cracked, "Please!"

"Relax, and I will be finished shortly."

"I love you, Tech. Whatever you do to me.... Just remember it isn't you."

A moment of hesitation. A fraction of a nanosecond. A tremor of a hand. One blink and it was gone. As you looked up at him, perhaps there was just a glimmer of sorrow - a single tear unshed and hidden far away. Hope that maybe with time, all could be saved.

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@zoeykallus @ttzamara @nahoney22 @merkitty49 @viva-la-whump @agenteliix @dumpsters-little-matchbook @nekotaetae @ladykatakuri @loverofclones @heyitsaloy @padawancat97 @jambolska-grozdova @flyingkangaroo @melymigo @rain-on-kamino @jiabae @my-own-oracle @dragonrider9905 @queenofspades6 @ordinarylokix @jupitersaturnapollo @queencousland101 @vampire-rogue @southernbaguette @staycalmandhugaclone @dalu-grantkylo @dangraccoon @aconstructofamind @sev-on-kamino @kixs-husband @pb-jellybeans @atomickidsoul @caitnotfound @temmiegailg @skellymom @freesia-writes @trixie2023

If you want to be on my taglist, feel free to send me a message! Also, asks are open! Reblogging is very much encouraged and it makes me do a happy dance every time any of my writing gets reblogged 😂❤️

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curiousquill1 · 8 months ago

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https://tinyurl.com/53wzmaam

Explore VJ Instruments' Light Dark Box, designed to offer precise light control for sensitive lab procedures. Perfect for researchers needing accuracy in controlled lighting environments.

#Light Dark Box #VJ Instruments #lab equipment #light control #research tool #laboratory

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machine-herald-archive · 7 months ago

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House on Emberflit Alley - Rayla Heide

Viktor’s third arm emitted a thin ray of light that welded metal into his left arm with steady precision. The smell of burning flesh no longer bothered him, nor did the sight of his left wrist splayed open, veins and sinewy muscle fused with mechanical augments. He did not wince. Instead, he felt a sense of achievement gazing at the seamless blend of synthetic and organic materials.

The sound of children shouting gave Viktor pause. Rarely did anyone venture down the fog-bound confines of Emberflit Alley. He had chosen this location for that very reason — he preferred not to be interrupted.

Keeping his left arm immobile, Viktor adjusted a silver dial on his iridoscope. The device contained a series of mirrored lenses that angled light to allow him full view of the street outside his laboratory.

Several children were violently shoving a malnourished boy toward Viktor’s wrought iron gates.

“I doubt Naph will last a minute in there,” said a girl with imitation gemstones embedded above her eyes.

“I bet he comes back with a brass head,” said a boy with a shock of red hair. “Maybe then his brain won’t be dull as the Gray.”

“You better return with something we can sell, or we’ll be the ones to give you a new head,” said the largest one, grabbing the small boy by the neck and forcing him forward. The other children backed away, watching.

The young boy trembled as he approached the towering gate, which screeched as he pushed it open. He passed the front door encrusted with interlocking gears and shimmied through an open window. An alarm blared as he fell to the floor.

Viktor sighed and pressed a switch that quieted the ringing.

The skinny boy stared at his new environment. Glass jars, containing organic and metal organs floating in green fluid, lined the walls. A leather gurney stained with blood, upon which lay a mechanized drill, sat in the center of the chamber. Dozens of automatons stood motionless against every wall. To Viktor, his laboratory was a sanctuary for his most creative and vital experiments, but he could imagine it might seem frightening to a child.

The boy’s eyes widened in shock when he saw Viktor at his workbench, arm splayed open on the table. He ducked behind a nearby crate.

“You will not learn anything from that box, child,” said Viktor. “But on top of it, you will find a bone chisel. Hand it to me, please.”

A trembling hand reached to the top of the crate and grasped the handle of the rusted metal tool. The chisel slid across the floor to Viktor, who picked it up.

“Thank you,” said Viktor, who wiped off the instrument and continued work on his arm.

Viktor heard the boy’s rapid breathing.

“I am replacing the twisting flexor tendons — ahem, the broken mechanism in my wrist,” Viktor said, reaching into his arm to adjust a bolt. “Would you like to watch?”

The boy peeked his head around the crate.

“Doesn’t it hurt?” said the boy.

“No,” said Viktor. “When one eliminates the anticipation and fear of pain, it becomes entirely bearable.”

“Oh.”

“It also helps that my arm is almost completely mechanized. See for yourself.”

The boy stepped away from the crate and sat across from Viktor without a word, eyes fixed on his arm.

Viktor resumed welding a new boltdrive onto the tendons beneath his skin. When he had finished, he sealed the flaps of dermis onto his arm. He drew the beam of light across the seam, cauterizing his flesh and fusing the incision.

