#Sci-Fi Decoding

[akashmaphotography]

Through the Silver Screen: When Sci-Fi Speaks Truth

By Marivel Guzman | Akashma News Introduction: Fiction as Soft Disclosure From sanitized studios to Hollywood’s silver screen, speculative fiction has often served as more than escapism. Some call it predictive programming. Others call it symbolic confession. We call it a mirror held up to a shadowed world—a portal through which we can glimpse deeper truths veiled in metaphor, coded narrative,…

[what-even-is-thiss]

If aliens were making a proper human zoo they’d build a little town in there and make it so the humans aren’t aware that they’re in a zoo. Basically the only proper way to set up a human zoo where the humans are happy enough is to make a Truman show type situation but for an entire community. And even then it might not work. We have thumbs and the ability to decode things.

This all sounds like the premise of like five different bad sci-fi novels now that I think about it.

[willowser]

decode—

geto suguru x f!reader wc: 6.4k+ tags: sci-fi au—tbh i leaned into the cyberpunk futurism thing again i can't help myself 💀, suguru's job is never explicitly mentioned but hopefully you get the gist, he's also a bit scary but i think that's normal ?? idk hehe thank you thank you thank you to dear @rabbbitseason for allowing me to write this ! it's my first time with him 🥹 i hope it's okay ! very grateful for all your support 🥹

ONE

On the night you meet Suguru, an outage swallows the bar in one gulp.

No flicker, just a snap and everything cuts. The holosign outside dies in a whine of static, fans grind to a halt, light collapses, and you're left standing in the dark, holding a tray of warm glasses in hands that suddenly feel too small.

It's disappointing, but nothing new. You’re used to this. Your part of town doesn’t scream when the power goes out—it just sighs.

There’s a rustle near the door. Not the scrambling kind, not like the usual patrons stumbling out to smoke and curse the grid; it’s measured, heavy boots on concrete, too slow to be familiar.

This part of town isn't kind, even to someone it's grown. You step behind the counter in preparation for something—anything.

The figure comes into view in pieces—at first, just a tall silhouette framed by the dim spill of emergency glow leaking in from the street, but then he steps closer, and you see him: all in black, lean and broad-shouldered, his coat trailing like a shadow that's grown too long. The emergency light catches in his eyes, plum; dark and sharp and sweet.

You try not to stare. He probably notices anyway.

"Power out everywhere, or just here?" His voice is low, silk wrapped around steel. Calm in the way that makes you wary.

You shrug, but aren't sure he sees it. "Whole block, I think."

He hums, like that tells him something, and you reach below the counter to fumble for the old lantern. It flickers to life, casting amber light across the counter and his face. He’s handsome—suddenly so—but there’s something else. Something in the way he stands, relaxed but alert, like a man used to being watched.

You clear your throat. "Can still serve you something, if you're not picky. Got a few bottles that don't need cooling."

He smiles, slow and deliberate. One strand of his long black hair has come loose from the tight bun at the back of his head, and it swings slightly as he leans closer.

"Something warm, then," he says, not looking at the bottles. He’s looking at you.

You nod and turn, shoulders rising as you reach for the chipped ceramic pot. The movement’s an excuse to hide, give you a moment to settle the uneven flutter in your chest. You’re not used to being looked at like that. Not with focus. Not with intention.

The power’s out, but the pot’s still warm from before the lights went. You kept it wrapped in a thermal sleeve—old habit from long nights, colder ones. You pour the tea slow, steady, hoping your hands don’t shake as much as they feel they might. The silence thickens around you, too many shadows in too little space.

When he speaks again, his voice is low and steady, curling around edges in the dark. “City’s quieter with the lights out.”

You don’t answer right away, letting the sound of tea against ceramic fill the gap. Letting the heat of the cup chase back the chill climbing your fingers. “It’s always loud,” you say finally. “Just changes the kind.”

He makes a soft sound—agreement, maybe. Or understanding. Or neither. “No neon, no noise,” he says, more to the air than to you. “Funny how much the city depends on its own distractions.”

