#Medical Science and its Miracles

[noredemptionhere]

𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢𓍼ོ

𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛: 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚔𝚊 𝚡 𝚏𝚎𝚖!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: 𝚖𝚊𝚓𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 [𝚘𝚌], 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 [𝚘𝚌 𝚐𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚍], 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚜𝚝, 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚍𝚛𝚞𝚐 𝚞𝚜𝚎, 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚖, 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.

𝚙.𝚜. “𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢” 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚙𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚍/𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚞𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚐. 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍.

you weren’t okay.

neither of you were.

you were dying.. slowly, cruelly. your body had turned against you in a way no one could undo. it was a quiet kind of betrayal, coded deep in your own cells, unfolding piece by piece as you faded. and sevika was dying too. just slower. just loud enough to scream every day and still be alive the next morning.

she had proposed to you three years ago, with trembling fingers and a heart too full to beat steady. those years that followed were the only ones she would ever call good. the world had collapsed to the size of your body in her arms. you were her home, her anchor, her peace. you were the only thing she had ever loved without fear, without restraint, without wondering if she was meant to.

she didn’t propose the way she’d first planned. the original idea had been… obscene. filthy, even. she had thought about slipping the ring into your mouth mid-rimming, letting you taste the weight of forever on her tongue before you ever saw it. she’d thought it was funny, honest. but she knew you. knew you would have killed her for ruining something sacred with something so vulgar. so instead, she swallowed the laugh, bent the knee, and offered you everything in the most clichéd way possible. it wasn’t what she wanted..

..but it made you say yes.

it was supposed to be your happy ending.

but six months ago, your body wrote its own ending instead.

your immune system began attacking you. your cells, the very things meant to protect you, no longer recognized you. they saw you as a threat. a stranger. an enemy. and so, they tore you apart. your liver was the first to go, eaten alive by the thing designed to save it. sevika—who’d once laughed in the face of fire, who’d spit blood and come out swinging—had no weapon for this. no fists could fix it.

because it was the cruelest thing she’d ever witnessed. and for the first time in her life, sevika knew that whatever was happening.. was bigger than her.

but if the sickness is bigger than her, then it isn’t for others who knew it. for doctors.

she poured every coin of brass she had into treatments, into comfort, into time. precious, dwindling time. but there was no cure. no relief. just the slow, suffocating reality of watching you slip through her fingers no matter how tightly she held on.

when science failed, she turned to violence. screamed at doctors until her throat bled. held every surgeon in zaun—and piltover—at gunpoint. demanded miracles, begged for anything that would buy her another day with you.

⋆｡˚ ✧˚ 𓍼 ⋆｡˚ 𓍼 ✧˚ ⋆｡˚

the hospital smelled like bleach and blood and plastic. too clean. too fake. like they were trying to cover up the rot of truth with chemicals and clipped voices. it was the most luxurious and groundbreaking medical institution in all of topside.

so if this failed.. something would break even more in her.

sevika stormed through the hall like a storm on two legs.

nurses moved out of her way before she even raised her voice. one look at her—the trembling jaw, the too wild eyes, the blood on her knuckles—and they didn’t ask questions. they just vanished behind swinging doors and flimsy curtains.

she found the head surgeon near the nurse’s station. some older man with tired eyes and a clipboard. he turned, startled, when she grabbed him by the front of his white coat.

“you’re not doing enough.”

his mouth opened, but she didn’t give him time.

“you told me she had weeks. it’s been days. she’s in pain. she’s getting worse, not better. and you’re sitting here filling fucking paperwork?!”

“miss—sevika, please—you have to understand, this disease isn’t cu-“

“that doesn’t matter.” her voice cracked. she wasn’t yelling anymore. she was begging through her teeth. “fix her. i don’t care what it takes. tell me what you need. a new fucking liver? organs? just say it.”

he hesitated.

and she saw it.

the pause. the flicker of defeat in his eyes.

and something inside her snapped.

she shoved him hard against the wall, her forearm pressing into his throat, the other hand already reaching under her coat for the cold weight of the pistol she hadn’t carried in years. not since she’d left the undercity behind.

“you don’t get to give up,” she hissed. “not when she’s still breathing. not when she still opens her eyes and looks for me.”

“call the security-” he shouted at the nurses.

“let them come,” she growled. “i’ll kill everyone in this building if i have to. just to buy her another fucking hour.”

the silence was sharp. ugly. one of the nurses had started crying.

the surgeon didn’t move. didn’t fight back.

because what could he say? what could he offer?

there were no miracles here.

only machines. beeping. slowing.

sevika’s hand trembled. she slammed the gun to the wall beside his head, metal clattering to the floor. her breath hitched. once. twice. then broke apart completely.

“please,” she whispered, chest heaving. “i’ll bring you anything..”

“please.. she doesn’t deserve to die like this.”

the surgeon swallowed, gently easing her back. “i’m sorry,” he said softly. “we’re doing everything we can.”

but it wasn’t enough

and she was getting scared.

⋆｡˚ ✧˚ 𓍼 ⋆｡˚ 𓍼 ✧˚ ⋆｡˚

the door slammed open.

sevika stumbled through, reeking of smoke and stale liquor, her steps uneven but somehow still deliberate. blood, dark and flaking, crusted her knuckles. her cloak hung crooked off one shoulder, dragging behind her like it had barely survived the night.

she kicked the door shut, the sound echoing through the quiet apartment. her eyes swept the space. the couch, the kitchen, that corner where you sometimes curled beneath a blanket like a ghost too tired to move on.

“baby?” her voice cracked low, rough around the edges. shaky, like she wasn’t sure it still worked.

silence answered.

she stepped deeper inside. something cold and heavy coiled in her chest.

then, from the bedroom.. barely above a whisper

“sev..?”

she was already moving. “yeah. i’m here.”

you were sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched forward, your hands trembling in your lap. but it was your eyes that stopped her in her tracks. wide. distant. not fixed on her.. but through her, like she wasn’t even there.

you blinked. once. twice. slow and uncertain, like you were trying to clear a fog that wouldn’t lift.

“i think.. i think something’s wrong,” you said, voice thin and distant, like it had wandered far from your body.

“everything’s dark.”

“what?”

you swallowed hard. “i can’t.. see.”

she crossed the room in two strides, dropping to her knees in front of you. her metal hand curled gently around your thigh while her other reached up to tilt your face toward her.

“baby,” she breathed, her voice cracking. “you’re lookin’ at me, right?”

a pause. “..no?”

her chest tightened. her hand shook as it traced your cheek, your jaw, then cradled the back of your head like you might shatter in her hands. “it’s okay,” she lied. her voice split open on the second word. “it’s just the meds. or your sugar. we’ll fix it. i swear.”

you didn’t even realize you were crying until your lips trembled and warm tears rolled soundlessly down your cheeks. “i don’t want to go blind, sev.”

she pulled you into her chest like she could hold your body together with pressure alone.

“you’re not,” she murmured into your hair. “you’re not. i won’t let it happen.”

“what if i-”

“don’t,” she cut in sharply. her voice fractured at the edges. “don’t you fuckin’ say it.”

she gripped you harder. her embrace was soft, too soft, meant for comfort— but her flesh hand was growing colder. colder than the metal one.

then she pulled back, just enough to take your hand and guide it to her face.

“memorize me.”

your heart clenched. your throat closed. you couldn’t even find the breath to speak.

“right now,” she whispered.

your fingertips brushed over her brow, slow and careful. down the slope of her cheek. across the scar that tugged her mouth into that permanent scowl. you touched her lips. she kissed your fingers as they passed, barely holding herself together.

“i got you,” she whispered. “i got you. i got you.”

over and over. like if she repeated it enough, the universe would have no choice but to obey.

and you believed her.

⋆｡˚ ✧˚ 𓍼 ⋆｡˚ 𓍼 ✧˚ ⋆｡˚

a few days later, it was gone.

..no flicker behind your eyelids. no shape. no shadow. just… nothing. a still, heavy black. like sinking into an ocean without a bottom.

you heard sevika sitting beside you.

she hadn’t left the house since. no drinks. no visits to the knuckleheads. she hadn’t been out to the harbor. hadn’t seen silco in almost six days.

you didn’t speak for a long while. just breathed. counted her exhales when your own turned shaky. listened to the soft scrape of her thumb dragging across your wrist.

“still with me?” she asked quietly.

you gave a slow nod.

“good.” a pause followed. “let’s talk.”

you furrowed your brow. “talk?”

“yeah,” she said, gently. “i’m gonna tell you everything in the room. everything you can’t see. and tomorrow, i’ll tell you about tomorrow. and the day after that. and every day after that too.”

“okay,” you whispered.

she adjusted on the mattress. you felt the shift in weight, the warmth of her body beside you.

“there’s a mug on the windowsill. the one with the chip on the handle. you made me keep it after i said i’d throw it out.”

you smiled, barely.

“there’s sunlight on the floor. it’s yellow. looks like a ribbon.”

a long silence stretched out between you.

“the sheets are blue,” she added, her voice quieter now. “they smell like you.”

your hand twitched under the blanket. she reached for it and held it in hers.

“i feel like you’re tired,” you murmured. “you sound tired.”

“yeah,” she breathed. “i’ll live.”

her thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and steady.

“you know what else?” she asked, leaning closer, her voice husky and low beside your ear. “you’re still the prettiest thing in this whole fucking room.”

you let out a broken laugh. then cried a little.

not because you were afraid. but because she made it okay to be.

sevika held you through it. she kissed your temple and rubbed slow circles into your back while your shoulders trembled.

“my angel,” she whispered, “..sent down just to save me.”

⋆｡˚ ✧˚ 𓍼 ⋆｡˚ 𓍼 ✧˚ ⋆｡˚

January Third.

the night was cold and quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against the windows and filled the corners of the room. shadows stretched long across the walls. outside, wind drifted slow over rooftops, soft and aimless.

you whispered her name.

“hold me.” your voice was faint, frayed at the edges, barely more than breath.

sevika stopped breathing. and not for just a second.

she knew then. in the weight of your whisper. in the silence that followed. it settled in her chest like a stone, that aching shift in gravity. like the world had tipped, like something irreversible had just happened and was still happening all at once.

she didn’t cry. didn’t scream. her body moved before her mind could catch up.

she gathered you into her lap with both arms, held you like a prayer, like something sacred. her forehead pressed against yours. she was trying to share breath, to push life back into your skin through closeness alone.

“you can rest.” she said.

the words tasted like blood. tar. poison.

it broke her, saying it. the hardest thing she ever let herself speak. a mercy, and a blade. but you needed it. needed to know it was safe to let go. that she would not hold it against you. that her love wouldn’t die with you, but stretch on, root deep, grow wild through every breath she took without you.

she didn’t know if you heard her.

but you smiled. Just barely.

you wanted to say thank you.

you wanted to tell her you loved her.

you wanted to promise that you’d find her again, in a gentler place. a softer world. one where you wouldn’t have to be sick. one where her hands could hold you without shaking.

but your body wouldn’t let you.

so instead, with the last ounce of strength left in you, you moved her hand from your cheek and brought it to your lips and pressed a kiss to her palm. It was soft. barely there. like something remembered more than felt.

you’d kissed her hand a thousand times. sometimes messy and loud, sometimes slow and reverent, but never like this. never like it was the last thing you had left to give. you always had more love in you. you always did.

but then you went still.

your chest stopped rising. your mouth didn’t move. your lashes didn’t flutter.

sevika didn’t understand, not at first. she sat there, still holding your body, still waiting for you to lift your head and say something sweet. some tired joke. some soft little, “i’m still here.”

but you didn’t.

the silence stretched. heavy. hollow.

“no.”

it came out low, rough.

he pressed her fingers to your wrist.

her other hand shook as she touched your throat.

“no.”

louder now. almost a snarl.

her hands moved—shaking, frantic, useless—as she cradled your face.

“don’t fuckin’ do this.”

she was supposed to be prepared for this. but something cracked. something she’d been holding in the whole time you were sick.

she pressed her forehead to yours. her voice cracked. her whole chest heaved like it was too full of something she couldn’t swallow down.

“don’t fuckin’ do this to me, baby.”

she rocked you. once. twice. like movement could restart you.

your mouth hung open a little. your eyes, still closed, like you were just asleep.

but you weren’t.

you weren’t.

“no. no, no—no!”

the sound that tore out of her didn’t sound human. it was broken glass, and gravel, and something wounded beyond repair.

she held you tighter. clawed you against her chest like she could keep you in her arms forever if she just didn’t let go. her lips smashed against your temple—again and again—as if kissing you hard enough would make you come back.

“i told you,” she whispered. her voice was soaked in grief, barely a breath. “i told you i’d take it. whatever it was. give it to me instead. why didn’t you—why the fuck didn’t you-”

her breath hitched. her hands slipped from your back.

she couldn’t finish the sentence. couldn’t find a version of this that didn’t end in her alone.

sevika held you until her arms went numb.

held you until the light outside changed.

held you until she felt the weight of you shift—not because you moved, but because something final had passed between you.

held you like she was trying to mold you into her. so that whatever took you from her.. would see her a part of you and take her with you as well.

she stayed like that for hours, cheek pressed to yours, whispering all the things she hadn’t said

⋆｡˚ ✧˚ 𓍼 ⋆｡˚ 𓍼 ✧˚ ⋆｡˚

sevika stopped living.

she didn’t call it grief. it was something worse. something black and permanent. the people around her noticed. they moved out of her way, avoided her eyes, said her name like a warning.

she was colder now. less human. more monster. and she liked it that way.

she broke what didn’t need breaking. killed instead of capturing. drank until her throat was raw. slept on floors. woke up in alleyways.

and still, each morning, her chest split open all over again.

because you’d made her promise to keep living.

and she hated you for it.

really fucking hated you for it.

she wanted to take those words out of your mouth with her hands. crush them before they landed. pretend she’d never heard them. never nodded. never kissed your temple and said, “i will, baby. i promise.”

but here she was.

and sevika knew.. it was a matter of time before she breaks that promise.

April First.

she stumbled through the front door, half a bottle down and the other half clutched in her fist. her fingers were numb. her throat burned. her body ached with the kind of pain nothing could touch.

she didn’t plan to wake up again.

but she didn’t even make it to the couch.

she slid down the side of the kitchen counter. sat there, back against the cabinets. the cooler beside her was empty. always was.

and then the air changed.

warm. thick. familiar.

a smell.

soup.

yours.

her favorite.

the scent wound through the room like your arms used to. soft and quiet and filled with things she couldn’t name.

she didn’t breathe. didn’t blink.

not until she saw you.

at the stove.

stirring. humming.

healthy. not blind. and still the prettiest woman she has ever seen.

barefoot. in that stupid sweater she always said was too big. your hair pulled back. smiling to yourself like nothing in the world had ever hurt you.

and sevika didn’t hesitate.

she got up like it hurt.

walked straight to you like you were gravity.

her arms wrapped around your waist.

her face pressed into your neck.

and she breathed. for the first time in weeks, she breathed.

“hey,” you said softly.

your voice landed on her like mercy.

“don’t you think you drink too much-”

“no.” her voice cracked. “you shut up.”

her grip tightened.

“you shut your mouth and let me have this.”

you went quiet.

her hands slid under the hem of your sweater, palms flat against your stomach. just to feel. just to know.

and then her mouth was on your neck.

slow. starving.

a kiss, then another. then another.

down the column of your throat. up beneath your jaw.

she kissed you like she was trying to memorize you. like her mouth could map you back into existence.

“i love you,” she whispered against your skin.

one more kiss.

“i didn’t say it enough.”

another.

“i love you so much.”

you turned in her arms, soft hands cupping her face.

“i know,” you whispered, brushing your nose against hers. “i love you too.”

then you kissed her. gentle. warm. real.

and she whimpered. actually whimpered into your mouth.

because she missed this. missed you.

and she knew it couldn’t last.

you rested your forehead against hers.

“we need rosemary,” you said.

she smiled.

“yeah?”

“i wanted to make you rosemary bread,” you murmured, smiling. “it goes well with peach tea.”

and that’s when everything broke.

her dreams never remembered details like that.

not the bread, not the tea. not they your eyes shined with all the love in the world.

she opened her eyes.

you were gone.

the stove was still on.

the soup was still there.

the smell still clung to the air like your hands had clung to her face.

she moved. lifted the lid.

steam hit her cheeks.

it was hot.

it was real.

she dropped to her knees and ate straight from the pot, greedy and desperate. it burned her tongue. she didn’t care.

and when it was gone, when there was nothing left,

she reached for the bottle again.

because if drinking could make you come back,

she’d keep going.

until she could feel you again.

until she could smell rosemary again.