“Why did you do that?” the boy asked. “Didn’t your arm work fine as it was?”

“Do you know what humanity’s greatest weakness is?”

“No...” said the boy.

“Humans consistently ignore the endless infinity of possibilities in favor of maintaining the status quo.”

The boy gave him a blank stare.

“People fear change,” Viktor said. “They settle with fine when they could have exceptional.”

Viktor walked to his stovetop. He mixed a blend of dark powder and Dunpor cream into a saucepan, heating the liquid with his laser.

“Would you like a glass of sweetmilk?” said Viktor. “A weakness of mine, but I have always enjoyed the anise flavor.”

“Um... you’re not going to saw off my head and replace it with a metal one?”

“Ah. Is that what they think of me now?” Viktor asked.

“Pretty much,” said the boy. “I heard one kid had theirs replaced just because they had a cough.”

“Did you get this information directly?” said Viktor.

“No, it was my neighbor Bherma’s cousin. Or uncle. Or something like that.”

“Ah. Well in that case.”

“Would replacing someone’s head even get rid of a cough?” asked the boy.

“Now you are asking the right questions,” said Viktor. “No, I imagine it would not be much of an upgrade. Coughing stems from the lungs, you see. And to your earlier point, I am not going to saw your head off and replace it with a metal one. Unless, of course, you want that.”

“No thanks,” said the boy.

Viktor poured the thick liquid into two mugs and passed one to the boy, who stared longingly at the hot drink.

“It is not drugged,” said Viktor and took a sip from his own mug. The boy gulped down the sweetmilk.

“Are the others still watching outside?” said the boy through stained teeth.

Viktor glanced through his iridoscope. The three children were still waiting by the front entrance.

“Indeed they are. Do you wish to give them a scare?” Viktor said.

The boy’s eyes lit up, and he nodded.

Viktor handed him a sonophone and said, “Scream as loud as you can into this.”

The boy gave an exaggerated, blood-curdling shriek into the sonophone. It echoed along Emberflit Alley, and the other children jumped in terror, quickly scattering to hide. The boy looked at Viktor and grinned.

“I find that fear is more often than not a limiting emotion,” said Viktor. “Tell me something that scares you, for example.”

“The Chem-Barons.”

“The Chem-Barons are feared because they project an air of dominance and often the threat of violence. If no one feared them, people would stand up to them. And then where would their power go?”

“Uh...”

“Away. Exactly. Think of how many Chem-Barons exist compared to how many people live in Zaun. Fear is used by the powerful few to control the weak because they understand how fear works. If someone can manipulate your emotions, they can control you.”

“I guess that makes sense. But I’m still afraid of them,” said the boy.

“Of course you are. Patterns of fear are carved deep into your very flesh. Steel, however, has no such weakness.”

Viktor retrieved a vial containing miniscule silver beads floating in milky fluid.

“That is where I may be able to assist,” he said. “I have developed an augmentation that eliminates fear altogether. I could let you try it out for a short time.”

“How short?”

“The implant will dissolve in twenty minutes.”

“You’re sure it’s not permanent?”

“It can be, but not this one. You might find that without fear, your friends out there lose their grip. Bullies feed on fear, you see. And without it, they will starve.”

The boy nursed his drink, considering the offer. After a moment he nodded to Viktor, who inserted a thin needle into the vial and injected one of the silver beads into the skin behind his ear.

The boy shuddered for a moment. Then he smiled.

“Do you feel your weakness falling away?” Viktor asked.

“Oh yes,” said the boy.

Viktor walked him to the door and twisted a dial to unlock it before waving him out.

“Remember, you can always return if you wish a more permanent solution.”

A wave of fog created a ghostly silhouette around the boy as he emerged from the laboratory. Viktor returned to his workbench to watch the experiment through his iridoscope.

Emberflit Alley was empty, but as soon as the boy walked out his companions emerged.

“Where’s our souvenir?” asked the red-haired boy.

“Doesn’t seem like little Naph has held up his end of the deal,” said the girl.

“Guess we have to punish him,” added the large boy. “We did promise him a new head today, after all.”

“Don’t you touch me,” said Naph. He raised himself to his tallest height.

The bully reached for Naph’s neck, but Naph turned and punched him square in the face.

Blood streamed from the bully’s nose.

“Grab him!” the bully screamed.

But his companions were no longer interested in grabbing him.

Naph stepped toward the bullies. They stepped back.

“Get away from me,” he said.

The bullies eyed each other, then turned and ran.

Viktor closed his iridoscope and returned to his work. He stretched the fingers of his newly repaired arm and tapped them on his desk in satisfaction.

#viktor league of legends #viktor lol #naph #short story #background art #machine herald archive

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