You slide the cup across the bar. He doesn’t reach for it right away, just watches the steam coil upward, like he’s waiting for something to reveal itself.

“I like it better this way, feels…cleaner, I guess.” You say, and it's true; this part of town isn't kind, no, but without the automated glitz and glamour, there's no need to pretend.

You hear the soft shift of fabric as he leans in—not close enough to touch, but closer than before. His presence hums against the edges of your awareness.

“You’re not scared of the dark?” he asks, voice smooth, teasing. His smile is wide, charming, disarms you in a way that it shouldn't.

You hesitate, trying to bite back your growing timidness. “Only when it’s creepy,” you say, "when it creaks or breathes back at me.”

That makes him huff, amused. Not quite a laugh, but close enough. “So, no ghosts in here?”

“Well, yeah, we have those,” you shrug, “They just mind their business.”

That pulls something out of him, something real and small that feels like a reward. “Interesting bar,” he continues, finally reaching for the tea. “Do you see much traffic here?”

You keep your face still. “Some.”

“Travelers?”

You nod, wary of where this is going, though nothing in his tone gives anything away. Not pushy, not prying. Just drifting. “People passing through,” you say. “They come. They leave. Same as anywhere.”

He sips. There’s something practiced in the way he does it. Measured, like he’s used to watching, used to waiting. “This part of the district,” he says after a beat, “doesn’t get much patrol. No official presence. Doesn’t that bother you?”

You shrug. “They never helped much anyway.”

Another pause. Another small pull of his attention. You realize too late how much you're giving away, when you see the thought behind his eyes, whatever he's cataloging for whatever reason, but he doesn't press it.

“Sometimes the places with the least oversight are the ones that know best how to take care of their own,” he says, almost like a proverb.

You nod. You’ve learned to let silences hold the things you don’t want to voice.

He drinks again, not watching you now, not exactly, but still aware of you. His presence wraps around the room like heat—delicate, thick, hard to ignore. You wonder if he’s just a traveler; surely not, with how handsome he is, how subtly elegant, the way he speaks. You wonder what he’s really looking for.

The thought doesn't go farther than that before a stool screeches from the back of the bar. Not the clean scrape of someone careful, but the lazy sprawl of someone who thinks the world owes him the space and time.

Jogo has been here since before the outage, hunched in the far corner like he’s part of the decor—one of the peeling posters or half-lit neon strips that doesn’t work right anymore. You should’ve made him leave with the others. You didn’t. You never do.

“Still no power?” His voice lurches into the dim, louder than necessary, too smug. “Place like this, surprised it had any to begin with.”

You press your palm flat to the bar. Not in fear—just to keep still. Shame flickers inside of you at the insult, a small flame, ever-burning; no pretending in the dark, no pretending you and your handsome stranger could be from the same world.

Jogo gets up, boots thudding against the composite floor. “Surprised you’re still running this place at all. Must get real lonely in here, huh?”

The sound of his approach stretches the silence thin. You don’t answer. Words feed men like him; it's always best to let them starve.

He stops at the bar, leans in with that breath like rot and synth-spice. “What’s wrong? Cat got your—”

He sees Suguru—who you don't know is Suguru, not yet—still half-sitting, one elbow resting on the counter like he’s got all the time in the world. Jogo must not have noticed him in the shadows before, but now he has, after the air has changed around him, gone colder, thinner. Like the room is holding its breath, too.

Suguru lifts his gaze to Jogo, calm as still water. "She’s busy," he says, voice smooth enough to be polite, but not a bit friendly. "Maybe try saying what you need without spitting."

The smile he wears is soft. Mannered, almost pleasant, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Jogo blinks, tries to laugh. It dies somewhere in his throat. “Didn’t mean anything by it,” he mutters, suddenly smaller. “Gonna smoke.”

He turns on his heel and stumbles out, too fast to be casual, too slow to be brave, and the door hisses shut behind him. The silence returns, heavier than before—but gentle, too. You breathe, slow, and let your hand drift from the counter. Suguru hasn’t moved.