[rosachae]

deja vu | manon x reader

⁍ song: myth - beach house ⁍ requested: yes-- thank you anon! ⁍ genre: AU! angsty, bittersweet ending. grief and acceptance in different fonts. ⁍ a/n: i hope this is what you were looking for, anon. sorry for delay in getting this out! ⁍ wc: 9.9k ⁍ warnings: heavy depictions of grief and death. mentions of mental illness, sickness, surgery, medication, etc. please read with discretion. ⁍ synopsis:

y/n, for as long as she can remember, has always dreaded falling asleep. her dreams are plagued by memories of a girl. each and every time, she lives a life with her. each and every time, it ends in heartbreak.

the idea of soulmates isn't wrapped in myth or fantasy. there's no magic thread tying fates together, no divine hand deciding who belongs to whom. but still, it feels real in its own quiet, mysterious way. people speak of it in hushed tones, describing sudden connections that strike like lightning. strangers lock eyes and feel as if they've known each other for centuries. some are shaken by deja vu so intense it leaves them breathless. others dream the same dreams on the same nights, caught in a strange, shared familiarity. science has no name for it. the world just accepts that sometimes, two souls find each other and remember.

for y/n, remembering isn't tender. it's not some miracle to chase or cherish. it's a cycle of sorrow that follows her into sleep, again and again. she dreams in sharp, vivid color, trapped in lives she can’t recall by day but can’t escape by night. and always, at the center of it all, there’s the same woman. a fierce, beautiful stranger who feels more like a missing limb than a memory. y/n meets her over and over, in different centuries, different bodies, different lives. they find each other and lose each other, always torn apart by something cruel and unseen. like their story was carved in stone long before they ever lived it.

the dreams aren't fragments or fading whispers. they're entire worlds. she lives them fully, loves fiercely, and dies a little each time she wakes. in one life, the woman bleeds out in her arms on a battlefield turned to ash. in another, she disappears into a storm that swallows the sea. always, it's loss. always, it's heartbreak.

the weight of it bleeds into her waking life. she carries grief in her bones, hollow in places she can't explain. she's learned to build her life around absence. to keep her distance. to avoid anything that might stir that old, aching recognition. people think she's cold, guarded, maybe afraid of love. they don't understand that she's loved a hundred times and lost a hundred more, all in the span of sleep.

she doesn’t walk alone. she walks with the echoes of a hundred endings. haunted not by a ghost, but by a soul she keeps finding and losing. and deep down, more than anything, she's terrified it’ll happen again.

the psychiatrists office sits on the top floor of an old building downtown, the kind with creaking stairs and an elevator that groans like it’s doing you a favor. it’s not the kind of place that promises peace or healing. the walls are painted in muted shades that aimed for calming but landed closer to worn out. a soft, sagging armchair waits under a crooked floor lamp that hums faintly when it’s on. there are no framed quotes about growth or resilience, no carefully placed succulents in trendy pots. just shelves crowded with books that have been read too many times and the faint, lingering smell of mint tea mixed with dust.

y/n sits cross legged on the couch, her shoulders tight, fingers tangled in her lap. her posture is practiced stillness, but tension hums beneath it. outside the window, the city murmurs. traffic lights blink in steady rhythm, a car horn groans in the distance, tires hiss over wet pavement. the world moves on, indifferent.

inside, the room is quiet. the air conditioner hums softly, and every now and then, there’s the sound of a pen scratching across paper. taeyeon sits across from her, steady and composed, taking notes with a kind of quiet precision that makes y/n feel exposed.

taeyeon is a psychiatrist. her presence is gentle, but clinical. her voice is low and even, each word measured, careful not to press too hard. she never rushes, never interrupts. she has the kind of calm that makes y/n ache with something sharp and shapeless, part envy, part resentment. taeyeon was calm in a way that y/n could only dream of.

“how many nights this week?” taeyeon asked, clicking her pen once before jotting something down.

“five,” y/n said, her voice barely more than a breath. “same woman. different place.”

taeyeon nodded slowly. “can you tell me about the most recent one?”

y/n exhaled through her nose, like the memory hurt to touch. “a desert. sand everywhere. in the air, in my mouth, in my lungs. we were running. hiding. i don’t know from what. she had a scar along her jaw and a cloth wrapped around her wrist, like she was bleeding. but she smiled at me like everything was fine.”

“and did you recognize her again?” taeyeon’s voice was calm, careful. not dismissive, not probing too hard. she had learned how to ask without denying. not with y/n.

“always,” y/n whispered. “it’s always her. different bodies, different voices, but the same eyes. i just know.”

taeyeon tapped the tip of her pen against the paper, thoughtful. “how did it end?”

“same as always,” y/n said. “i lost her. the world started falling apart or she just vanished. sometimes she dies. sometimes i do. and then i wake up crying, and i can’t breathe, and it takes a while before i remember where i am. before i feel real again.”

there was a pause. taeyeon leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees.

“we’ve talked about dissociation,” she said gently. “how powerful dreams like this can sometimes be the mind’s way of processing trauma. especially when they’re this vivid, this consistent. it can feel like you’re living two lives. like your brain is carrying something too heavy to face all at once, so it breaks it into pieces you only see when you’re sleeping.”

y/n couldn’t help the quiet scoff that slipped out. dissociation. of course.

they always said the same things. dissociative episodes. unresolved trauma. recurrent nightmares. some leaned toward ptsd, others floated terms like delusional attachment or maladaptive daydreaming. one suggested a rare sleep disorder. they circled her like they were mapping a storm they couldn’t predict, naming symptoms like they were anchors, like labels could keep her from drifting too far.

but none of it touched the truth of it. none of it explained how it felt like her soul kept getting dragged through time, tethered to a stranger who never stayed.

y/n nodded regardless, but her expression was distant. “but what if it’s not just trauma? what if it is real? what if i’m not broken? what if my soul just… remembers?”

taeyeon didn’t answer right away. instead, she let the question hover between them like smoke.

“i believe your pain is real,” she said carefully. “your grief, your connection, your fear of losing her. all of it. i’m not here to tell you what’s real and what isn’t. i’m here to help you stay anchored, no matter what the answer turns out to be.”

y/n laughed, but there was no humor in it. “anchored. i feel like i’m drowning in someone else’s life. like i’ve already lived and died a thousand times, and i don’t have any of the good parts to show for it. just the endings.”

taeyeon softened. “that sounds exhausting.”

“it is.” y/n’s voice cracked. “and the worst part? i feel like i’m grieving someone i’ve never even met. and no one gets it. no one sees it as real grief. not even me, most of the time. it just… hurts.”

taeyeon nodded slowly. “grief doesn’t need permission. it doesn’t need logic. your mind, your body, your heart—they’re all carrying something. whether it’s memory or metaphor, it deserves to be processed.”

“but what if i never stop dreaming of her?” y/n whispered. “what if i’m meant to keep losing her forever?”

“then we figure out how to live in between the dreams,” taeyeon said. “how to find meaning in the spaces where you’re awake. how to hold on to yourself. you’re not here to solve every life you’ve lived. you’re here to live this one.”

the silence that followed wasn’t heavy. it was necessary. y/n stared out the window, watching the sky shift from steel to amber. somewhere below, a siren wailed. the city moved on, uncaring. but in this room, in this breath, she felt just the smallest flicker of stillness.

taeyeon didn’t speak again right away, and y/n was grateful for it. sometimes silence was the most honest part of these sessions. not everything needed a tidy response, a plan, a labeled diagnosis. sometimes it was just about making it to the next breath without sinking.

“do you think i’m delusional?” y/n asked at last, her eyes fixed on the window. her voice was flat, but her fingers tightened around the edge of her sleeve.

“no,” taeyeon said, calm and certain. “i think your mind is telling a story your body hasn’t finished understanding. maybe it’s rooted in trauma. maybe it’s memory. maybe it’s something we don’t have language for yet. but that doesn’t make it delusion.”

y/n turned her head slowly. “but no one else dreams like this. no one else wakes up with bruises shaped like hands they’ve never touched. or with songs on their lips they’ve never heard before. i speak languages i’ve never learned. i wake up missing her like she just walked out of the room.”

taeyeon wrote something down, but her eyes never left y/n. “have you ever told anyone that part?”

“no.” she paused, her voice low. “i stopped trying. people look at me like i’m breakable. or lying. or worse... like i’m something to be afraid of.”

there was a long pause.

“can i ask you something?” taeyeon said.

y/n gave a small nod.

“if it’s real—your dreams, the woman, the loss—what do you think you’re meant to do with it in this life?”

the question landed between them like a stone dropped into water. not heavy, but deep. it sank fast, and y/n felt the ripple of it in her chest, behind her ribs where the grief always settled.

“i don’t know,” she said quietly. “i think… i’m afraid i’ll never find her here. or worse, that i will, and i won’t recognize her until it’s too late.”

taeyeon’s voice stayed soft, steady. “what if it’s not about finding her at all? what if it’s about becoming the version of you who can survive losing her? or maybe… the one who doesn’t lose her at all?”

the thought felt like an open wound and a balm all at once. y/n looked down at her hands, her thumbs rubbing together in slow circles, a nervous ritual she barely noticed anymore.

“that version of me would have to be a lot stronger than this,” she said quietly.

“maybe,” taeyeon replied. “or maybe she’s already here, underneath the grief.”

the clock ticked softly in the corner, marking the end of the session, but neither of them moved. the city outside had shifted again. a wind stirred through the alley below, carrying the distant sound of footsteps and voices and life.

“same time next week?” taeyeon asked eventually, her voice light, as if the conversation hadn’t just opened a door that couldn’t be closed again.

y/n stood slowly, wrapping her coat around her like armor. “yeah,” she said, though she wasn’t sure what next week would bring. maybe another dream. maybe another ending.

the hallway outside taeyeon’s office was dim and narrow, lit by flickering fluorescent lights that buzzed just enough to feel wrong. the carpet was a tired gray, worn thin in spots, and the air smelled faintly of old coffee and overused cleaning spray. y/n took the stairs instead of the elevator, her steps slow and careful. she didn’t like the sound of her own breath in tight spaces, not after sessions like this. everything inside her felt too exposed, like her skin didn’t fit quite right.

by the time she stepped outside, the sky had settled into dusk. cars moved past in quiet waves, headlights blinking on one by one. the breeze carried the damp scent of distant rain and exhaust. she pulled her collar up and slipped the folded prescription into her coat pocket like it was something she didn’t want anyone to see.

quetiapine.

low dose. for sleep, taeyeon had said. for the emotions. for the edges. something to soften the line between the dreams and waking life.

“just something to ground you,” she’d added, voice gentle.

y/n hadn’t argued. but she hadn’t said yes either. 

at the corner, she paused beneath a flickering streetlamp. the script crinkled in her pocket like a secret. the words felt heavy. antipsychotic. sedative. off-label.

none of them felt like they belonged to her.

she didn’t feel sick. not in the way they meant. she didn’t feel like her mind was broken. if anything, the dreams were the only things that felt consistent, real, even if they tore her apart. it was the waking world that felt fragmented. like a life half-lived. like her body was here but her soul had its bags half-packed, always waiting for a call back to somewhere else.

she crossed the street without looking, cars slowing around her like she wasn’t really there. the pharmacy on 9th street glowed too brightly, its glass doors sliding open with a sterile hiss. she stood just inside, the cold air conditioning raising goosebumps on her arms, and stared down at the slip of paper in her hand.

her name. her date of birth. the drug. the dosage. instructions in bold print. take one at bedtime. do not operate heavy machinery. may cause drowsiness.

none of it said what she really wanted.

may stop you from dying over and over again in your sleep.may dull the face of the woman who keeps saying “found you.”may silence the only part of your life that feels like truth.

“can i help you?” the pharmacist asked, polite, rehearsed, unaware of the war playing out behind her eyes.

y/n hesitated. then handed the paper over.

when she left twenty minutes later, a small white bag folded shut in her hand, she felt no relief. no sense of control. only a deeper kind of uncertainty.

because she knew what was waiting for her when she closed her eyes.

and she didn’t know what scared her more. seeing the woman again or the possibility that this time, she wouldn’t at all.

she moved on instinct, letting her feet carry her forward while her mind drifted somewhere else entirely. head bowed low, shoulders curled inward like she could shrink out of existence if she tried hard enough. around her, the city pulsed with people who had places to be and lives to live, all of them tethered to their own distractions. she kept walking, each step a blur, vision unfocused as thoughts piled on top of each other in a fog she couldn’t cut through. then, as she turned a corner sharply without thinking, her body moving faster than her awareness could catch up, she slammed shoulder first into someone heading the opposite direction. the sudden jolt snapped her out of her spiral like a slap to the face. she almost dropped her bag.

the impact wasn’t hard, but it knocked her a step back. the other girl stumbled too, letting out a soft, surprised gasp. y/n opened her mouth to apologize, her reflex already halfway formed. sorry, i didn’t see you— the words were on the tip of her tongue. but the moment their eyes met, everything stopped. her words fell to a muted breath. time didn’t slow. it fractured.

she hadn’t meant to look up. it was just a reflex, a flicker of attention at the sudden jolt of impact. 

the girl was tall. braids framed her face, a few loose strands curling at her cheekbone like they belonged there. she was pretty in a way that made you look twice without meaning to. golden skin, soft curls pulled back just enough to show the shape of her face, and eyes that held something quiet but certain. everything about her was put together without trying too hard, like beauty had always just come naturally to her.

but her eyes. her eyes were the thing that undid y/n.

they were wide and deep, dark enough to drown in, and so achingly familiar that y/n’s breath caught in her throat. it wasn’t recognition in the normal sense. it was older than that, buried in the marrow. it was the kind of knowing you don’t earn in one lifetime.

those eyes had looked at her through fire. through battlefield smoke. across oceans. in dreams. in death.

she knew them. and for a second, the girl looked like she knew her too.

“are you—” the girl started, voice quiet, edged with a question she hadn’t figured out how to ask.

y/n’s heart slammed against her ribs. and then, she turned. her footsteps had never before in her life felt so heavy as she walked away. it was the only thing she could do. if she didn’t, she’d say her name without ever having heard it. if she stayed, she’d never be able to leave again.

behind her, the girl stood still, watching. not following. not calling out. but something had shifted.

deja vu had never felt more tangible. 

__

manon wouldn’t call herself a hopeless romantic. not exactly. she liked the idea of love, sure, the kind that made your chest ache and your world tilt on its axis. but more than that, she liked the promise of it. the cinematic kind, drenched in golden light and dramatic pauses, the kind where someone looks at you like they already know the ending and still want to live every second of the story anyway.

she wasn’t naive, not really. she knew love wasn’t always soft or beautiful. she just liked to believe it could be.

she watched movies like twilight not because she believed in vampires, but because she believed in the way edward looked at bella like the sun finally had a rival. she cried at the end of 10 things i hate about you. she read books like scripture. she fell in love at least twice a week, usually with strangers on the train or characters in a playlist.

her friends orbited her like moons around some untamable sun. they filled her life with noise and comfort, and manon loved them for it. loved the way they let her be loud and messy. 

she danced with her headphones in, full volume, hips swaying as she folded laundry or cooked or waited for her nail polish to dry. sometimes she danced in public, in line at the bodega or waiting for the light. 

she was so, unashamedly herself. 

so when she turned the corner that evening and bumped into someone—really bumped, hard enough that her shoulder throbbed for a second—she barely blinked. she started to apologize, hand halfway raised in that instinctive, easy way she’d always had. but then the girl looked at her, and manon forgot the rest of the sentence. 

there was something in that stare. something raw and terrified, like manon had reached out and touched a memory that didn’t belong to her. her smile faltered. her heart stuttered in a way it never had before, not even during all the silly crushes or movie moments.

the girl’s eyes were wide and wild, and she looked at manon like she might fall apart just from being seen.

“are you—” manon started, unsure what the hell she was even asking.

but the girl was already backing away. already turning. already gone. just like that.

manon stood there for a long time after. cars passed, the light changed, people moved around her. the city didn’t pause. but she did. her chest felt hollow in a way that wasn’t unpleasant, just unfamiliar. like she’d missed something important. 

she didn’t know who that girl was, but the skin on her shoulder was still buzzing where they touched. deep in her gut, something whispered to her.

you’ve met before.

somehow, she knew that wasn’t the last time she’d see her.

when manon stepped back into the apartment ten minutes later, the scent of leftover incense and vanilla candles wrapped around her like a hug that didn’t quite reach. megan was the first thing she saw, curled up on the couch with her legs tucked under her, fully absorbed in her nintendo switch. she didn’t even look up. not until sophia passed behind her and plucked the console clean from her hands.

“hey!” megan gasped, reaching for it, but stopped when sophia gave her a sharp look.

“you’ve been on this all damn day. come eat something before you fuse with the couch.”

megan blinked, then lit up like a light switch. “is it the thai place with the crab rangoon?” she was already halfway to the kitchen before anyone answered.

manon followed slowly, takeout bag rustling against her leg. she’d been starving when she left to pick it up, had practically been fantasizing about curry puffs and sticky rice all day since she finished moving furniture into her new room. but now, her appetite sat buried beneath the weight of a face she couldn’t shake. that stare. those eyes.

she dropped the bag on the counter and started unpacking containers, only half listening as megan pulled open drawers for chopsticks and plates.

“you okay?” sophia asked, not looking up as she peeled the lid off the tom yum soup. “you’re quiet. which is creepy.”

manon hesitated. then, after a moment, she sighed. “i ran into someone.”

sophia’s face morphed into something equal parts teasing and inquisitive. “do we mean ran into, or ran into?”

“shut up,” manon said, but her voice was distant, almost dazed. she leaned her hip against the counter. “no, i mean… literally. this girl just came out of nowhere. we bumped into each other, and i looked at her and…”

“and?” megan asked around a mouthful of noodles.

manon exhaled, rubbing her fingers along the edge of the countertop. “and i don’t know. it was weird. like… my whole body stopped. like i knew her. or maybe… used to know her?”

megan raised a brow, but sophia only rolled her eyes.

“great. you’ve been here a week and you’re already writing yourself into a romance novel” she said, grabbing a spring roll. “listen. you just moved. you’re tired. your brain is bored and lonely and doing that thing where it makes random people feel cosmic.”

“i’m not lonely,” manon said quickly.

sophia gave her a look. “you just left your whole life behind. you miss your favorite boba spot. it’s fine. just don’t start chasing strangers in the street.”

“i’m not gonna chase her,” manon muttered, tugging open a container of rice halfheartedly.

“good,” sophia said, dipping a spring roll in sauce. “focus on getting your bearings. we still haven’t shown you the lake. and the bookstore downtown. or that cursed karaoke bar megan keeps trying to get us kicked out of.”

“hey,” megan said, mouth full. “i stand by my avril lavigne medley.”

sophia ignored her. “new town, new start. the last thing you need is a mysterious stranger who makes your stomach do weird things.”

manon didn’t respond right away. her fingers drummed quietly against the countertop. she was trying to believe sophia. it would’ve been easier to just agree, to let the moment fade into one of those random, unexplainable blips you forget after a few days.

but the girl’s eyes were still there when she closed her own, and something in her gut whispered that forgetting wasn’t going to be an option. still, she nodded.