When you risk a glance, he's watching you, eyes like dusk, plum-dark and unreadable, but not cruel, not smug; observant. Like he's measuring the weight of the moment and choosing not to tip it.

“Didn’t mean to bring any problems with me,” he says, voice low, dry with something like an apology.

You shake your head, smiling reflexively. “No problems, just finicky ghosts.”

He smiles, enough to show his teeth, and something sour in you eases, recedes. “That so?”

You nod once. It feels like the right answer.

He leans back again, and the moment should pass, but it doesn’t. Not really. The bar settles around you both like the world has exhaled, but there’s still something coiled in the space between you, waiting. Watching. Becoming.

TWO

Suguru comes and goes like a rumor—whispers first, then footsteps, then silence.

You don’t know what Suguru does, or what he has to do to come back. He doesn’t tell you, and you don’t ask—not because you don’t care, but because some part of you already knows it’s nothing soft. Whatever world he disappears into when he’s not here, it stains his silence, lingers in the way his eyes avoid yours when he’s too tired to pretend he’s fine. It sits between you like something alive and untouchable, a quiet, clawed thing neither of you dare disturb.

Sometimes he brings strange gifts—tokens you don’t understand, bought in currencies you’re sure you never want to learn. Once or twice, he shows up with that white-haired menace in tow, loud and too tall for your doorway, trying too hard to be funny and laughing like he owns the air.

But most of the time, it’s just Suguru, and the rain.

He comes when he wants to, leaves without warning, watches you too long sometimes, like he’s memorizing the shape of your silence. Like there’s something he wants from you but doesn’t know how to hold without breaking. And still, he never says why he comes, and, still, you never ask him to stay.

But the space between those two things—what you don’t say and what he won’t admit—is shrinking.

In the morning, you stir—bones stiff, muscles whispering their usual complaints—and the city mutters back outside your window, indifferent. Your apartment is still, small, the kind of place that remembers everything you’ve ever done in it, that won't let you forget.

You don’t want to wake up, but your body doesn’t care what you want. You shift, stretch, dreams still clinging to your lashes like cobwebs—and then you hear it: soft, wrong, from the kitchen.

And that easily, you’re no longer alone.

It only takes a breath for your nerves to remember themselves. You already know who it is. No need to ask.

The air has changed. Sweet, smoky, with something metallic curling at the edge; sharp, familiar, a memory you didn't have to invite back in. He’s here, Suguru, and of course he’s made himself at home again, like this place was carved to fit him and not the other way around.

The clock says six. Early, but time doesn’t mean anything to Suguru; he isn’t ruled by it, doesn’t bend to it. He arrives when he wants, leaves when he’s done, and you—you just let him.

The floor is cold beneath your feet. Not just icy—artificial, indifferent, the kind of chill that comes from old synth-tiling, worn thin by time and use. In the corner, your heater clicks to life with a tired hum, flickers once, then settles into its usual half-hearted wheeze. It’s trying, and failing, just like every other morning.

Suguru’s already steeped in the hush of the kitchen, the shadows wrapped around him like old friends. He doesn’t turn, just moves, slow and precise and controlled, the way he always does—tea, window, silence—and your exhaustion finds you again, soft and sudden. You should be used to this—used to him—but surprise has a way of wearing new faces; even the expected can weigh heavy.

His voice cuts through the morning, low and smooth. “Good morning.”

You rub at your eyes, suddenly too aware of yourself. Of the old pajamas clinging to your skin, the sleep still dragging at your limbs, the way your hair’s decided it has a mind of its own. Bare, vulnerable things.

Your words are dry, meant to sound casual. “Back so soon?”

He glances back, just enough. Eyes finding you like they were made to—slow, deliberate, full of something unreadable that still manages to see too much. You catch the shape of his smile in them before it ever touches his mouth.

“Don’t sound so disappointed.”

His ease scratches at something inside you. Not longing, not quite, something worse, maybe, that doesn’t have a clean name. The kind that slips into your throat and settles there. Every time he comes like this, unannounced, unbothered, it’s like he leaves part of his shadow stitched into your space when he's gone.

You sigh, slow and shallow, trying to collect your thoughts before they show on your face. “No Gojo this time?”

His name lands heavy in the room: Gojo—noisy, untouchable, always dragging storms in behind him. You already know the answer; if he’d come, it would have been obvious, because the walls would still be vibrating. He’s never hidden the disgust in his mouth when he talks about this place, your dirty little corner of the star-system, as if it's a smudge on Suguru’s reputation. Shame and relief crawl into your chest together and sit there, when Suguru shakes his head.

“He can handle things on his own every now and then.” A pause. A glance. “Don’t tell me you miss him.”

Your laugh breaks out too fast, too sharp. It’s loud and uglier than you want it to be, but real, the way everything Suguru drags out of you is.

He turns fully at the sound and steam curls from the mug in his hand, held like an offering. He doesn’t speak, just smiles—that Suguru smile. The kind that knows too much. The kind that doesn’t need words to press against you. His presence settles like warmth between you—just enough heat to stay. Just enough to forget it will burn when it leaves. You take the mug, fingers brushing his, barely, and he steps aside.

And then you see it.

A package on the counter no larger than your hand, plain brown paper folded with precision, sharp corners and clean edges and neatly tied with a band of thin copper wire.

You eye it warily. It looks expensive. More than that—it looks deliberate. That kind of care—small, quiet, meticulous—is more him than any signature. You feel it in your chest before your brain can catch up. No one else wraps things like that. Not in this city. Not for you.

“What's this?” you ask, already knowing he won’t answer the question directly.

Suguru just slides it toward you quietly.

You pick it up slowly, running your fingers along the cool surface. The band slips off with a soft click, revealing beneath the paper a slim e-journal—compact, beautifully made. The kind sold by back-alley specialists who don’t advertise but somehow always have a waiting list. The kind you’ve lingered near before, just to stare. A soft hum rises from it as the display lights up with a warm, golden pulse. Your name flickers in the top corner, small and elegant.

You blink. “These aren’t easy to get.”

Suguru doesn’t respond right away. His eyes flick to yours, unreadable. “You said your old one was glitching.”

You can’t even remember when you said that. Weeks ago, maybe, in passing. You doubt you even meant for him to hear it.

Your chest tightens, that odd pull of gratitude and disbelief tangling behind your ribs. You press your thumb against the screen, watching it open to a clean interface—blank pages, empty folders, but one tab already labeled: Home.

"Suguru…" you start, voice shaky, barely pushing past your throat.

He just tilts his head slightly, smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t mention it.”

The journal hums gently in your hands, in response. It’s light, sleek, and somehow heavier than it should be. A gift like that isn’t about what it is, not with him, it’s about the way he remembers. The way he’s been gone for weeks, and yet, when he returns, he still knows exactly what you need.

You keep your eyes on the journal even after the screen fades to black, the glow slowly dimming beneath your fingertips. It feels like the only thing anchoring you, like if you let go too quickly, the quiet swell of feeling might show on your face.

He’s here. He brought you something. He thought of you.

And you like the way that feels. You don’t hate it—not at all. You’re just shy about the way it wants to spill over. You’re not sure what he’d do if it showed too obviously, but from the way he’s watching you, eyes half-lidded and amused, maybe he already knows.

You squish your lips together, trying to tide back your smile. “You know, I was managing just fine with my ancient, barely-functioning piece of junk.”

Suguru hums, warm and buttery. “Mm. I noticed.”

“I was!”

“You say that, but I watched you slap the screen four times just to open the calendar.”

“It still worked.”

He lifts a shoulder in a slow shrug, like the act of teasing you is something luxurious, a taste he wants to savor. “Barely.”

The air feels lighter already. You’re still holding the journal—still feeling the warmth of its casing, still tracing its smooth edge with your thumb like it might disappear if you let go.

You move to the kettle to keep yourself from lingering too long in your thoughts. The tea’s already ready, still warm in its ceramic pot. You pour him a cup without asking—it’s second nature by now—and the motion steadies you.