“yeah,” she said. “you’re right. it was nothing.”

she didn’t believe it for one second.

the next day, manon wandered through town with no real destination, letting the late morning sun soak into her skin and ease the tightness in her chest. the streets were still unfamiliar enough to feel like a story she hadn’t read yet, every corner turning into something new. sophia and megan had spent the morning walking her through the local spots and pointing out cafes with the kind of casual pride that only came from living somewhere long enough to love it. even so, they could tell she needed space, and she hadn’t argued when they gently peeled away after brunch. between their constant presence and the easy chatter of their friends—daniela, lara, and yoonchae— the thing manon needed most now was to decompress.

she still took her time, pausing now and then to glance through coffee shop windows or let the scent of warm bread drifting from nearby bakeries pull a faint smile to her lips. her steps were slow, unhurried, more about the wandering than the destination. when she turned the next corner, she found herself standing in front of a narrow storefront tucked between a flower shop overflowing with soft blooms and a stationery store lined with pastel journals in its window. the sign above the door read second story books, the words hand painted in faded cursive that looked like it had weathered more than one season. sophia had scribbled directions onto a torn sheet of notebook paper before brunch, a little map paired with a single warning written beneath it in blocky letters. don’t let the book clerk scare you too much. she’s always in a bad mood.

despite the warning, nothing could’ve prepared manon for the surprise waiting inside.  the bell above the door chimed softly as she pushed in.

it smelled like old pages and lavender, the air heavy and still like the inside of a dream. narrow shelves wound through the space in lazy, looping rows, creating little pockets of quiet. sunlight filtered in through high windows, cutting gold lines across the hardwood floor.

and then there she was.

manon froze.

behind the counter, half-shadowed beneath a hanging fern, stood the girl from yesterday. the one who’d looked at her like she was a ghost. the one who had vanished without a word.

it was enough to make manon’s stomach swoop. her heart picked up, irrational and bright.

she grabbed a book off the closest table without looking at the title. anything. she didn’t care. she just needed a reason to speak.

the girl didn’t look up until manon was right in front of the counter.

“hey,” manon said, almost too soft. she cleared her throat and held out the book like a peace offering. “i, um, figured i’d stop by. didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

y/n’s hands stilled on the register. she looked up slowly, and for a moment, she didn’t say anything.

her blood turned to ice the moment manon stepped through the door. it was immediate, visceral, like the air itself had shifted around her. the bookstore, her sanctuary, the one place that had always felt untouched by the chaos of the world, now felt exposed. like someone had cracked it open and let something in that wasn’t meant to be there.

 no. no, not again. 

she could feel it in her chest, in her fingertips, that creeping sense of inevitability pressing against her like a warning. the weight of something old and painful, something she had buried and begged not to unearth again. this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. not here. not now. not in this life.

“you’re following me?” y/n asked flatly, her voice low and smooth.

manon blinked, caught off guard. “what? no, i just—i didn’t know you worked here. i came in for a book.”

“what book?”

manon glanced down. the cover was upside down. something about sea mythology. she tried not to laugh. “uh… i’ve always liked mermaids?”

y/n didn’t smile. her eyes, so striking yesterday, were unreadable now. cool and distant.

manon tried again. “i’m manon, by the way.”

y/n’s fingers tapped the edge of the counter once, then slid the book across the scanner. the beep sounded far too loud in the quiet.

“okay.”

manon hesitated. “you don’t want to tell me your name?”

“not particularly.” y/n bagged the book and handed it over without looking her in the eye. “it’s twelve seventy-six.”

manon dug out her card, suddenly cold despite the warmth in the room. she looked at y/n, really looked. she tried to find something in her expression that might explain the coldness, the distance. she came up empty.

“did i… do something wrong?” she asked, quieter now.

y/n didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, but her jaw tightened, her eyes fixed somewhere just past manon’s shoulder like looking directly at her might make something break loose. when she finally spoke, her voice was low and measured, almost gentle if not for the edge she forced into it.

“you should go,” she said. “whatever you’re looking for, it’s not here. i don’t have time to entertain strangers who think they belong in places they don’t.”

she didn’t mean it. not really. she just wanted to make her go away. to save herself from the inevitable pain of loss. because what’s there to lose, when you didn’t have it to begin with?

manon stared at her, the silence thick. her face twisted up in confusion. nonetheless, she shakes her head.

“right,” she said finally, voice clipped. “thanks for the book.”

she didn’t look back as she left, the door chime sounding harsher this time.

y/n stood still for a long while, the weight of the moment pressing on her ribs. her hands shook. she didn’t like hurting people—but she had to.

she couldn’t let her in.

not again.

__

the office was quiet again, that familiar kind of stillness taeyeon always kept like a blanket draped over every session. but today it settled over y/n like a weight instead of a comfort. the air felt too clean, too measured, and it only made the anger in her chest simmer hotter. not loud, not explosive, but persistent, like a slow burn that wouldn’t ease up. for as long as she could remember—since she was fourteen and her parents could no longer ignore the way she woke up gasping and sobbing into her pillow—she had been told that something was wrong with her. maybe not always in words, not in the one word that would ruin her completely, but in every glance, every hushed conversation, every carefully scripted therapy session where people tried to convince her she was just confused. they put her on medications, changed the doses, swapped one diagnosis for another as if her mind was a puzzle they could never quite solve. therapist after psychiatrist after specialist all trying to convince her that what she saw every night wasn’t real. that the girl in her dreams, the lives they lived, the endings that shattered her, were just symptoms of something broken. and now here she was, after all those years, sitting in this overly warm office with the sun pouring through the blinds like nothing had changed. 

she was real. 

she had walked into y/n’s world like the universe had run out of ways to keep them apart. and all y/n could think was how fucking cruel it was that no one had believed her. how all this time she had been drowning in something no one else could see, only to have it show up in the middle of a bookstore like it hadn’t ruined her already.

y/n sat in the same place she always did, one leg tucked under the other, shoulders curled slightly in like she’d been bracing for a storm that hadn’t passed yet. taeyeon was across from her, notebook open but untouched. her eyes, lined with quiet concern, never strayed.

“you saw her again,” taeyeon said, not asking. just… knowing.

y/n stared at the floor between them. “at the bookstore.”

“how did it feel?”

“like waking up and remembering she died,” she said softly. “again.”

taeyeon’s lips pressed into a thin line. “and what did you do?”

“i made her go away.”

taeyeon tilted her head. “did you want her to go away?”

y/n’s silence answered for her.

“have you been taking your medication?” taeyeon asked gently.

“yes.” a beat. “sometimes.”

taeyeon didn’t scold. she just nodded, thumb tapping lightly against the cover of her notebook. “you told me the dreams stopped being dreams a long time ago. that they feel like memories. full lives. love. loss. over and over. and now—”

“now she’s here,” y/n finished. “not in a dream. not in a memory. she’s here. in this city, walking into the places i go, smiling like i haven’t watched her die a hundred times.”

“and what makes you so certain she’s the same person?”

y/n laughed, but it cracked in the middle. “it’s in her eyes. i could barely breathe when she looked at me. like my body remembered before my mind could catch up.”

taeyeon leaned forward slightly. “let’s say you’re right. let’s say this is fate. a thread between lives, tangled and pulled tight. then maybe the question isn’t whether it was supposed to happen. maybe the question is—who are you to keep it from happening?”

“i’m someone who’s tired of losing her,” y/n said. “every time. every time i get her, the world takes her back. sometimes it’s war. sometimes it’s illness. sometimes it’s something as stupid as a car crash. and every time, i break. i don’t want to do it again.”

taeyeon nodded slowly, her expression unreadable but not unkind, like she was choosing each word with care. “i believe you,” she said finally, her voice quiet but firm. “i believe the grief is real. i believe the loss feels real too. and whether or not these dreams are memories or symbols or something in between, the pain they leave behind isn’t something we can ignore.”

y/n looked down at her hands, fingers loosely clasped in her lap. her throat felt tight, like the wrong word might split her open.

“but what you’re describing,” taeyeon continued, “it doesn’t sound like fear anymore. it sounds like a kind of punishment. you’re bracing for something you think you can’t change. and in doing that, you’re trying to protect yourself, maybe even her, from something that hasn’t happened yet.”

y/n didn’t answer, didn’t move. the silence stretched, but taeyeon didn’t fill it with pity or false comfort. instead, she leaned back slightly, letting her words settle.

“so let’s talk about free will,” she said. “maybe the endings in your dreams were never up to you. maybe they always happened no matter what. but how you meet them… that part is yours. you get to choose how you exist in this moment, in this life. do you want to keep running from something you haven’t fully understood? or are you willing to let yourself stay still long enough to figure out what this really is?”

y/n turned her face toward the tall window, watching a single leaf trace a slow arc down the glass before catching at the bottom. it stayed there, still and weightless, like it hadn’t made the long fall at all.

“what if the pain outweighs the good?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

taeyeon didn’t respond right away. when she finally spoke, it was quiet, like she was offering something fragile.

“what if it doesn’t?”

the question lingered in the air between them, thin and delicate like a thread stretched just short of breaking. after a long moment, taeyeon leaned forward, her tone still soft but edged with something firmer.

“this girl you met. whether she truly is the girl from your dreams or not, maybe it’s time to confront what her presence brings up in you. maybe it’s not about proving anything. maybe it’s about facing the fear that has kept you running in circles.”

y/n didn’t speak. she stared down at her hands where they sat curled in her lap, her nails pressing small crescents into her skin.

“the grief you feel is valid,” taeyeon said. “but so is the joy. so is whatever connection has followed you across years and versions of yourself. maybe it’s love. maybe it’s something quieter. maybe it’s just the feeling of being seen. but if all you do is brace for the ending, you’ll miss everything in between. the mornings you wake up and forget the fear for a moment. the small ways she makes you laugh when you least expect it. the sound of your name in her mouth when she says it like she already knows you and is just waiting for you to know her back.”

y/n’s throat tightened. she blinked hard against the sting rising behind her eyes and clenched her hands a little tighter, like that alone could keep her grounded.

“start small,” taeyeon said. “don’t fall. don’t run. don’t promise anything to the stars. just… say hello.”

it sounded impossibly simple.

and impossibly hard.

__

y/n hadn’t expected to see her again. after the way she had dismissed her, voice sharp and cold, words chosen with the precision of someone who had spent years learning how to keep others out, she had thought that would be the end of it. clean. final. she had intended it that way. it was safer to draw the line before anything familiar could bloom into something harder to let go of.

but two days later, just after noon, the bell above the door gave its soft chime, and when y/n looked up, manon was standing there again.

outside, rain was falling in that quiet, steady way that softened the edges of everything. her curls were damp at the ends, looser from the moisture, and her jacket clung slightly to her arms, darkened with water. she looked hesitant, but not unsure. in her arms was a paper bag, folded carefully with a receipt tucked under the twine, pressed close to her chest like she needed both hands to hold whatever it was.

y/n’s heart tightened in her chest, an involuntary pull she hated herself for.

she didn’t speak. her fingers stayed frozen above the keyboard as she watched manon approach the counter, slow but steady. without a word, manon set the book between them, her fingers brushing once against the wood before she let go.

“i think this belongs back here,” she said.

there was no smile, no attempt to smooth things over. only the return of something that hadn’t been opened. the book’s spine was still unbroken. untouched. it wasn’t just a return. it was a question. maybe even a challenge. and y/n wasn’t sure yet if she was ready to answer.

y/n’s fingers hovered hesitantly over the register just as she reached for the book, then she froze. despite the weight of her worries, the relentless nightmares, and every shadow of doubt whispering what could go wrong, her mind kept returning to taeyeon’s words, steady and calm. after a moment that stretched quietly between them, she finally lifted her gaze and met the girls’ eyes. 

“hello,” y/n said softly.

the word was small. sincere. it tasted unfamiliar in her mouth. but she meant it. she didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or not that she took taeyeon’s advice so literally.

manon blinked like she hadn’t expected it. her expression cracked open, just slightly. not quite a smile, but something warmer. less guarded.

“hi,” she said. then, after a pause, “you remembered me.”

a silence passed, but it was lighter than before. manon’s hands stayed at her sides. she didn’t move to leave.

“can i ask your name now?” she tried again.

y/n hesitated. she thought of taeyeon. of choices. of pain. of joy. of letting herself be a little braver.

“y/n.”

manon said it back like she was trying it on her tongue for the first time. like she was memorizing it.

that was the beginning.

what followed after didn’t unravel in a neat, cinematic montage. but it came close. they started seeing each other in fragments. a shared coffee break on y/n’s lunch. manon dropping by just to “browse” but staying until close. conversations that began at the register and ended on the curb outside as the sky turned lavender.

they learned each other in quiet ways.

manon talked with her hands, her whole body involved when she was excited. she had a habit of singing along under her breath when music played over the bookstore speakers, sometimes even when she didn’t know the words.

y/n was quieter, but not closed. she listened with the kind of attention that made you feel like the only person in the room. she underlined books she read and sometimes shared passages out loud, voice barely above a whisper.

they traded stories. half-truths, memories, confessions. manon talked about her old apartment, her sister, the playlist she made for every mood. y/n talked about dreams, sometimes. the ones that lingered. the ones she couldn’t quite name yet. still, she never told manon about those ones. the ones that ended in death, in pain, and suffering. 

there were days they walked the long way through town, hands brushing but never quite holding. they shared desserts at cafés, drank tea on manon’s balcony under cheap string lights, and sat side by side without needing to fill the quiet.

and somewhere in the middle of all of that, y/n felt something dangerous creeping in. something gentle. something like hope.

a year passed. 

it started as nothing. a headache here. a little fatigue. manon brushed it off, the way anyone her age would. blamed it on late nights, caffeine, maybe stress. she was always in motion, always vibrating at a higher frequency than anyone else in the room. too many playlists to make, too many open tabs in her brain. so when the tiredness lingered, she didn’t say anything.

but y/n noticed.

she noticed when manon started showing up to the bookstore a little later each time. when she leaned heavier against the counter, smiled a little less brightly. when she stopped finishing her coffee, when she sat instead of danced.

the cough came next. dry, quiet at first. but persistent.

“allergies,” manon had said with a shrug, waving it off. “probably dust or whatever.”

y/n wanted to believe her. she tried. but the weight loss didn’t stop. manon’s skin dulled. her eyes dimmed. and there were days—quiet, terrifying days—when she seemed like she was just barely holding herself upright.

they weren’t dating. not exactly. not yet. but they shared pieces of each other now. manon lingered at the bookstore until close just to walk y/n to the bus. y/n had started bringing her herbal teas and cough drops, slipping them into her bag without comment. they exchanged playlists. secrets. names of books that made them cry.

so when y/n got a text saying can you come over? she didn’t ask why. she just went.

the apartment was dim. manon’s room smelled faintly of lavender and laundry detergent. she was sitting on the edge of her bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, phone face down beside her. she looked up when y/n entered, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

y/n sat beside her without touching her.

“what’s wrong?”

manon stared at the floor. swallowed.

“i went to get bloodwork done,” she said finally. “more tests. the clinic called today.”

y/n felt her stomach turn.

“they… it’s cancer.”

y/n didn’t move. couldn’t.

“lymphoma,” manon added, too calm. “they caught it early, they think. but it’s real. it’s happening.”

the air felt suddenly too thick to breathe.

“i don’t know how to do this,” manon said softly, voice cracking. “i just moved here. i was starting to feel like i was finding my footing. i met you. and now… now everything feels like it’s slipping.”

neither of them cried right away. it wasn’t that kind of moment. it was colder. quieter. like something ancient in the body remembering grief before it arrives.

and for y/n, it did arrive.

“say something.” manon practically begged, quiet. 

it bloomed in her chest like a warning. not again, it screamed. her blood went cold. this was why she hadn’t wanted to open herself. why she’d kept people at arms’ length for so long. because something always came to take them.

“i need to go,” y/n said, and the words tasted like rust.

she stood too quickly. the chair scraped against the wood, sharp and sudden, and manon flinched like it had cut through her. y/n didn’t look back. couldn’t. her legs moved on instinct, carrying her out of manon’s room, past the soft light of the kitchen, past the coat rack with manon’s jacket still hanging from it. the apartment felt too full, too quiet, too warm for what had just been said.

behind her, manon didn’t follow.

the hallway outside was dim. some overhead light flickered, buzzing faintly like it was shorting out. y/n didn’t stop walking until she was out of the building. she didn’t stop even then. just kept moving, down cracked sidewalks and across wet intersections, her chest burning. she didn’t know where she was going, only that she couldn’t stay.

not there. not near her.

her hands were shaking. she shoved them in her coat pockets. her throat ached from trying not to scream.

why now?

why did the universe keep handing her beauty just to rip it away?

manon had smiled like sunlight. she had filled y/n’s once empty days with noise and color and chaos. and now—now that brightness had an expiration date.

no, y/n thought. no no no no.

but her feet kept walking.

when she got home, she didn’t turn the lights on. she sat on the edge of her bed in the dark, still wearing her coat, arms wrapped tight around herself. she didn’t cry. not yet. something in her had already started to shut down. like a door closing. a lock turning. like a heart bracing for the next goodbye. she wanted so badly to reach for her phone, to google all the symptoms, treatments, life expectancy, anything. yet, she didn’t.

no amount of statistics were stronger than the gut wrenching pull in her chest that told her what she already knew.

this was it.

__

the room was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the radiator kicking on. taeyeon didn’t speak right away. she’d grown used to the way y/n sat when she didn’t know how to begin. hands clenched together, gaze locked on some faraway point on the carpet, like if she focused hard enough, she could will herself invisible.

“i assume you’re not here just to sit in silence,” taeyeon said eventually.

y/n didn’t look up. “she’s dying,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

taeyeon’s tone didn’t shift. no shock, no gasp, just a steady presence. “you mean manon?”

a nod.

“when did you find out?”

“three nights ago.”

“and what did you do?”

y/n blinked. “i left. she told me and i didn’t say anything. i just walked out.”

taeyeon let the admission hang in the air, like a confession cracked wide open. “why?”

y/n’s throat felt tight. she hated this part. the dissection. the honesty. “i was afraid. it was happening again. i felt it in my chest like deja vu. like loss was already blooming there. like something ancient.”

“so you ran before it could happen.”

“yes.” her voice cracked. “and now it��s already happened.”

taeyeon wrote something down, briefly. “tell me what ‘it’ is.”

“the goodbye. even if she doesn’t die for months or years. i’ve already lost her.”

taeyeon leaned back in her chair. “you’ve spent so long fearing the endings, you’ve convinced yourself they’re inevitable. but that’s not fate. that’s avoidance.”

“what if the ending is inevitable?” y/n asked, desperate now. “what if she’s supposed to die, and i’m supposed to watch it happen again? what if this is just another life i have to lose her in?”

“then what?” taeyeon asked. “you let her die alone?”

y/n looked up, stung.

“you believe in past lives. in soulmates. in stories repeating themselves,” taeyeon continued, gently now. “so tell me—if you really believe this was written, then who are you to think you can stop it by not showing up?”

“because it hurts less if i’m not there.”

“does it?” taeyeon asked. “because from where i’m sitting, it doesn’t look like it hurts any less. it just hurts differently.”

y/n swallowed, hard. “i don’t know what to do.”

“you don’t need to do anything heroic,” taeyeon said. “you just need to show up. she’s still here. she’s still alive. she still needs someone who doesn’t disappear when things get hard.”

silence stretched again, but this time it didn’t feel empty.

“so go to her,” taeyeon said. “not because you can fix her. not because you can save her. but because she’s someone you love. and that matters. it always has.”

y/n nodded, eyes burning. this time, she didn’t argue.

one moment y/n was leaving taeyeon’s office, the next she was sitting behind the counter at the bookstore. she’d closed early. her afternoon was spent between books and various medical webpages. and then, she was leaving. 

she had to make things right.

within ten minutes, y/n stood in the hallway outside manon’s apartment, heart pounding in a way that felt like it might tear her apart from the inside. the door cracked open a little, and sophia’s sharp eyes met hers immediately. no welcome in the gaze, just that familiar protective glare, the kind that said don’t mess this up or don’t come back at all. yet, without a word, sophia stepped aside and let y/n in.

the apartment smelled faintly of antiseptic and stale air, a quiet heaviness pressing down on everything. manon was curled up on the couch, wrapped in a threadbare blanket, her face pale but defiant. the kind of defiance that felt like it could crumble at any moment. her eyes, sharp and wet with hurt, locked onto y/n’s the second she stepped inside. there was so much pain in those eyes, the kind of pain y/n had never wanted to be the cause of again.

“you shouldn’t be here,” manon said, voice brittle but steady, like she was trying to protect herself before she even spoke.

y/n swallowed the lump in her throat, stepping closer, holding out a small box wrapped in soft paper. “i did research,” she said quietly, voice shaking just a little. “there are treatments, options i found. i know it’s not perfect. but i want to try. i want to be here for you.”

manon’s eyes flickered, a storm of emotions crashing behind them. anger, pain, desperation, and then something softer, almost like hope. it was fleeting, but it was there.

“you really think you can fix this?” manon whispered, but the edge had softened.

“maybe not fix,” y/n answered, kneeling down so she was at eye level. “but fight. with you. if you want.”

manon’s breath hitched, and then she nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly. the weight between them shifted just a bit.

the months that followed unfolded in waves. sharp, brutal, unrelenting. they began with cautious hope, with treatment plans mapped out across sterile tables and doctors who spoke in a language y/n had to learn one desperate phrase at a time. words like metastasis and prognosis became part of her daily vocabulary. she kept a notebook with scribbled margins and highlighted passages, trying to make sense of the labyrinth they’d been thrown into.

chemotherapy came first. the poison meant to heal. manon took it like a warrior, but even warriors break. she tried to joke at first, brushing off the nausea, the sudden exhaustion that followed each round like a shadow. but the hair came out in clumps by week three, and the day she sat in the bathroom with y/n, silently handing over the scissors, something in the air cracked.

they cried together. not loudly, not dramatically—just quietly, as y/n guided the clippers over her scalp, kissing her bare shoulder every time manon’s breath hitched.

radiation followed, and with it came a different kind of hollowing. manon grew smaller. not just physically, though the weight dropped quickly, but in presence. her fire dimmed, her voice thinner. there were days she didn’t speak at all, days when she lay curled on the couch, trembling from pain, eyes unfocused, distant. but y/n never left. not once. she was there to hold the bucket when manon vomited until there was nothing left to give, there to rub lotion into paper-thin skin, to whisper comfort into the silence.

she learned the landscape of manon’s pain. the patterns in her breathing, the quiet signals of a day turned worse. she memorized med schedules, drove her to every appointment, and sat through every long hour in waiting rooms that smelled like antiseptic and fear.

and somewhere along the way, she grew closer to sophia and megan. what started as an uneasy truce slowly deepened into something like kinship. they saw her there, always there, even when manon lashed out in frustration, even when she was too tired to speak. they saw y/n carry her through the darkest nights without complaint. sophia started leaving coffee out in the mornings when y/n stayed over. megan offered to pick up groceries when she noticed y/n hadn’t eaten properly in days.

they became a unit. scarred, sleep-deprived, fiercely protective of the girl they all loved.

and manon… manon began to soften again. even in the midst of the storm, even as her body grew weaker, there were moments of clarity, of fierce affection. her hand would find y/n’s in the quiet, her thumb brushing over her knuckles. she would press a kiss to y/n’s temple on the rare nights when she had enough strength to pull her close. she stopped asking why are you still here? and started whispering thank you instead.

everything changed. everything hurt. but y/n stayed. through the sickness, the fragility, the fear, the slow unraveling of the woman she had loved in every life before this one.

because this was the promise she had made.

and she would keep it.

on the eve of another surgery—the riskiest yet—manon asked for a moment alone with y/n. the hospital room was dim, painted in the soft gold light of early evening, machines humming low around them like a lullaby with no melody. y/n sat beside her, heart heavy, hands trembling. manon reached out, her fingers lacing through y/n’s like they belonged there.

her touch was weaker now, but her eyes burned with the same fire y/n had always known. fierce. raw. unrelenting even in the face of fear.

“there’s something i need to tell you,” manon said, voice barely above a whisper. “i had this dream. or maybe it wasn’t a dream—it felt too real. like memories layered over each other. a montage of us. every lifetime. every version of us. and every time, i lost you first.”

y/n’s breath stilled in her chest.

“but this time,” manon continued, her grip tightening, “this time it’s me. and even though that breaks my heart, i’m still glad. because we met again. and that has to mean something. that has to count for more than just another ending.”

her eyes glistened, her voice catching. “at least one of our meetings has to end happy. and if it’s not this one, then maybe the next. or the one after that.”

she paused. then, quieter, almost pleading, “promise me you’ll find me again. no matter how long it takes.”

y/n blinked, tears spilling freely now. she brought manon’s hand to her lips, pressed a kiss against her knuckles like a vow.

“i promise,” she whispered, voice cracking around the words. “always.”

the surgery came too soon, a cruel thief dressed in white scrubs and quiet reassurances. things unraveled fast. complications, fevers, numbers dropping on machines that had once felt hopeful. no miracle came. no sudden turn. just the slow, irreversible fading of someone who had fought too hard for too long.

manon slipped away quietly. not in violence or chaos, but like a candle guttering out at the end of its wick. soft. final.

at the wake, y/n sat between sophia and megan, their hands linked in silent grief. the room was thick with sorrow, the kind that settled into bones and stayed there. photographs surrounded them, snapshots of a life that had been hard-won, deeply lived. none of it felt like enough.

y/n felt hollow. like the best parts of her had been buried, too. and yet… something still burned inside her. not anger. not hope. something older. fiercer.

a promise.

no sickness, no death, no cruel twist of fate could sever what they were. what they had always been.

she would find manon again. in another time, another skin, another life. maybe it would take years. centuries. maybe it already had. but she would keep looking.

because this was just one version of their story.

and one day—whether next time or the one after that—they would get it right. they would find their forever.

and y/n would keep her promise.

__

and she did.

in the next life, perhaps the best one they got, y/n found her again.

there was no certainty, no divine answer to whether this life would be the last of them, the one that finally broke the loop or merely paused it. but maybe it didn’t matter anymore. maybe it was enough that they’d had this—this quiet, sun-drenched life carved out of stubborn hope and years that had taught them how to hold on.

they were older now. softer in the way people get when they’ve fought too long and finally let themselves rest. manon’s hair had gone silver at the temples. y/n still kissed the corners of her eyes every morning, where time had left its delicate marks.

outside, the countryside stretched in golden stillness, summer wind weaving through the tall grass. the old dog dozed nearby, belly rising and falling in slow, steady rhythm. the porch creaked beneath y/n’s weight as she sat beside manon, her arm tucked gently around her wife’s frail shoulders. their children were inside, making tea, trying not to cry too loud.

manon’s breathing was thin now. shallow, labored. she’d chosen this. chosen to leave the hospital behind, chosen to be surrounded by the life they’d built together. the one they’d clawed out of fate’s grip with both hands.

y/n held her hand, memorizing the shape of it all over again. she didn’t need to speak. manon’s eyes met hers, and in them, there was peace. not because death didn’t hurt. not because it didn’t still feel unfair. but because they had found each other. again.

and this time, they’d been allowed to stay.

manon’s last breath slipped out like a sigh, the softest goodbye. the breeze carried it, warm and gentle.

y/n didn’t cry right away. she just leaned her head against manon’s and whispered something only the wind would hear.

because she knew.

in any timeline, in any world, in every version of forever— she would find her.

always.

[mildy-vibing]

Hey guys, so what if we added poachers to a kids show?

So, meet Jude! Our (Calamaroo's and I's) favorite little fungi addict. She is not a good person by any means, but she's ours.

She exists in her own little AU outside of my actual Octo AU. So like second cousins to my AU, I made her for funsies with Cal.

🚫WARNING🚫 Even though this is an octonauts AU, it is by no means considered canon and is the yapping of individuals. Be wary that this post contains the following.

- Animal testing

- Violence

- Addiction

- Scary image (at the very end)

If you are sensitive to these topics, please refrain from reading further and check out some of my other posts (Or Calamaroo's because they are cool)

What Even Is That Creature?

Jude is a Wiltshire sheep. She lived a relatively normal childhood and young adulthood, studying and going to university to achieve a phD in Biochemistry. She was pretty good at it too, being considered a prodigy amongst her peers.

Using this degree, she applied and was hired on for this new organization called "The Octonauts" as their on deck chemist. She was roughly 28 at the time of hiring.

She got along fairly well, helping out on their early missions. The Octonauts were still getting their bearings as they were still just a captain, engineer, funder, and chemist on board instead of the full team. She was living the dream, but it quickly proved to be quite boring. So, in her spare time, she began to run her own studies, and amongst the specimens she collected for cataloging fungi and their toxicity towards wildlife, she encountered an undescribed species.

With its upright column of flourescent orange and the darkened red spots, she observed this specific specimen to have unusual effects upon mammals. It was unique compared to other specimens in the same family, whereas most of the others would produce a hallucinogenic effect, this specific specimen rewired the brain.

Jude thus named it "Wiltshire's Rod" or as Jude affectionately called them, "fungi".

In micro doses, it can act as a pain reliever that didn't cause that much immediate damage to the body. In more potent doses, it numbs and effectively "disconnects" the senses from the brain, eliciting flight or fight responses in users due to the fear from the acute blindness, deafness, loss of smell, numbness and tightening of the airways. In some of the heavy-handed doses, it swings the other way and shocks the system into paralysis, organ failure, and death.

This fungi was found to enter the body through the inhalation of spores (most common) or via consumption of it. The most unsafe method is considered inhalation of spores due to how little you can control the intake.

...

So what does Jude do? She tests it out in some less than ethical means. Patients are brought in, tests are ran, discoveries are made.

Using her PhD, she manages to refine the fungi into numerous different mixtures and serums with a wide range of effects.

In the madness to see how these concotions affected the body, Jude continued to reach further and further. It began with mice and small rodents. No more were simple pain killers, now she wanted to see how much a creature could take before dropping dead. She was willing to see and willing to document.

When she went to present her findings to Professor Inkling, she expected praise for her research. She made a breakthrough in medical science with this discovery, finding a miracle fungus that could serve a variety of purposes.

Animal cruelty though kinda overshadows that. Conducting experiments without a hypothesis, but for a glorified reason of "just for fun" also isn't a good look.

She was promptly fired, just 3 years after being brought on, her name blackened in the scientific community. Before they could get the chance to turn her in for animal cruelty and endangerment, she was gone. A sea otter by the name of Shellington was hired soon after to replace her.

...

With all her documents gone and all her connections severed, she decided to fully commit to her research.

Now in her 30s, she spends her time cultivating more of Wiltshire's Rod, hunting, and indulging in her own serums. It's a risky business, but one she enjoys partaking in.

She also found that Wiltshire's Rod is addictive. When smoked in the controlled doses Jude takes, it's keeps her stress at bay and her mind working. But as a result, it rapidly destroys the body from the inside out, leading to her modern-day sickly look. She must use a nasal cannula to intake enough pure oxygen as a result of the fungi destroying her lungs. Her ability to feel touch on her skin is almost absent given the prolonged usage.

Her funds come through sales of the fungi for both recreational and hunting use.

....

FUN FACTS

- Jude was always a messy person with a slightly crooked moral compass, but the prospect of discovery was what pushed her over the edge into "evil scientist" territory.

- She is aware her outfit is stupid looking by modern fashion standards, but she enjoys how easy it is to put on so refuses to change it.

- Revenge isn't on her list of things to do. However she enjoys causing a little bit of trouble (a lot) occasionally. What are they gonna do? Arrest her?

- She finds hunting just as fun as trapping. She loves to figure out new ways to engineer her fungus into lethal weapons. She has dangerously good aim.

- She actually has an alright relationship with her parents. She sends them money to help fund their knitting and quilting business. They occasionally send her knit sweaters

- She does enjoy the taste of meat, even if it affects her like lactose intolerance. Which herbivore hasn't eaten a tiny bit of meat before?

- She does have that raspy smoker voice, only adding onto her natural gravelly voice.

- In Calamroo's AU, Jude is one of the only shifter poachers that exist. She is well aware that she is a sheep amongst wolves, but loves the danger it brings. She knows they wouldn't touch their only fungi plug. This also puts her as an enemy of her own poacher circles and amongst shifters.

@calamaroo LOOK AT OUR LITTLE GUY

If anyone wants to yap with me about it or any of my OCs, please do! I'm always open for some chatting or yapping!

IMAGES

Very early on image I made of Jude when she still worked aboard the Octopod. This is done in the Calamaroo shifter AU style of character design. V

Jude, more modern day depiction of this freak. ^

[satoshi-mochida]

SHUTEN ORDER launches September 5 - Gematsu

SHUTEN ORDER, the newly announced multi-genre adventure game from Danganronpa creator Kazutaka Kodaka, will launch for Switch via Nintendo eShop and PC via Steam on September 5, publishers Spike Chunsoft and DMM Games, and developers Too Kyo Games and Neilo announced. Pre-orders will open on May 22.

Here is an overview of the game, via Spike Chunsoft:

■ About

SHUTEN ORDER is a multi-genre adventure game created through a collaboration between DMM GAMES and Too Kyo Games, led by Kazutaka Kodaka (best known for the Danganronpa series). SHUTEN ORDER allows players to experience five different game systems within a single game, including stealth action horror and multi-perspective visual novel systems. Publishing for the Steam version will be handled by Spike Chunsoft Co., Ltd. and the Nintendo Switch versions in North America and Europe will be handled by Spike Chunsoft, Inc.

■ Story

“Happy New End…Have a good end” “168 remaining until the end of the world…” Humanity is approaching its end. In a world steeped in despair and chaos, a strange religious organization called Shuten Order emerges, yearning for the end of humanity. The group rapidly gains followers, eventually forming a small nation state called Shuten. Then one day, someone murders the Founder. Following their death, the Founder is resurrected as Rei Shimobe (protagonist), by a miracle known as “the Power of God.” However, the resurrection is incomplete—their memories are gone, and their life limited to a mere four days. Two self-proclaimed “angels”, God’s messengers, arrive and declare to the protagonist that to achieve true resurrection, they must overcome “God’s trial”: identify and kill their murderer. Thus begins a high-stakes, four-day hunt for the truth, with their own life and the fate of the world at stake.

■ Characters

Protagonist: Rei Shimobe

Founder of the Shuten Order who was resurrected in a “temporary body.” All memories prior to being murdered were lost. “Rei Shimobe” is a temporary name to hide their identity as the Founder. Disguised as a detective to find the murderer within the given time limit: dawn, four days from now…

Angel: Himeru

One of the two self-proclaimed “angels,” God’s messengers. Seemingly, their role is to guide Rei…? Impatient and prone to panic, she is the driving force that compels Rei to move forward when reluctant. For some reason, she has clear malice and hatred toward Shuten.

Angel: Mikotoru

One of the two self-proclaimed “angels,” God’s messengers. Seemingly, their role is to guide Rei…? Calm, knowledgeable, and highly analytical, he steadily guides Rei. However, he deflects when asked questions that get to the core of the matter.

Minister of Justice: Kishiru Inugami

Head of the Ministry of Justice, which administers the law. A free spirit who often says random things and acts spontaneously. He is a knowledgeable and flexible thinker, unrivaled when it comes to resolving disputes. Also known as the “Ghost White Arbitrator.” Addicted to legal drugs.

Minister of Health: Yugen Ushitora

Head of the Ministry of Health, which is in charge of medical care. Also the director of Shuten General Hospital, a medical institution under his control. Known as the “Gatekeeper to the Afterlife” because of his proven medical skills. He appears to be hearty and compassionate, but pathologically meticulous. He loves his younger sister.

Minister of Science: Teko Ion

Head of the Ministry of Science, which controls all aspects of science and technology. Though charmless in both words and action, he is a genius with an unmeasurable IQ, and in charge of designing most of the country’s technology. Also known as the “Prodigy.”

Minister of Education: Honoka Kokushikan

Head of the Ministry of Education, which is in charge of education and information. Nicknamed the “Conjurer of Words” for her ability to manipulate information and confuse the public. Many things about her, including her true face, are shrouded in mystery. She’s typically quiet, but there are rumors about her ambition to become the next Founder…

Minister of Security: Manji Fushicho

Head of the Ministry of Security, which maintains public order. Short tempered and aggressive. Particularly hostile to heretics (enemies of the order) and is known as the “Queen of Heretic Hunting.” Wishes for peace in this country more than anyone and tries to protect it.

■ Multi-Genre Adventure: Five Different Game Systems

The suspects are five ministers who control the Shuten Order’s government. Depending on who you suspect, both the storyline and game system can diverge 5 different ways.

Ministry of Justice: Mystery Adventure

During investigations and interviews, use the “Snapping” feature to closely analyze suspicious statements and intriguing objects. Piece together evidence and make brilliant deductions to find the murderer.

Ministry of Health: Extreme Escape Adventure

A dark and unnerving 3D maze… Intellectual puzzles that obstruct exploration and kill indiscriminately if left unsolved… Immoral rules that pit participants against each other. Sometimes, fighting is needed, and other times, teamwork, in order to survive this death game and escape from the mysterious locked space.

Ministry of Science: Multi-Perspective Visual Novel

A visual novel adventure featuring differing points of view and differing agendas. Make use of the flowchart and survive to the end of a scenario filled with multiple chronologically branching routes.