When you pass it to him, your fingers brush again. This time, the contact lingers just a little longer than it should, and you pretend not to notice how your breath catches in your throat. You don't dare meet his eyes.

“Thank you,” Suguru says, voice softer now. How many times will you have to say it back before you're even?

You nod once, keeping your arms folded loosely across your chest. “You didn’t have to bring anything, you know that, right?”

“I know.” He blows gently across the rim of the cup before adding, “but I wanted to.”

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. The steam from his tea curls upward, catching the low light spilling through the window behind him. His expression is unreadable—somewhere between patient and quietly pleased. And it settles deeper than you expect it to.

“Well,” you say, small this time, “it’s nice. You’ve officially outdone yourself.”

Suguru leans beside you, shoulder brushing yours as he shifts. His presence is always heavy, but now it feels warm, grounding. “I’ll try not to make a habit of it.”

You let out a breathy scoff. “Liar.”

His mouth curves, a small, knowing smile. “Maybe.”

The silence that follows stretches—not tense this time, but gentle. Lived-in. The kind that doesn’t demand anything from either of you. Just... a moment shared. A stillness made from something softer than what this world usually offers.

When you finally look over again, he’s already watching you—eyes dark, but not distant.

This time, you don’t look away so quickly.

And for a second, everything feels suspended: his hand cradling the tea, the warmth of his shoulder against yours, the soft click of the journal as it powers down completely. The hush of the kitchen wraps around you like a secret, and you let yourself stay there just a little longer than you should.

THREE

Something eats away at him.

You don’t notice it at first—he’s always been distant, unreadable in ways that feel deliberate—but something shifts. Subtle at first, then sharp as a crack beneath ice.

Whenever the mask slips, Suguru speaks in riddles. About rot. About weakness. About the way curses cling to people like smoke in their lungs. Suguru never says what he means outright, but you start to understand that what he hunts is no longer just out there: it's in him now, settling deep. You’ve always been afraid to ask where he goes, what he does in the stretch between his visits—but one day, something starts ticking inside you, soft and slow, like a countdown. And you know you have to ask, soon, before the poison spreads.

He comes in just after midnight; a whisper of the stairwell, the slow press of the door, the scent of cold air and blood and rain. The room bends with his presence, drawn to him like gravity to a star, but tonight he is no source of light. Now he swallows it whole.

For a long, terrible moment, he simply stands there, tall, broad-shouldered, soaked through the folds of his coat. Hair down, black and heavy, falling like a curtain, hiding more than it shows. You don't speak. You don't want to fill up any more of the space than you have to.

Suguru crosses the room like a man half-remembering the shape of it, as though he’s not really here, not yet. His eyes skim the walls, the ceiling, the half-empty cup on the counter like it’s all unfamiliar, like he’s unsure whether he’s still dreaming.

He finds the edge of your bed—an altar he has never bowed to—and sits slow, deliberate. The same way someone eases into the bath after a long battle.

The silence feels brittle, glass under pressure. His hands are braced on his knees, fingers twitching, opening and closing like he’s trying to hold something he can’t quite name.

“Did you eat?” you ask, because you don’t know what else to say.

His gaze flicks to you. Something unreadable in the dark plum of his eyes, bruised purple, shadowed and strange.

“No,” he says. Then adds, almost like an afterthought: “I'm not hungry.”

You don't care if that's true or not. You have to do something with your hands, offer comfort made just for him, even if it's instant and simple and comes from a packet—but before you can leave the room, he asks:

"Do you think people are born evil?"

He’s not looking at you. Just at the floor, at the space between his boots, like the question fell out of him without permission.

“I don’t know,” you say softly, and it's true—you don't.

You never had time to wonder about things like good and evil, never had the luxury. Your choices were simpler, narrower. How to keep the lights on. How to make enough for the next meal. How to stay whole in a place that’s always trying to carve pieces from you.