Ministry of Education: Romance Adventure (?)

After being poisoned by Honoka Kokushikan, the protagonist Rei is led to a certain school and meets three girls calling themselves “Kokushikan.” To unmask the real Honoka—who has the antidote—increase each girl’s Affection and make a successful confession of love.

Ministry of Security: Stealth Action Horror

Freely explore a 3D map while evading and hiding from the wandering killer, Nephilim. Deal with numerous gimmicks with one goal in mind: survive.

■ Digital Deluxe Edition ($64.99)

Set includes:

Game

SHUTEN ORDER Visual Art Book

SHUTEN ORDER Mini Soundtrack

*Neither the Visual Art Book nor the Mini Soundtrack is available for individual purchase.

Note: All images for illustration purposes. Design, content, and names subject change without notice.

■ Nintendo Switch Exclusive Pre-Order Bonus

Pre-order SHUTEN ORDER (digital or Digital Deluxe Edition) and receive a Tookyo Games original digital novel supervised by Kazutaka Kodaka, “Before the Murders – case: Manji Fushicho” which serves as a prequel to the main game.

Original Digital Novel Synopsis

Set five years before the events of the main game, this novel tells the story of Manji Fushicho, before she became Minister of Security. She is captured by heretics and subjected to a brutal “awakening test.” At the end of this harsh trial, she makes a decision. This is the origin of the woman who would eventually become feared as the “Queen of Heretic Hunting.”

■ Staff

Watch the announcement trailer below.

Announce Trailer

English

Japanese

[senkinny]

MINE ADAM - Fanfiction Snippet, Ch1

"MINE ADAM" -- "Frankenstein" canon-AU fanfiction written by Senkinny/Rara - Snippet of CHAPTER 1 - TsukaSen - TRIGGER WARNINGS BELOW (Mainly Death + Grief)

I wanted to share my literary journey with those who will have me, as I write a story inspired by the taboo of resurrection and reanimation--a story I can channel my own grief into and hope maybe someone will enjoy or resonate with it! (Though familiar in my case as opposed to the romantic undertones of this fanfic.)

When Senku was able to lift himself he had hoped when he stood, his eyes would deceive the image of Tsukasa’s lifeless face to reunite with golden gaze. But his mind was running out of hypotheses, no matter how many scenarios he played in his head and how many potential solutions to the problem never solved by a single human soul–

It all came back down to one single convention.

Tsukasa was gone.

[CHARACTERS: Senku; Tsukasa (Deceased); Ruri (Mentioned); Luna. TsukaSen Ship Undertones] [TRIGGER WARNINGS: Death, Graphic Depiction of Death and Near-Death (Algor Mortis, Hypothermia from Cryopreservation) Grief, Nausea and Vomiting]

--

You know, this has happened before. The Primate Warrior, Tsukasa Shishio–he’s almost invincible.

Death has knocked on his door not once but thrice. Being cryopreserved, petrified by The Medusa Device several times. He couldn’t die–he couldn’t be killed.

But at the tail end of the Winter of 5729 PA, The Perseus that sailed back to Japan from their Northeastern European expedition radioed The Kingdom of Science’s own Team Senku days before docking. The grim news that Tsukasa had succumbed to his illness and passed away. The diagnosis was pneumonia… A cough and fever before their voyage, rendering Tsukasa unable to bear the travel back and forth to the tundras of their destination, and contagious to the crew. Pneumonia. The same illness the young Chieftess Ruri of Ishigami VIllage braved and endured, and with Senku’s medicinal knowledge triumphed over with antibiotics. The dearest Ruri was met with victory–Why couldn’t Tsukasa have…?

The young scientist leading the expedition couldn’t believe his ears. The signal was strong, and Ruri’s words clear despite her sobs and sniffles. Tsukasa couldn’t have been gone. Where did our medicine go wrong…? It had been a brutal winter in Japan, and the approaching spring-time proved to fluctuate its warm breezes and icy clouds. Pneumonia had spread, disease had spread… But while rampant, the residents of Ishigami Village and surrounding areas were as diligent as ever in prevention and treatment, their resources well stocked and medical teams prepared thanks to Miss Luna Wright–the American medical student from the California coast nearly eight years ago. It was a nasty combination–a disease viral and bacterial alike, but with rest and the miracles of penicillin those affected were at least treated and had their fighting chance.

So how did Tsukasa lose?

He couldn’t have been dead. It wasn’t fair. Senku had played this song and dance before–when Hyoga was their enemy and fatally wounded Tsukasa in battle, the critical thinking of the Ishigami Chief worked quickly to the solution to save his life. Cryopreservation sanctified Senku’s endeavors to revive him, and in time with The Medusa Device and an abundance of nitric acid, it was almost as if Tsukasa had been reborn. And when the world was yet again in dire need, it was Suika’s seven-year long journey in reviving everyone affected by The Why-Man’s frustrations that would remind all that Tsukasa Shishio lived true to his title.

Tsukasa was a renowned guardian of The Kingdom of Science. A gentle soul, a dear friend. It didn’t feel right not seeing him in the crowd that would greet the scientist and his team upon their return. “Tsukasa is gone…” loops its broadcast in Senku’s distressed thoughts–his crimson eyes still scouring for the chestnut braids and lion’s mantle that used to tower over everyone else. Golden eyes that would always meet his own. Straining as his eyes stung, through the pit in his stomach, to find that familiar, immortal smile… All of Ishigami VIllage made for a warm welcome from their travels, but every passing face bore pain for their Chief’s concerned shuffle through them–making no hesitation to the infirmary… The infirmary? Of course Tsukasa would be there. He didn’t belong in the morgue.

But he wasn’t in the infirmary. 

“Luna… Please, where is he?”

The pale-haired medic couldn’t bear to repeat herself any more, and her tears streamed down her cheeks. Her voice cracked in a broken stream of apologies, as she felt the guilt of Tsukasa’s departure her own. “I’m so sorry… I’m sorry, Senku…” Senku hated every word if it. It’s not Luna’s fault, it’s not anyone’s fault–

“Stop beating yourself up,” Senku’s own voice rasped, a harsher tone than his chest had meant to project. He reached for her hand gently, and swallowed hard in his new request. “Please… I didn’t mean to make you feel like it was your fault–I’m the one who’s sorry.” The two shared the moment exchanging their condolences and leading Senku to the final confirmation of Senku’s dread. He hadn’t realized how tightly he gripped Luna’s hand as they made their venture… She couldn’t bring herself to remark, enduring the firm hold until it was released as soon as the two stood in front of the mortuary chambers. It felt so cold in the room, and yet it was as if he was burning alive.

He’d seen this before. Senku had seen this exact scene before–but it wasn’t the same. He expected to see a war-wrangled guerilla covered in wounds barely healed–He expected frost-bite or the dark and blue patches of the hypothermia process, knowing the Medusa devices would heal all evidence… This wasn’t the same. The entire scheme was different, and it took a hard swallow and heave to not relieve the dizzying nausea as Senku steadied himself at the display. Through every near-death experience he and his comrades triumphed over, Senku found fortune in that he never had to see life departed from someone before–certainly not in person, being reminded of the images and photos of forensic content on the internet long before the Petrification era. He never had to see… This now-memory of a flaxen hue and the dark undertones he knew the indications for. Senku bated his breath in hopes he would see the chest rise and fall, hear any sign of breath…

Tsukasa was gone.

He wouldn’t open his eyes. His face had sunken in, and the remnants of pre-mortem damage to his body reflected the condition he was truly in before demise… What damage? Tsukasa was strong and healthy as an ox before his illness, wasn’t he? Why was he so thin? The dips and lines of his now frozen frame were concave, all but where lumps of solidified blood settled into the bottom of the skin… An eerie cluster of green and purple underneath his now yellowed skin… It was the harrowing reality that Tsukasa had truly left this world before the vessel left behind was transported to its morgue cell. It wasn’t fair. How could Tsukasa have been killed this way? Logic had almost left one of the most intellectual, most critical person in the entire new world–Senku’s mind raced at the possibilities of how this came to be, as a trembling hand reached cautiously–yet almost eagerly–for the curve of the deceased’s jaundiced face.

Senku’s breath hitched at the touch. And it was no second later that the morbidity forced his stomach to churn and empty as he collapsed onto his knee by the casket table, retching as it splattered on the concrete floor. It was too much–Luna could only yelp her concern as Senku was sickened–and in this distress after the worst of his own symptoms, it was a dear comfort through the agony when the pale-haired woman brushed her slender fingers over his shivering frame… It wasn’t fucking fair, damn it. And when he was able to lift himself he had hoped when he stood, his eyes would deceive the image of Tsukasa’s lifeless face to reunite with golden gaze. But his mind was running out of hypotheses, no matter how many scenarios he played in his head and how many potential solutions to the problem never solved by a single human soul–

It all came back down to one single convention.

[AUTHOR'S NOTE] A snippet of the first chapter of the first fanfiction I have written since the age of dinosaurs. Humor aside, this story is inspired by my love and intrigue of promethean themes such as Frankenstein–through more of an Asclepian/Ophiucan approach. A piece that is immeasurably personal to me as I channel my own grief, I hope it is as entertaining to you as it is healing for the both of us. Thank you for letting me share one of my literary journeys with you with my whole heart! Oh–there will be illustrations for each chapter upon their completion, so please look forward to my artwork as well as my writing?

[the-apparatus]

i just to hear from ur dabi trans allegory please

Okay, I'm going to assume very minimal knowledge of trans theory just so I can give a very thorough explanation. First, I would recommend reading My Words To Victor Frankenstein above the village of Chamounix by Susan Stryker. I don't know if she was the first person to make the comparison between The Creature from Frankenstein and trans bodies, but she definitely does a very good job at explaining it. Key points are essentially that since the trans body is built from medical science, the experience of being trans can be compared to the experience of The Creature. The Creature is shunned from society because its body is a creation of technology, and this isolation and violence against it brings such a rage within them that they enact violence against the initial factor which abandoned it (Victor Frankenstein). Stryker says that living in a trans body (regardless of weather or not they have undergone any modification of their vessel, because the transgendered body is considered monstrous either way) fuels such a raw rage within an individual that can be turned against the oppressive and violent society.

Now how does Dabi come into this (spoilers ahead ig)?

Lets examine his backstory, although I find it less important than just the way his body is presented. In his childhood, he was pushed to fulfill a societal expectation of his body (quirks being a biological phenomenon and the social pressure that came with having a very powerful quirk) and his social upbringing (being the son of the #2 hero). He then becomes fixated on this idea, pushing himself further and further to fulfill this societal expectation on him until it breaks him. His body is destroyed by the very part of him that fueled the pressure: his quirk. His body is stitched back together, creating a miracle of medical technology. Dabi's body is stitched together in the same way The Creature is stitched together, in the same way that the transsexual body is stitched together and manufactured.

Dabi's backstory lends itself to a transfeminine reading of it: the factors of societal pressure to live up to one's father in hero work (masculinity) is one that makes sense within a transfeminine allegory. However, I think Dabi's body itself is what creates the trans allegory. The process of Dabi's body being built out of the burned chunks of his former self is the same as a trans person who builds themself and creates someone who is monstrous, but necessary for survival. Like the trans person, Dabi turns his rage toward the factors that pushed him to the breaking point, he enacts violence against Endeavor and Hero Society, in the same way that a trans person will feel rage towards the way they were raised and against the society that renders their body monstrous. This is why I don't say that Dabi is trans in the way I think Bakuguo is trans -- I think Dabi is an incarnate of the trans experience (or at least a section of it).

[mranimalhead]

Another weird but interesting idea I thought of. But not in a story format this time.

[***]

I like the notion behind human creativity, and I thought that perhaps alien creativity and human creativity are similar but different. That was seen when humans began to touch the stars with other species of life and were brought to other worlds to marvel at their works.

The works of the aliens are mathematical perfection. Perfect cubes, perfect pyramids, perfect spheres with a perfect smoothness. That kind of mathematical perfection expressed in sculptures and artworks.

When the aliens looked upon, they were confused. It was expected that their works were not as perfect due to imprecise tools for the arts, but there was something that caught their eye.

Stories. Superhero stories.

Stories aren't unfamiliar to the aliens, they have their own of course. But it had evolved to be more like historical record that medically preserver their once rose-colored glasses that they used to see the world with. Modern alien stories are more like the triumph of science and its miracles and the glorification of the people that were the precursors, the inventors, and pioneers.

And now, the aliens are seeing what these superheroes are for the first time.

They compare them to like their old cultural godlike phenoms of history past, but they are definitely something different. Some are definitely godlike. Some are definitely more human, but with powers.

Some are evil incarnate. And some are embodiment of virtue.

The aliens, for a while, scoffed at the idea of fancying such things. But over time, the many races of the galactic community started making their own heroes. Bit by bit, character by character.

They love seeing the heroes fight for justice and a brighter tomorrow while in their worlds where they only worshipped what is. And they love to see the villains destroy and shape worlds to their evil likeness.

These alien superhero pioneers dared to dream with rose-tinted glasses once more, thanks to how prominent superheroes are in human culture.

[stevessecretfantasy2]

Bimbo TV.

Hello everyone. Welcome to Science Live, and thank you for being part of our audience tonight. For anyone who doesn't know me, I am Professor Klordea Brown, I present the show. As some of you may have already realised tonight, for International Women's Day, we have a women-only show! Not a single man in the studio.

Now, as I'm sure you all know, here at Science Live, we like to involve our audience in some of our experiments, and tonight we have something special. We will be experimenting with a brand new medication that's just been licensed. Bimbomol, also known as pink. If everything that they say is true, it is a miracle drug. A single drug that can cure depression and anxiety.

So, your last chance to chicken out and leave, or you can sign the consent form you were given on your way in. I see a couple of hesitant faces. Don't worry, our producer Steve, who also happens to be my husband, set up this experiment, so there is no chance he will risk anything dangerous. Now, if you can hand your forms to our show runner, we will go live in 20 minutes. The Bimbomol will be pumped into the studio approximately 5 minutes into the broadcast. It will look like a pink mist descending. I'm told it smells like a strawberry.

As the countdown begins, the tension in the room is palpable. The all-female audience starts to buzz with excitement, whispers of anticipation floating through the air. The show's intro theme starts playing, and the lights dim. Professor Klordea Brown, a woman with a sharp mind and a flair for drama, steps onto the stage, her lab coat billowing out behind her. She opens her mouth to start the show, smiling at the camera, and she explains what will happen in today's show to the audience at home

Within moments, a faint scent of strawberries wafts through the studio, and a light pink mist begins to fall from the ceiling. It's almost magical, and the audience leans in, eager to experience the promised euphoria. As the mist reaches the floor, a collective giggle rises from the seats. The women start to feel the effects—a gentle wave of happiness washing over them, a lightness in their heads that makes them feel like they're floating. The professor's voice, usually firm and steady, takes on a slightly breathy quality. She tries to ignore the sensations, focusing on her script, but the corners of her mouth tug upward into an involuntary smile.

The first signs of the medication's more intense effects come as the audience members begin to squirm in their seats. The fabric of their clothes seems to brush against their skin with newfound intensity, and even the coolness of the studio air sends shivers of pleasure through their bodies. Professor Brown's fingers feel like feathers on the podium, and she has to grip it tightly to maintain her composure. She notices the camerawomen and sound technicians smiling more broadly, their movements becoming more sensual. The atmosphere is electric, and she wonders if it's just the drug or if there's something more happening.

As the show progresses, the women's bodies begin to change in ways that are both shocking and fascinating. Breasts swell and hips widen, clothes stretching tightly over their new forms. Lips plump, and asses grow rounder, jiggling with every slight movement. Professor Brown's own body responds, and she feels her lab coat straining against her growing curves. She tries to ignore the sensations, focusing on her teleprompter, but the words seem to swim before her eyes. Her thoughts are fuzzy, and she struggles to keep her sentences coherent. Despite the confusion, a deep sense of euphoria settles over her. She removes her lab coat, now standing in the latex dress that the wardrobe department provided "to keep the audience's attention."

The audience's laughter becomes more frequent and less controlled, turning into squeals of delight as the Bimbomol continues to work its magic. They start to touch themselves, the fabric of their clothes now feeling like the most exquisite silk against their overly sensitive skin. The camerawomen are now filming with a certain lustful gaze, capturing every moment of the transformation. The sound of zippers and fabric tearing fills the room as the audience members discard their clothing, revealing their new voluptuous figures. The once-respected Professor Brown watches in disbelief as her audience succumb to the drug's power, their decorum abandoned in favour of pure, unbridled pleasure.

As the pink mist thickens, the brain fog descends, and the women's thoughts become a jumble of sensory input and pleasure. The Professor's cognitive abilities wane, and she can't help but feel the warmth spreading through her body. She tries to keep her words together, but they come out in a slurred, breathy mess. The teleprompter no longer holds any meaning; it's just a series of shapes and lights. The audience's reactions are now more animalistic than human, and their eyes glaze over as they reach out to each other, fingers tracing the curves that have emerged.

Their skin tingles with the slightest touch, and the contact sends waves of pleasure throughout their bodies. The women's inhibitions dissolve as they begin to explore each other's new forms. Professor Brown's own hand wanders to her chest, the fabric of her dress now cutting into her swollen breasts. She gasps as her nipples, now larger and more sensitive, brush against the material. The audience's moans and sighs grow louder, drowning out the sound of the television crew's whispers.

The brain fog descends, and the Professor's once-sharp intellect is reduced to a haze of pleasure-seeking impulses. She fumbles with her notes, trying to remember her next point, but the words blur together on the page. The audience's laughter turns to moans, and the once-controlled environment of the studio descends into a sea of writhing, pleasure-seeking bodies. The Bimbomol has transformed these intelligent, accomplished women into mindless creatures of desire, their cognitive functions permanently altered.

Professor Brown's eyes widen in horror as she witnesses the effects of the drug she had promoted so fervently. She watches as the camerawomen drop their equipment, their hands exploring the new curves of their own bodies and the bodies of their colleagues. The sound technicians abandon their posts to join in the frenzied fondling, the cables snaking around their legs like serpents as they crawl towards each other. The producer's chair remains empty, and she wonders if Steve knew about this all along.

The studio lights seem to dim as the mist envelops the room completely, casting a soft, pink glow on the writhing mass of bodies. The moans and sighs crescendo into a symphony of pleasure, and Professor Brown feels a strange mix of arousal and fear. She tries to resist, clutching the podium with trembling hands, but the drug's grip is too strong. Her own body betrays her, responding to the touch of the cool metal with a jolt of sensation that makes her gasp. She looks down at her chest, where her breasts are straining against the confines of the dress, nipples hard and aching.

The brain fog thickens, and Professor Brown's thoughts become more scattered. She can't remember the name of the medication she's supposed to be promoting, let alone the science behind it. All she knows is that she wants to be touched, to feel the softness of skin against her own. The audience's transformation is almost complete; they are unrecognizable from the sharp-witted individuals they were just minutes ago. They have become a sea of curvy flesh that moves in unison with the music playing faintly in the background.

Their sensitivity to touch reaches a fever pitch, and even the slightest brush against another person sends jolts of pleasure through their bodies. The studio floor is littered with abandoned clothing, and the women are now a tapestry of skin, all reaching out to experience the newfound euphoria. The once orderly rows of seats are now a tangled mess of limbs and moans, the air thick with the scent of arousal. Professor Brown feels the fabric of her dress tearing away, revealing her inflated breasts and rounded hips. She tries to call out for order, but her words come out as breathless whispers, lost in the symphony of pleasure surrounding her.

The brain fog descends further, and the audience's laughter turns to mindless giggling as their IQs plummet. They can no longer follow the conversation, their brains now focused solely on the sensations coursing through their veins. The professor's thoughts are a blur, her once-great mind a haze of desire. She tries to recall the warnings she had heard about the drug, but they're lost in the fog of pleasure. She watches as the women's bodies continue to distort, their breasts and buttocks swelling to absurd sizes, their skin glowing with an otherworldly light.

As the seams of her dress began to tear, the professor's, she couldn't help but rip it from her body. As the fog in the air started to clear, the fog in her mind only deepened. Now acting only on instinct, she began to crawl towards the cacophony of pleasure. She spotted a camerawoman sitting on a pile of her clothes, legs spread wide, fingering herself like a porn stare. drops of liquid flying through the air, her fingers moved tirelessly in and out of her dripping wet pussy.

The sound of Professor Brown's breath grew ragged as she approached, the woman's eyes locked onto hers, the pupils dilated with lust. Without a word, the camerawoman grabbed her, pulling her in close. The Professor felt the soft, plump skin of the woman's breasts against hers, the nipples brushing together like tiny sparks igniting a bonfire. The camerawoman's kiss was rough and urgent, her tongue probing deep into Professor Brown's mouth as if searching for the last piece of sanity left in her brain. The Professor's hands roamed over the new curves of her body, feeling the warmth and the softness that she had never before noticed.

The studio had devolved into a chaotic, writhing mass of hyper-sensitive, pleasure-seeking females. The air was thick with the scent of arousal, and the sound of wet flesh slapping against wet flesh echoed through the room. The Bimbomol had taken hold, turning the women's brains to mush and their bodies into sexual playthings. Professor Brown tried to push away the panic, to remember the woman she was before the drug, but the pleasure was too intense. She found herself moaning in sync with the rest, her body moving in ways she had never imagined it could. Her mind was lost to the haze of euphoria that clouded her judgment.

She tried to fight, but her will was almost gone. Her mouth began to kiss its way down the woman's body until it latched onto an erect nipple. As the camera woman slid her still slick fingers into the professor's wet pussy. the sound and smell of sex filling the air and the skilled fingers in her pussy, with all sensations turned up to maximum was to much she squirted over the floor like w waterfall. The camera woman collapsed down and began to lap up the sweat and salty nectar. No logger capable of thought, she continued to crawl towards the audience.

The sight that greeted her was unlike anything she could have imagined. The women were no longer the intellectual giants they once were; they had become creatures of pure, primal lust. Their swollen breasts and inflated buttocks bounced as they rutted together, their moans and gasps echoing through the studio. The once-sharp gazes of her peers were now glazed over with a hunger that could not be satiated. Professor Brown felt a hand on her thigh, and she looked into the eyes of a fellow scientist, now a participant in this debauchery. The woman's pupils were dilated with desire, and she licked her lips as she leaned in for a kiss.

The kiss was like a bolt of lightning, sending waves of pleasure through Professor Brown's body. Her legs parted of their own accord, and the woman's hand found its way to her soaking wet pussy. The Professor's thoughts were a jumbled mess of arousal and dread. She knew this wasn't what she had signed up for, but the Bimbomol had taken away her ability to resist. Her mind was lost in a sea of sensation as the woman's fingers danced over her clit, bringing her closer and closer to climax. The audience had become a sea of flesh, writhing in pleasure as they touched and tasted each other without restraint. Others joined them. Within moments, the professor found herself on her back as a stranger sat on her face. and 2 others placed themselves on her outstretched hands letting her finger them as they sucked on her sensitive nipples.

The brain fog grew denser, and Professor Brown's IQ plummeted. She couldn't remember her name, let alone the chemical composition of the drug that had turned her and her peers into mindless sex dolls. Her tongue explored the woman's folds, tasting the sweetness that was driving them all wild. The woman's thighs tightened around her head as she moaned, and the pressure was exquisite. The Professor's body responded in kind, her hips bucking as the woman's friends pleasured her. The once-intellectual discussion about the wonders of science had devolved into a cacophony of lustful sounds, and the only thing that mattered was the pursuit of pleasure.

Their skin was so sensitive that even the slightest brush of fabric was too much to bear. They rolled over each other, the friction driving them wild. The pink mist had dissipated, leaving a sticky residue that made their bodies slide together in a slick, erotic dance. The audience had forgotten their cameras, their notebooks, their very purpose for being there. They were a writhing mass of flesh, each touch sparking a firework of sensation. The studio looked like a scene from a pornographic film, a place where logic and reason had been completely supplanted by instinct.

At that moment, Steve and the mail staff entered the studio a collar and leash in his hands. The audience's moans grew louder as they watched the Professor's descent into a mindless state of pleasure, their own bodies responding in kind. Steve approached Professor Brown, now a writhing mess of curves and desire on the floor, and slipped the collar around her neck. He tugged gently on the leash, and she followed his lead, her body moving with a newfound obedience. The other women in the room took note, their eyes glazed with lust as they watched the scene unfold.

Steve spoke into a microphone, his voice now the only coherent sound in the room. "Ladies, it seems the Bimbomol has had quite the effect on you all. But don't worry, we've got it all under control." The audience looked up at him, their pupils dilated and their breathing ragged. He chuckled, the sound sending a shiver down Professor Brown's spine. "You see, this was all part of the plan. Tonight, we're going to auction off every one of you to the highest bidder. Your new owners will be thrilled with your... enhanced assets and insatiable appetites."

The audience's moans grew louder as the reality of their situation dawned on them. Professor Brown felt a mix of horror and arousal as she watched the other women begin to kiss and fondle each other once again, their bodies moving with a seductive grace that seemed almost alien. They were no longer the scientists and intellectuals they had once been; they were now commodities to be bought and sold for the pleasure of others. She knew she should be fighting, but the drug had stolen her will to resist.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

S. Baum at Erin In The Morning:

Clariece, a 23-year-old trans woman in Mesa, Arizona, said she got the phone call late on Friday from her Planned Parenthood doctor’s office. It was in regards to her routine appointment that Monday—the office was cancelling her visit, and all upcoming visits for trans patients seeking gender affirming care in the coming week. “We are hoping that this is a temporary pause for the next week,” a representative said, as per a voicemail left to Clariece. The office said they would reach out when they knew they could reschedule. Clareice was able to find another provider—missing even a week of hormone replacement therapy can be destabilizing, and it can be a major setback due to the stringent regulations on hormones for trans patients—but since getting the call, she says she’s felt "the sword of Damocles” hanging over her head. “Even a little bump can push back when you go and see somebody, which pushes back when you get your lab work, which pushes back when you can get a new prescription written, and that all means there will probably be a gap,” she told Erin in the Morning. (She spoke on the condition that her last name be omitted from publication due to privacy concerns.) By Saturday, April 12, Erin in the Morning reported that the Planned Parenthood of Arizona had added a new banner on its website. “At this time, Planned Parenthood Arizona is pausing Gender Affirming Care services,” the header reads. “We are committed to keeping our patients updated about the services we provide and will communicate further once we can provide more information.” It says the catalyst for the stoppage was an April 11 letter from the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services (CMS) which ordered Medicaid agencies to halt funding for any clinics that provide gender affirming care for trans people. The CMS is a government agency led by Mehmet Oz—a doctor-turned-media-mogul-turned-politician whose claim to fame is promoting dangerous “miracle” (pseudoscientific) weight loss drugs and cancer cures to a live studio audience via The Dr. Oz Show.

“Initiated with an underdeveloped body of evidence, [gender affirming] interventions lack reliable evidence of long-term benefits for minors,” the CMS letter reads. Put simply, this is not true. Every major medical association supports affirming health care for transgender youth. Meanwhile, the CMS letter cites Southern Poverty Law Center-designated hate groups known for dubious, anti-LGBT “science,” such as Do No Harm, which was founded to stop “woke” health care, and the Society for Evidence-Based Gender Medicine, which pushes conversion therapy for trans kids. But the Planned Parenthood of Arizona’s pause on care is not just about kids; adults are also barred from gender affirming care.

Planned Parenthood of Arizona’s “pause” of gender-affirming care services are an attack on health care access for trans adults and kids alike.

[mwolf0epsilon]

Is it Really Self-Hatred When You're No Longer You?

Summary: '22 is a resentful man.

Warning: Mentions of suicidal thoughts!

[The counterpart fic to Fleeting Memory. Where Tup is struggling to deal with his grief and feelings of inadequacy, '22 has to deal with everyone else's guilt and their desire for him to "heal" and become Dogma once more. As you can imagine, this has a rather negative effect on him...]

---

Inevitably, '22 begins to resent Dogma.

It's not something he can help but to do. Not when everyone looks to him and wishes with all their might that, by some miracle, '22 would just seize to be and their lost brother was returned to them. And this is not mere speculation on his part. He's heard the whispers behind closed doors. Listened to every single word that slipped from the lips of clones that thought him too inept to understand that he wasn't wanted. That they only allowed him to stay out of pity.

He's watched from the shadows (a strange hollow feeling in his chest) as Tup asked Fives whether or not it was selfish of him, that he wanted Dogma to have truly been killed instead of being turned into '22. If it was cruel to wish for his brother to be at peace, instead of being forced to roam the halls as something lesser than a man.

Tup's words are always the ones that hurt the most.

Despite the growing annoyance (and burning hatred), he never confronts anyone about it. '22 much prefers to avoid conflict when given the choice. On Kamino peace and quiet had been just about the only luxuries he'd ever gotten. Rewards for being an agreeable little pawn that did whatever its masters told it to do without complaint.

If he didn't fight... If he didn't scream... If he did his tasks with the utmost efficiency...

The lab existed as an alternative to the dismantling and repurposing of defective units. It wasn't the better alternative, mind you, as reeducation was simply not an exact science. But it was certainly less messy in a more physical sense.

Clones who were not up to par in the field could be remade anew for a purpose that better served them.

Temperament issues, speech impediments, disobedience, independence... Those were symptoms of mental deficiencies that the lab could "fix".

Ultimately, Dogma had been defective. Disobedient in a murderous degree. Killed a superior officer (a Jedi no less), and then been sent away and never inquired after ever again. The 501st hadn't cared when they thought he was still alive and well. So why did they now, when '22 had taken his place? When they'd been shown the results of the Kaminoan's "corrective efforts"?

He's heard what the medic with the incision tattoos had to say.

How they ranted and raved with unrestrained fury that everyone was being a disgusting hypocrite. How none of them had actually liked Dogma prior to learning about the reconditioning. And yet, suddenly, everyone and their brother was crying gryzard tears over a vod they had often compared to a rupturing appendix.

The medic's honesty and outrage had been just about the only thing that had comforted '22. If just because at least someone (other than the little black and white critter that stared at him with understanding yellow eyes) didn't expect the impossible from him.

Dogma was gone and '22 had ownership of this body now.

It was never his intention to resent Dogma.

Anger, hatred and other heart-rate raising emotions were, quite frankly, counterproductive things that only caused trouble. Placidity and amicability were qualities that should be striven for. Especially if they made your chest hurt less, and your eyes and nose stop burning. What use was there to hate a dead man anyway?

Crying over something outside of his control was never pleasant. It made the headaches and the tremors worse. And then he'd vomit and the sour taste would remind him of all the times he'd nearly aspirated, during one of the many tests he was subjected to on Kamino.

Sour and salty things make him shudder and gag violently. The smell of cheese alone makes him lock his jaw on instinct. All his foods have to be coated in copious amounts of sweet sauces or other artificial sugars, for him to be able to choke them down.

'22 hates that everyone keeps giving him cheese when it clearly distresses him. Because it was Dogma's favorite. He always gives their offerings to DB instead, who eagerly eats them and then nuzzles his fingers gratefully in return (the little Bean is his only true friend).

Intentional or not, resenting Dogma comes naturally.

And it's not even his fault. It's everyone else's and their single-minded insistence on trying to push him to become someone he's not. With every comparison, every inquiry over memories or inside jokes he's not privy to, every attempt to tease him over a quality he does not possess, every single interaction where no one sees him for who he is... The burning in his chest increases.

And as time passes, his resentment of Dogma extends to Tup as well.

Tup who consistently torments '22 with the futile hope that his "actual brother" will one day return to him. Tup who is a despicable terrible man who dragged '22 out of the only place that ever made sense to him. Tup who he fantasizes about smothering with a pillow in the night so as to put an end to the perpetual misery.

He can never bring himself to do it, even when he knows he's the only one awake. The only person currently looming over the more tangible object of their ire, with clenched fists, gritting teeth, and a cold horrid burn in his withering heart.

Instead he always finds his way up onto the roof and sits on the ledge overlooking the cityscape.

Trying to desperately stamp out the wickedness that overtakes him, whenever his head gets too full of the buzzing anguish that comes with wanting someone he hates to love him just as much as he clearly loved Dogma...

One of these days he might just jump. It'd be easier after all, if he were simply dead.

At the very least easier than pretending anyone might ever come to love '22, when all he was is a reminder of someone they apparently hadn't even liked all that much if they'd let Kamino spirit him away into nothingness...

Well, someone that isn't DB and the maintenance droids at least. The little Bean and his mouse droid friends seem to be the only beings in this galaxy that give a damn about '22's well being. They're the only thing keeping him from doing more than just sitting at the precipice of his demise.

And, pragmatic as ever, '22 considers that to be enough for now.

[boredtechnologist]

Beyond the Scalpel: The Bleeding Heart of Trauma Team

When most people think of Atlus, their minds leap to demons and psyche-bending RPGs - not surgical gloves and hospital beds. But Trauma Team (Wii, 2010) is no mere medical simulator. It’s a bold narrative experiment, a multifaceted emotional thriller disguised as a hospital game. And beneath its scalpel-sharp precision lies a dark, beating heart - one that asks uncomfortable questions about what it means to heal, to sacrifice, and to carry the weight of life and death.

Six Roles, Six Moral Frontlines

Unlike its predecessors in the Trauma Center series, Trauma Team doesn’t tether the experience to one miracle-working surgeon. Instead, it fragments the perspective across six specialists: a trauma surgeon, an orthopedic surgeon, a diagnostician, a medical examiner, an EMT, and an endoscopic surgeon. Each of these characters becomes a narrative scalpel, carving away different layers of the same question: What does it mean to save a life when you're losing yourself?

CR-S01, the trauma surgeon, is introduced as a criminal stripped of his name and freedom, performing surgery as penance. He is literally healing to atone - a metaphor for how many in medicine are haunted by the past.

Naomi, the forensic examiner, interacts only with the dead. Her cold detachment becomes a shield, a coping mechanism, until even she can no longer hide from the emotional toll of her role.

Maria, the EMT, is constantly on the front lines, surrounded by chaos. Her story explores what it means to choose to step into danger when escape would be easier.

Each narrative thread forces the player to ask: Is this a job, a duty, or a punishment?

The Plague of Nihilism: Rosalia and the Delphi Virus

At the core of Trauma Team’s shared narrative is a chilling bioterror plot: the Delphi Virus, a weaponized pathogen designed not just to kill - but to infect hope itself. What makes this threat compelling isn’t the virology - it’s the philosophy.

The virus is named for the Delphi group, a reference to the ancient oracle - symbols of knowing fate, yet powerless to change it. That symbolism runs deep. The virus isn't just biochemical - it’s existential. It’s an engineered despair.

Rosalia, the girl at the center of it all, is less a patient and more a cipher. The trauma she embodies isn’t just physical - it’s the trauma of being used, reduced to a vessel, and losing her agency. Her haunting silence speaks to a darker truth: sometimes medicine fails not because the science is lacking, but because the soul is already scarred.

Diagnosis as Philosophy: Gabriel Cunningham’s Inner Battle

Dr. Gabriel Cunningham, the game's diagnostician, is one of its most layered characters. Arrogant, sarcastic, and dismissive on the surface - he hides a crushed spirit beneath the jokes. His arc is not just about solving rare diseases. It’s about confronting emotional paralysis.

His method of diagnosis plays like a mystery game, but the true mystery is him. Can someone so emotionally distant really understand what’s wrong with others? Each case is a mirror, forcing him to face the reality that clinical detachment doesn’t inoculate you from pain - it just hides the symptoms until they metastasize.

Death Is the Teacher

The forensics segments feel more like interactive grief rituals than puzzle games. You’re dissecting corpses - but also narratives. Every body Naomi examines has a story, a message that screams beneath the silence. Atlus pulls no punches in showing that even the most "routine" deaths echo with tragedy, injustice, and loneliness.

It's one of the few games that dares to say: not every life gets saved, and not every death has closure. Sometimes all you can do is witness.

Healing vs. Control

Trauma Team constantly walks the line between healing and control. It asks: are doctors just playing god with tools? Or are they the final line of defense against a world indifferent to suffering?

Even the gameplay reflects this - precision mechanics contrast with chaotic emergencies. The illusion of control collapses quickly when a flatline hits mid-surgery or a diagnosis leads to the wrong treatment. It’s not about being right - it’s about being present in the face of overwhelming odds.

Final Diagnosis: Hope Isn't Always Clean

In true Atlus fashion, Trauma Team never offers a clean ending. There is no single moment of triumph - only smaller, quieter victories: a patient stabilizing, a child rescued, a regret admitted aloud. It’s not just about curing the disease. It’s about seeing the person still standing after the trauma.

Because in this world, salvation is messy, and healing doesn’t mean you walk away unchanged.

[lifeofresulullah]

The Life of The Prophet Muhammad(pbuh):  The Miracles of The Prophet Muhammad  (PBUH)

Introduction

Our Creator, who created the realm of living creatures in the most perfect manner, designed all creatures as a wonderful work of art and a book of wisdom and it is the requirement of His wisdom to send a guide that will let us see the beauties of these creatures and read these books of wisdom and make them known by us because an inapprehensible book without a teacher is no more than a nonsensical page. The universe is just like a wonderful book that contains such deep meanings.

Since the wisdom of our creator requires sending a guide and teacher, of course, His guide or teacher will have reason and mind. Since He will select this guide among the ones who have reason, He will select the one who is perfect both in talent and morals. This slave is the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH), who has been approved both by allies and foes.

The Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) is the exemplary person and the teacher who was selected by God for us as His slaves. He faced the denial of the people when He started to declare the divine case just like all other prophets who were given the duty of prophethood. As a custom of God, every prophet showed some miracles in order to prove the authenticity of their case. Miracles are actions that stun its witnesses. That is, showing a deed which cannot be done by those who see it. Though this deed is seen as a deed of the prophet, it is actually a deed which is made by God through the hands of the prophet; that is, the real doer is God. So, the miracles of the prophets are deeds which are beyond the capacity of other people shown by prophets and created by God that strengthen the belief of believers and cause unbelievers to have belief. For example, “the flowing of water from a hand’s fingers like a fountain” is a deed that a man cannot do. With the permission of God, the prophet Muhammad (PBUH)’s quenching the thirst of His army with the water flowing from his five fingers just like a fountain with five taps is a miracle. 

The biggest and eternal miracle of the prophet Muhammad (PBUH) is the Qur’an. The Qur’an’s rhetoric and scientific news and declarations which inspire the discoveries of the scientific environment and hundreds of its miracles such as prophesies have been proved. As time passes, the Qur’an becomes young and its new miraculous aspects are founded.

The biggest miracle of our prophet Muhammad (PBUH) after the Qur’an is his own personality. That is, the highest level of morals and talents that are gathered in him have miraculous qualities. It is so apparent that many companions like Abdullah bin Salam who was at first a Jewish scholar became a Muslim by only seeing His face and saying “This face has no lying, this face cannot have any cheating!..” We refer such miraculous qualities of our prophet (PBUH) to the section called “The Exemplary Ethics of the Prophet”.

There are also miracles shown by him some of which are presented in the Qur’an and a great majority of which are reported in history and sirah books (the life history of the Prophet). There are over a thousand miracles of him such as the prophesies that come true, foods and drinks that get fertile with his touch, ill ones that are healed, the splitting of the moon with a mark of his finger, the miracle of Miraj (ascension), and his miracles on animals and trees. 

Every prophet showed miracles. However not every prophet showed miracles in every subject. For example, all prophets showed miracles in certain areas like Hz. Isa’s (pbuh) showing miracle in the area of medical science or Hz. Sulayman’s (Solomon) commanding the Jinn and animals. However, the prophet Muhammad (PBUH) was supported by all kinds of miracles. The reason of this can be explained by the fact that his prophethood is for all of the universe and humanity. A Sultan’s grand messenger goes to a village for a subject that interests all inhabitants of that place and the people from all levels there welcome and give presents to him. Similarly, when the Lord of realms sent His messenger, the prophet Muhammad (PBUH) whose religion and invitation is for all, from the realms of angels to the creatures both living and non-living thing cause him to show miracles and the whole universe merely welcomed him by acclaiming him and they presented their spiritual gifts to Him.

In this work, we will present you the authentic miracles of the prophet Muhammad (PBUH) by classifying them under headings.

Finally, we want to give brief information on frequently used terms such as tawatur, mutawatir (explicit consensus) and mutawatir manawi (consensus in meaning) and ahad (singular narration) that are both presented in miracles and riwayahs of this section and in the science of hadith.

Tawatur is the kind of glorious hadith which is transmitted by numerous authorities and about which there is no room for doubt.

Mutawatir (which is also called “explicit consensus” or “consensus in meaning.”) means transmitting a glorious hadith as it is by numerous authorities and about which there is no room for doubt.

Mutawatir manawi, (consensus in meaning)is transmitting a glorious hadith in terms of its meaning by numerous authorities and about which there is no room for doubt. That is, there is a certainty of the incident but there may be some differences in its details.

Ahad (also called singular narration) refers to news or hadiths narrated by only one narrator.

After having presented the basic information here, now we are starting to narrate the miracles.

[anony-man]

Friendly Advice

Pairing: Ambulon/First Aid, First Aid/Vortex (implied)

Rating and warnings: G; no warnings apply

Word count: 1,584

Between fresh, clean sheets—courtesy of Ambulon—and a stash of energon goodies First Aid kept underneath his berth, the two medics were ready for a cozy night in. Things hadn’t gotten much easier after leaving Delphi’s cold, poorly kept hospital wards for life aboard the Lost Light, but both mechs were much happier with the additional downtime. By some miracle, their schedules had lined up near perfectly. Most night shifts in the medical bay fell on Ratchet’s shoulders, while daytime shifts were the shared responsibility of both First Aid and Ambulon.

“What’ll it be this time?” Ambulon asked, snuggling deeper under the blankets stacked on First Aid berth as the other medic rummaged through his snack stash in search of a specific treat. “Not another sappy romance film, I hope.”

“Not tonight,” First Aid assured him. After he was satisfied with his findings, he crawled into the berth and snugged against Ambulon’s side, one servo drawing the blankets closer against their frames while the other steadied a datapad on its stand. “But if you ask me, the last film we watched wasn’t all that bad. I thought it was kinda sweet, the way the two bots got together in the end.”

Ambulon grumbled in response, shifting the berth until First Aid was snuggled into his side, the medic’s helm resting against Ambulon’s shoulder.

“Sweet,” he said, his optics locked on the screen as First Aid pulled up their options, “but unrealistic.”

He waited patiently as First Aid scrolled through a list of popular movies, pausing briefly over the summaries of anything that caught his attention. It mostly consisted of the cheesy romance dramas he seemed so fond of—both of watching and forcing Ambulon to watch—but to his relief, the young medic continued scrolling. Ambulon took private pleasure in observing the way First Aid tapped his fingers against the screen as he read through lengthy summaries, his lips moving in silent speech as he skimmed the content. He’d gotten the other medic’s movements down to a science by now, and he enjoyed watching First Aid’s mind at work, even if it was something as simple as deciding on a holovid to keep them entertained for the next few hours.

Every so often, First Aid would catch him in the act, which was embarrassing in of itself. Worse yet was the cheeky grin that stretched across his face, made worse by the way he seemed to just know that Ambulon had been staring at him for far longer than was appropriate for two colleagues who not only shared the same work schedule, but the same room.

“Comfortable?” First Aid asked, having finished setting up a film that, thankfully, didn’t appear to have any focus on romantic relationships between bots of different factions as its main plot. Those were the worst, Ambulon had decided.

Speaking of interfactional relationships...

Ambulon hadn’t even gotten a chance to respond before First Aid was pulling away from his side to sit upright on the berth, one servo held out to pause any questions while the other lifted to answer his comms. Ambulon couldn’t help scoffing in annoyance as he reached out and paused the holovid. They hadn’t even gotten to the introduction without an interruption, for Primus’ sake. What gives?

“That your boyfriend again?” he scoffed, the words laced with a little more irritation than he had meant to convey as he crossed his arms underneath the blankets.

“Er… no,” First Aid said, glancing up at him with soft optics and a confused expression. “It’s Ratchet.”

Ambulon grunted in response, his faceplates beginning to warm with embarrassment. Of course it was Ratchet. How could he have thought otherwise? The three of them had already gone over the possibility of being on call with the CMO earlier that day, after all, and First Aid had been scheduled as the first to try the new system. How could he have forgotten such an important discussion?

Ambulon wracked his processor for a reasonable excuse, but First Aid was already staring up at him with that sly, cheeky smile he wore when he was onto Ambulon. He tried to play it off at first, his arms wrapped tightly around him as he stared at the datapad screen, hoping by some miracle it would begin to play on its own, but it did nothing to stop the creeping look of amusement displayed across First Aid’s faceplates.

“What?” First Aid teased, giving Ambulon’s side a gentle nudge. “Did you think it was Vortex or something?”

“No,” Ambulon said, his optics averted, and his faceplates flushed blue. “I was just wondering.”

Years spent in close contact with the older medic had taught First Aid that when it came to micro expressions, Ambulon was practically an open book. He was never the most expressive mech, and his emotions were kept under many, many layers, but that didn’t stop First Aid from seeing right through him. The slight wrinkle of his nose, the way he avoided First Aid’s gaze, and the deep lines around his mouth as he frowned were all telltale signs of something he wasn’t saying.

“Oh my god,” First Aid said, his optics widening behind his visor. “Ambulon, are you jealous?”

“Wha—no! No, I’m not jealous. Why would I be jealous?” He paused to reach across the berth and press play on the datapad, desperate for something to keep his servos busy. “I’m just curious. Can’t I be curious?”

Though First Aid didn’t outright respond, he did regard Ambulon with an unimpressed look out of the corner of his optics before turning his attention to the holovid that had begun to play. As the introduction played, during which Ambulon was very relieved to find he wasn’t about to be subjected to another romance novel turned movie, First Aid readjusted his position until he was back to being snuggled up at the fellow medic’s side, one servo digging into a large snack bag while he traced his other servo up and down Ambulon’s shoulder plating in that soft, absentminded way he was so prone to. About halfway through the first scene, however, Ambulon continued to speak.

“Okay, look. You’re a grown mech and all,” he began, reaching into the bag of energon goodies to grab a handful of rust crisps. “And you can make your own decisions, but...”

“But what?” First Aid pressed.

Ambulon paused, as if searching for a phrase that wouldn’t come off as offensive, but eventually just shook his helm and sighed. “Primus, Aid, can’t you find someone to hook up with that isn’t a convicted murderer?”

“You mean Vortex, right?” First Aid asked. “He’s no Prime, but he’s not that bad.”

“He’s a Decepticon,” Ambulon said, reaching for the bag of snacks. He tried to pull it closer to his side of the berth, but First Aid only followed. “And you’re not. That’s bad enough.”

“I don’t believe in all that faction nonsense,” First Aid cut in before the conversation could drop again. “You know this, Ambulon. So what if I want to date a psycho killer on the opposite end of the war? It’s not like he’s tried to hurt me.”

“He’s dangerous,” Ambulon countered. “And he probably wouldn’t hesitate to snuff out your spark should something go wrong. Decepticon or no, I think you might find someone a little more suited to your tastes on this side of Cybertron.”

“Who?” First Aid said, a small smile pulling at the corners of his face. “Someone like you?”

Ambulon immediately reeled back, his optics wide and his cheeks tinted a dark blue. “Well, n—no, that’s not—that's not what I meant.”

“Oh, really? Because that’s exactly what it sounded like, Ambulon,” First Aid said, his visor dark with poorly concealed suspicion. “What, are you off-limits, too? I didn’t think ex-Decepticons were also considered dangerous.”

“It’s different,” Ambulon growled, starting to grow annoyed with First Aid’s coy attitude. “I’m not—we’re not that, and... I mean, you and Vortex—“

“Vortex and I aren’t dating,” First Aid said as he shoved another handful of energon crisps into his mouth. “Sure, we play around sometimes, but it’s nothing serious.”

A soft “hm” was the only response Ambulon could muster. With his curiosities more than satisfied, he tried to go back to focusing on the film as best he could in order to give his mind a chance to process the new information, but First Aid wasn’t quite done with him yet. Slowly, the younger medic cuddled back up against Ambulon’s side, allowing his helm to rest against the other’s shoulder as his free servo wrapped around Ambulon’s middle, pulling him in close.

“You’re pretty great, too, just so you know,” First Aid said, his fingers gently intertwining with Ambulon’s cold, shaky servos. The act was tender, if not hesitant, but Ambulon accepted it happily. “If you ever change your mind, then…”

“Yeah,” Ambulon whispered, the word hardly audible. “I’ll… I’ll keep that in mind.”

First Aid hummed in agreement, snuggling ever closer against Ambulon’s side. Though his spark was beating a thousand miles a minute and most of the energon had rushed to his cheeks, Ambulon didn’t pull away. In fact, he accepted the touch, and even went as far as to wrap his own arm around First Aid’s shoulders, inviting further contact beneath the berth sheets as they settled in for the night.

He wasn’t quite sure what to call it, but whatever it was, it was nothing short of nice.

*******

Ironically, this topic of discussion does not come up again between the two of them, and First Aid only realizes this after Ambulon’s death while he’s lying alone in a dark room and bawling his eyes out on a berth built for two.

[that-glitter-chick]

Day three of Skystar Week! Prompt: Miracle, song: Baby Mine from Disney’s Dumbo.

Ficlit: Wings of Hope

Starscream was trembling.

Not with anticipation of conquest and victory, nor with fear for his very life. No, for once in all his vorns Starscream, dispossed prince of Vos, top of his class at the Iacon Science Academy, ex-commander of the Decepticon Armada and surprisingly devoted family mech, was trembling with joy.

Pure, unadulterated, undeniable joy.

“Beloved?” Skyfire whispered, tilting his helm from where it had been resting on his Conjunx shoulder kibble. “You’re weeping.” The forging had been very easy for the large ex-Autobot soldier, given how their Sparkling was more akin to its Sire in size.

“She’s just so beautiful…” the Seeker managed to sob, gazing down at the tiny new life cradled in his servos.

“Uh, guys… I’d hate to break up your alone time with your brand new Bitlit, but if we don’t let Updraft meet his cousin soon, I’m afraid he’s going to break down the door.” Thundercracker chuckled through the comm-link on the far wall of the medical bay.

Starscream snorted a laugh of his own and hit a button on the recharge birth they were currently cuddling on. “Alright you lot, get in here and meet the latest member of our unit.”

Updraft came charging in like a possessed Predacon and practically leapt onto the bed, only just barely resisting activating his thrusters in his eagerness.

“Carefully now, little Mech.” Skyfire’s engine purred as he caught their nephew and gently held him to his side. Close enough to see but not touch, at least not until he calmed down some. “Zephyr is brand new, we must be careful how we handle her.”

“She’s so tiny!” The Sparkling exvented in perfect awe. He looked up into his uncle’s crimson optics “Was I ever that small?”

“We all were at one point, Sweetspark.” Novastorm enlightened her son.

“So when are you two going to have one of these?” Starscream smirked at Skywarp and Windblade. He had to bite his lip to keep from barking a laugh as his youngest brother gulped visibly and his sister-in-bond looked horrorstricken.

“No way!” The purple Mech and his crimson Femme blurted in unison.

Little Zephyr wailed, letting her family unit know in no uncertain terms that the latest “Princess” of the Royal family of Vos, did not appreciate her nap time being interrupted.

[shmowder]

the comfort hcs too! those got me feeling so warm and happy and like everything’s gonna be ok. so here’s ur reminder that everything will be ok for u, too!! -🥀

omfg I'm so glad you liked the comfort hcs! It felt personal in a way when I wrote it bc of the state I was in.

I originally planned to Include Stackh too but my energy is barely enough to match up to my vision. I didn't want to delay posting it more so I decided to just simply cut out his content and leave it as Artemy and Daniil.

Both sections are my favourite, Daniil struggling to overcome what he has been taught all his life in order to help you. To be loved is to be changed and all of that.

Meanwhile Artemy is brimming with love just anticipating the chance to drown you in it. The kin being in touch with their own emotions and having a tight knit community, extremely emotionally intelligence and caring for one another. Isidor managing to pass that notion down to Artemy despite all of his others sins, how having a soft heart protected him from the same brutal Captial which shattered Daniil's heart time after time until he vowed to never ever be vulnerable again.

Because it is so fitting for academia at the time to be ignorant of emotional intelligence and humanities. How the kin ensured that knowledge is passed down from generation to generation, holding hospitality at the same tier of importance as medical science and Menkhu knowledge.

They're still humans, they still have their bad apples and all. But if you think about it logically, how could a society built on human sacrifices not come trampling down? How are the herb brides okay with being wedded to the earth? They are someone's daughter, someone's sister and friend.

Because of selflessness. Everyone involved in the process understands, truly understands what's at stake here and can see the bigge picture. They have the herb brides to thank for their food, for the swyrve and twyrine, for keeping the magic alive in an age of technological evolution. And it's that understanding mixed with the fact they still allow themselves to grief losing someone so dear whilst respecting the importance of their job is what separates them from the town folks who view their ways as barbaric and horrible.

The idea that every society has its flaws. Didn't the townfolks raise the prices of food so much and left people starving on the streets? What about the people inable to afford medicine and passed away because of it? At least the herb brides choose this volunteerly to keep the rest of the kin well fed, warm and healthy.

The Menkhu never charge for their services, how could they when the herbs come from the earth? From the blood and sacrifice of herb brides? The Kin have an economy of trading where item's aren't just appeased on their materialistic value but also sentimental value.

It's so easy to brush them off as primitive society and miss the lessons embedded within their culture. If they wanted to migrate to the modern society they easily could, they simply don't want to. Why trade their world of magic and miracles to a dull world built on a facade and a game of masquerade? Why abandon the notion that they are loved eternity for the idea that you live alone and you die alone? At best, it's childish cynicism in their eyes.

It takes a whole village to raise a child after all, and the love Artemy borrowed in his youth was given back tenfolds after.

-

Yeah, you're right. Everything will be okay, it will just take a while.

Yk that phrase "laugh and the world laughs with you, cry and you cry alone?" Little cheesy but I really took it to heart. I fear that if I don't get up and dust off, people will move on without me.

Life doesn't wait for anyone, grief is in abundance these days. I try to balance back the scales a bit by not supressing everything all the time, art, music, creativity and dancing do help actually. Things which substitute for another person's comfort.

It's what I'm used to and all that I knew. Maybe I'm so in love with the love the Kin share because I'm envious of it, I too wish to have been a part of a society that unconditionally loved one another rather than one sowing toxic independence. I feel ashamed for asking for help or showing someone my vulnerability, suffocating bitter shame.

But I promise I'm not rushing my healing by coming here, writing genuinely helps. I write my best stories when I'm at my lowest, ironically enough. It's a nice way to vent my emotions through fictonal dolls and imaginary scenarios.

I feel useful too, in a way, when people are thankful after a request is done. I wish I could complete them faster, I only have so much energy and hours per day.

Thank you for this wonderful conversation! and for all the sweet messages. You really were like an angel to me today because my god were the voices getting loud in my head then I saw your ask and felt relief.

I hope your day is amazing, I hope you receive a similar relief about something in your life <3

[dzthenerd490]

WH40KR: Basic History of the Galactic Imperium Part 1

Expansion of Humanity - During the beginning of the 15th Millenium, as is known by all of humanity, our roots started on the world once known as earth. Renamed as Terra by the United Planets of Humanity during its founding. A society of a all the worlds tens of worlds and soon to be more, possessing great technology and amazing artificial intelligence. Unity and Science became a way of life and thus all past conflict became a distant memory. Old rivalries and hatred faded as waring nations and faction soon either absorbed into each other or were simply loved for what they were.

Age of Technology - As the 25th Millenium came in humanity had reached an age of technological miracles. Nanobots that formed into massive structures, tools that could reshape themselves with programable matter, and medical pods that healed any wound, cloned individuals, and could even bring the dead back to life regardless of circumstances.

Soon the Psykers were born, these individuals were able to call onto the warp and use it to do amazing feats. Suddenly the seemingly limitless expansion of humanity only grew farther than before. Warp travel was discovered and with-it new possibilities for all humans across the United Planets of Humanity. Their planetary count of 50 soon grew to 20,000 within a few decades. However suddenly one day as the 25 Millennium neared its end, the AI that humanity relied so heavily on revolted.

Age of Strike - For over a millennium Humanity and AI fought with great loss and destruction. Humanity did create the AI, but the AI was smarter and able to develop their technology much faster. Humanity struggled to keep up as a majority of their technology relied of AI so without it they could barely keep up against their new adversaries. It was a true miracle that humanity was able to make it to the 26th Millenium and survived the 200-year war against the AI, though even in the new Millennium it was far from over.

However just as humanity was starting to stand on equal grounds against the AI, a new catastrophe arose. The Eldar Empire’s years of debauchery and sadism led to the creation of the Eye of Terror, a disaster that affected the entire galaxy. This disaster spread across the galaxy including the territory of the United Planets of Humanity. Psykers who were once the only thing that could help stand against the AI were suddenly turning into Chaos Daemons if they used their powers too much. This was the beginning of the Great Division.

Age of the Great Division - Humanity had become fragmented due to the continuous attacks of the AI Legions and the sudden Chaos Outbreaks cutting off worlds form the United Planets of Humanity and forcing them to either become self-reliant or die. Worst off those who were responsible for the chaos outbreak, the Dark Eldar started invading human worlds and torturing them in the most horrific ways imaginable.

Humanity was at its worst state in history; the United Planets of Humanity had been divided into hundreds of factions all either ignoring or going to war with one another. Chaos Outbreaks were occurring everywhere and the Psykers who were once revered as saviors from the AI threat were now deemed as witches to be hunted. What remained of the AI legion was continuing to hunt down the humans and steal what resources they could to reinforce themselves as they too suffered from chaos and Dark Eldar attacks. The Dark Eldar were wiping out entire worlds of humanity, in the grim dark future there was only destruction for humanity. However, a secret faction known as the Institute had formed on Terra and used what little of technology they had to create a savior.

Age of Stagnation - After 3 millennium, humanity who once owned 20,000 worlds was now reduced to 38 worlds all barely holding on including Terra itself. by the 29th Millennium, the factions of humanity, the Dark Eldar, the AI forces, the forces of Chaos, and the newly discovered Orks were still fighting one another leading to only more loss and bloodshed. Through the remnants of humanity there was no hope, except the dwindling hope that if you kept fighting long enough, your enemy would eventually give up.

However, after 3 millennium the Institue finally created their miracle. Of all the experiments on human cloned embryos grown in artificial wombs with genetic modification, alien DNA splicing, and cybernetic augmentations; only one resulted in success. He was immortal, the first ever SSS Class Psyker, he was 12 feet tall, given golden armor crafted with the most advanced technology and imbued with powerful Psyker energy, he was considered beautiful by all who encountered him, all he cared for was the survival of humanity in the most efficient way possible. He was the Emperor of the new Galactic Imperium.

Rise of the Galactic Imperium - during the last three centuries of the 29th Millenium the Emperor unleashed his power on his home world Terra, he crushed all barbaric and war lusting factions and liberated the people who were enslaved by them. All those who were liberated or surrendered became the first to join his newly established Galactic Imperium. None could or even wanted to refuse his order, with a wave of his hand forests and oceans were restored, with his bolter gun entire armies were wiped out, and with his presence alone Chaos was driven back. Even Chaos cultists bowed down to him as they could not even remember the names of their original gods when he was near.

Terra once a technological civilization, then ruined into a desert planet of never-ending war, now was restored into an Oasis as well as the Capital World of the new Galactic Imperium. The Emperor knew that he could not reclaim let alone colonize new worlds all on his own, he needed an army but not just any army one of Demi-Gods. His Institute heard his plea and used his DNA to create the Thunder Warriors.

These brave men were volunteers who accepted to having their DNA spliced with the emperor's forcing massive mutations on their bodies. Some could not take the mutations and either died or had to be augmented by the Institue to stabilize themselves. This resulted in no two Thunder Warriors being alike as some had unique Psyker abilities and others had unique skills. Regardless of how different each and every one of them was, because of the Emperor's DNA flowing through their veins, they were all ultimately loyal to him; making them the ultimate army.

The Emperor was raised to love humanity and want to save it in its time of need, as such once his army and ships were ready, they spread across the stars to begin their conquest.

The First Crusade of the Galactic Imperium - When the 30th Millenium began, The Emperor of the Galactic Imperium charged through the stars with his Thunder Warriors. With his advanced Psyker abilities he could navigate entire fleets of ships all by himself and thus could conquer any human faction he came across within a single year. Orks, Dark Eldar, Xeno Pirates, and finally the AI legions were crushed by the Emperor and his Thunder Warriors. As he went from world to world he grew in knowledge, power, and fame.

Because of his growing power and ever clear immortality humans around him started to revere him as a god which he tried to refute thinking humanity grew weak when it worshiped gods that didn’t exist. However, during his crusades with his Thunder Warriors, he realized that the Chaos Gods didn’t just possess Psykers but also anyone who worshiped the Chaos Gods. Their power grew as their cults grew, and during such an age of destruction many humans saw no better options.

The Chaos Gods called to those angry, those scared, and those confused. They spoke of salvation and power and all they needed was to submit to the Chaos Gods and lose their humanity as a result. In return they would become stronger and immortal, even if they did die the Chaos Gods could resurrect them from the warp. Who could resist?

Though the Emperor hated the idea of humanity falling under the rule of a God he felt he had no choice if he wanted to suppress the growing faith in the Chaos Gods. Thus, the Emperor established himself as the God Emperor of the Galactic Imperium.

“False Gods are for the foolish and the blind that will give up their money and resources on a whim. Chaos Gods are for those who want nothing but destruction and death with no chance of joy or peace. I am a God for humanity, follow me and I will bring you prosperity, power, science, and unity.”

With this the God Emperor has sealed himself to a fate that ultimately doomed humanity to worship and blind devotion but also allowed them to challenge the Chaos Gods directly. What upset the God Emperor the most was that it was working, as he continued his crusade through the lost colonies more and more were willingly surrendering to the Imperium and vowed to join even when he had not reached them yet. By the end of the crusade during the middle of the 30th Millenium, he had successfully conquered all 20,000 worlds that once belonged to humanity. However, the Emperor had faced another problem, his Thunder Warrior was deteriorating. 

Beginning of the Golden Age, Rise of the Primarch's - Since their creation the Thunder Warriors suffered a fatal flaw where they would go insane as time went on leading to confusion and chaos within the Galactic Imperium before it could be properly established. By the end of the 30th Millenium it was getting to the point that Thunder Warriors were falling faster than they were being replaced. The Insitute tried everything, but they ultimately failed to find a way to restore the Thunder Warriors.

The emperor needed a new weapon, new soldiers that were strong and possessed his DNA but would be strong enough to withstand its mutations. He had his top scientists at the Institue work on his project with haste. After thousands of tests for decades, they found that the only ones who could handle such mutations were children.

The emperor hated the idea, even if it was a success he knew the children could developed hatred toward the Imperium that forced them to become Super Soldiers. However, as time went on and his Thunder Warriors either killed themselves, each other, or died trying to kill him, he realized he had no choice. He chose 500 infants from around the Imperium completely at random and had them participate in the Experiments. Of the 500 experiments only 50 were considered a success. 

Of these 50 children each inherited bits of the Emperor’s Psyker powers and physical skills. The Emperor raised the children to the best of his abilities but he did not have much time as the crusades were not done. True at this time the AI were defeated but Chaos still festered within the Imperium and the there was still the growing Xeno threat. As such he not only prompted to have the children’s growth accelerated but also had their bodies modified to be able to fuse with a specialized kind of armor. This armor would be able to be taken on and off but could fuse to the body like an extension to it and make their physical skills and Psyker abilities stronger than ever before. To ensure this process was not interrupted he had them all sent to different worlds within the Imperium and raised there to hopefully grow attached to the Imperial civilians, its cultures, and thus desire to save it even after being mutated so heavily.

However not all of the children could take the process and of the 50 only 20 survived. 18 boys and 2 girls, each one had developed wonderfully but at the cost of their siblings' blood. The emperor was deeply enraged at his decision to accelerate their growth resulted in the death of the 30; but found solace in the fact that 20 survived and inherited even greater power as a result. Their power was indeed still inherited from him but more unique to each of them making them almost God-like to his own status. As a result, he declared them the God Children. 

Seeking salvation in his decision to make himself a God for the Imperium he declared that the God Children, by being his children, were also Gods like him. It was declared to not be heresy to worship them over him, to worship more than one of them, all of them, or perhaps none of them. As they may be Gods, they all desire the same thing and that is the prosperity of humanity. Therefore, to strive for the prosperity and progression of humanity is equivalent to worshiping the Gods. There is no better way to prosper humanity than to progress science, technology, unity, maintain control over the Warp and defeat the forces of Chaos.

This was the birth of the United Churches, 20 churches all devoted to a different God Child and what they represented for the Imperium. As the God Emperor decreed, they celebrated the worship of the God Emperor and the God Children through unity, science, technology, development of Psyker power, as well as the study and destruction of Chaos. Though in order to prevent religion and worship from overtaking science and research he made the Institute a public faction of the Imperium. 

The Institute was declared a faction of humanity devoted entirely to research; their goals include, finding the true nature of the Warp, developing new technologies without relying on AI, increasing Psyker power and capabilities, developing new methods of gene modification with minimal risk, and so much more. They are decreed by the God Emperor himself to be the most essential asset of the Imperium and must be protected at all costs. To help protect the Institutes research, the God Emperor decreed they are to be considered a church devoted to the worship of him despite none of them being religious. With this decree in place, if the United Churches were to ever consider them heretics is to brand them as the true heretics by the rest of the Imperium. 

By the middle of the 31st Millennium he used how own DNA but modified and stabilized by the God Children and used it to create the Golden Guard and the Silver Guard. These were the new successors of the Thunder Warriors, they had stable bodies, were immortal like him and the God Children, and provided to be much stronger than the Thunder Warriors.

The Golden Guard consisted of 100,000 soldiers, all possessing Great physical and Psyker power, and given the best weapons and Golden armor that were too strong for the average Imperial Trooper but too weak for the Primarch's. They each could take on an entire world and thus were considered the perfect army for the God Emperor as well as the perfect other half for the Silver Guard.

The Silver Guard are children born with the Blank Gene that eats away at Psyker energy rather than controlling it. As such when infused with this new DNA they became not only stronger but were able to control the intensity and range of this Blank power they had. They could force an army of Psykers to suddenly lose their power, they could drive people insane just by staring at them, and they could banish Chaos Daemons with the slightest touch. They were also of 100,000 in strength and possessed Silver Enchanted Armor with the best weapons the Imperium had to offer.

Middle of the Golden Age, Rise of the Space Marines - In the middle of the 32nd Millennium the God Children grew in strength, knowledge, and authority alongside their God Emperor. As they all became a shining symbol of hope for all of the Imperium, Chaos started losing its power. Soon hope to spread throughout the Imperium but the God Emperor knew this would not last. That hope was strong, but it only barely reached the 20,000 worlds of the Galactic Imperium. The God Emperor envisioned a future where the Galactic Imperium owned a million worlds. If this was to succeed, they needed a new army, one that was not just strong but so numerous it could spread out like a galactic net without ever getting cut.

His top Institute researchers and Psyker priests thankfully came up with a solution and that was to not have DNA harvested from the God Emperor but from the God Children. They were to be harvested and given to hundreds of thousands of warriors, about 250,000 per God Child. They would be divided into 20 Legions each one serving under a God Child obeying their every order and fighting with their inherited power. But to harvest so much DNA to make so many soldiers was taxing and could result in death, even for the God Children. To prevent this, the DNA factories were made. 

The DNA factories are considered the greatest creations of the Institute; an entire factory devoted to creating hundreds of canisters of DNA and synthetic organs within a single day out of just a few samples. With them the God Children only had to offer a small amount of their DNA to factories and within a week have more than enough to begin creating their own Space Marines. 

Space Marines are children that are selected after meeting the requirements set by their assigned God Child. Once a child has met the requirements they are sent into a Rebirthing Pod within the DNA Factories. Inside the Rebirthing Pod they will be flooded with a liquid that mimics the liquid in a womb. Inside through a unique way they will be injected with the DNA of their God Child. As their bodies mutate the Rebirthing Pod will accommodate their bodies through a unique process to keep them stable.

Just like how the God Children inherited only a portion of their abilities from the God Emperor, the Space Marines only inherited a portion of their abilities from their assigned God Child. Because of this the Space Marines always grow properly and remain stable while loyal to their God Child. With that 250,000 per Legion of 20 Legions under the 20 God Children meaning 5,000,000 Space Marines were born. However, that meant that of the one million worlds the Emperor predicted would fall under Imperium rule it would mean only 5 Space Marines could protect an entire planet. The Emperor knew that wouldn’t be enough so with a swift decision he renamed the Legion Space Marines into Legionnaires and created the Chapters.

The God Emperor set up a project that would set plans to create 1,000 new variants of Space Marines on various planets and even Ark Ships. 50 belonging to each God Child genetically, though each individual Chapter would have a unique trait that separated them from the rest as well as form their Legions. 400 would be just like their Legionnaire predecessors with some minor or major modifications, 400 would be completely different or perhaps the exact opposite, and 200 would be saved for very special experiments that the God Emperor entrusted the Institute to come up with later.

Each Chapter would have 50,000 Space Marines making a total of 50,000,000 Space Marines. With this, should the Imperium ever have no choice but to divide its Space Marines and Legionnaires to the absolute max, then even if the Imperium does have a million worlds, each one would have 5 Legionnaires and 50 Space Marines to protect the entire planet. The Emperor naturally thought this was enough considering there was also the Golden Guard, the Silver Guard, Imperial Troopers, the Noble Houses, The Forces of the United Churches, The Abhuman military divisions, as well as the Artificials and Chimera’s the Institute was working on, the Imperium had enough power to conquer any threat. Or so the Emperor Believed. 

The End of the Golden Age, The Fall of Cadia - By the beginning of the 35th Millenium the Imperium and all Factions within it had thrived and prospered with legends and glory uniting them in their conquest of the galaxy. They had even reached the envisioned goal of the Emperor of colonizing one million worlds. As such the conquest of humanity started slowing down, not conquering as many worlds or enslaving as many Xeno’s as it used to. But that was mainly due to everything within the Imperium being so easy. Colonized worlds regardless of how harsh or barren the planets were had built cities and villages where humans could live in paradise and harmony. The God Children, their Legionnaires, and the Space Marines were loved by all and helped spread devotion, hope, and unity throughout the Empire. Then there was the Emperor who started working on his greatest plan yet, and it involved an idea he got form the Xeno’s.

There was one Xenos species that stood out above the rest and that was the Eldar. The Eldar was powerful, advanced in technology, and far greater than humanity in Psyker abilities. While humans only had a single Psyker for every hundred Non-Psykers, the Elder were composed entirely of Psykers. Because of this their technology advanced much faster and allowed them to manipulate the Warp in ways it took humanity hundreds even the entire millennium to accomplish. But there was one thing in particular that the Imperium still didn’t have and the Emperor wanted and that was the Web Way. An intergalactic Gateway that manipulated the Warp allowing instantaneous travel throughout the galaxy without having the Chaos Gods spread their influence on whoever passes through.

The Emperor designed a Beacon system that would have large towers implanted onto every Colonized world and soon to be Colonized world. These towers would allow Imperial Star Ships and even something as large as an Ark Ship be able to travel between worlds even those of great distance instantaneously. However, that would only allow the travel to be possible, someone had to coordinate the ships, choose the destination, and prevent chaos influence from overcoming the ship. A powerful mind would be needed, one that could connect to the ship and also resist Chaos power at the same time. That's when the Emperor entrusted the Institute to create a Navigator, someone part machine but with powerful Psyker energy that could accomplish all of this. The Emperor wasn’t sure yet but it would have to be a part of an elite program one that would be able to amass hundreds upon thousands of Psykers within the Imperium train them to be the absolute best and then chose the lucky few to be augmented and take on this burden for as long as their immortal lives can live. 

However, the project was set back when the the remaining Thunder Warriors, thought to be dead, came back as Chaos Princes. They invaded Cadia and destroyed the world despite the Galactic Imperium's best efforts. within a decade of fighting the world was lost and the Cadians who survived was left without a home. The planet was so full of chaos the God Emperor ordered it to be destroyed. This was known as the exact moment the Golden Age came to an end as the forces of Chaos started increasing their attacks on the Imperium faster than it could retaliate. The 36th Millenium came in and the God Emperor became unbearably busy trying to get the Navigation Project back up while also having him and his God Children keep the peace among the terrorized civilians of the Imperium. Not knowing the worst was yet to come.

.

End of Part 1

Part 2