But this—this is a crack in his armor, and through it you see the shape of his world. A world built on consequences, on lines drawn and crossed again. You wonder who you’d be if your life asked those kinds of questions, if every choice you made had to hold up under the weight of whether it was right or simply necessary.

Suguru looks up—and in that moment, he’s someone else. A snake in the grass, coiled so tight you hadn’t noticed his presence until too late. He remains seated on the edge of the bed, and you’re still standing, but the distance between you feels like a black hole, sucking you in; it doesn’t give you control, doesn’t make you feel safe.

“What if I told you they were evil? Would you believe me?”

The question hangs in the air, sharp and unsettling. You don’t like the way he asks—don’t like any part of it, truthfully, but this, especially, settles under your skin like a stain that won’t wash out. It makes you wonder if he’s lied to you. If he’s been playing you all along, smiling just long enough to hide the knife in his hand, to keep you from seeing the truth.

Suguru has always unnerved you, in ways you never quite could face. From when he stepped into your bar, drifting in from the dark street outside, bathed in the emergency lighting. Like a warning you were blind to.

Since he walked into your apartment tonight, his attention has been scattered, drifting through the room like smoke, but now it’s all on you. You thought you wanted it, thought you could handle it, but now, under the weight of his gaze, you feel like prey. His focus presses on you, slow and deliberate, until every breath feels too shallow. When he rises from the edge of your bed, you step back, head bumping into the wall of your cramped room. The space between you disappears with one swift motion, and suddenly, he’s right there—close, too close.

"Would you kill them if I told you to?"

The question hits you before you’ve even had a chance to form an answer. You shake your head, words bubbling out in a rush, helpless. "I don't know."

"If I told you they were born wrong, would you kill them?"

You don’t know. The answer drips out, thick and slow, but it's the truth. "I don't know."

"If I told you they were little demons, twisted and demented, brought nothing but death and ruin—would you kill them? Even if they were young?"

You can’t answer anymore. The question feels unceasing, endless, like it’s reaching beyond you. His eyes, once dark and intense, have gone empty—hollow like a well. You don’t know if he’s even still looking at you, if he sees you at all.

Then, you notice it—blood. Slowly seeping through the chest of his white shirt, dark and damp, spreading like ink across the fabric. The realization hits you harder than anything he’s said, because there’s truth in it: something has collapsed inside him, something broken that you couldn’t stop.

“Y—you’re bleeding.” The words sound too small, too stupid, leaving your mouth like an afterthought, but he's still so close, close enough that you could count the long, dark lashes of his closed eyes when he blinks—and something flickers across his face. A snap, and then everything cuts.

His expression barely changes from that haunted look, but his voice is steady when he says, “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.” The words leave you with more force than you expect, anger flickering beneath the surface of your worry. You latch onto it, grounding yourself with it, needing something to steady you against the unease crawling up your spine. “You’re hurt and you didn’t tell me.”

Suguru straightens, settling back onto his feet, back into his bones. It should be terrifying, how familiar he seems in that moment, how quickly he slips back into himself, but you're so desperate to get him away from that horror that you don't care.

His voice is sharper now, edged with something close to irritation. “Was I meant to?”

“You could’ve said you were bleeding.”

“It’s not new.”

“It’s new to me.”

That stops him. The space between now and the last time you saw him flickers behind his eyes—not like before, not like a wound he couldn’t name, but something else. A fact. A shared recognition: That was then. This is now. He is not whoever he was then. Not here. Not with you.

He closes his eyes, eventually. Breathes out a quiet sound, almost a hum. “It is,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

But he doesn’t step back. Doesn’t give you the space to go. There’s no hand on your wrist, no body blocking your path—but you know, with a kind of terrible clarity, that you couldn’t pull away from him right now, even if you tried.

It can’t be life-threatening, you realize, now that your heart isn’t pounding so loudly in your ears. Not a picked scab, but not a torn stitch either; the blood looks worse than it is, startling against the clean white of his shirt, thin and vibrant where it crosses in straight, resolute lines. In better lighting, you might have been able to see through the soaked fabric. You’re not sure that would do either of you any good.

The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, something so profoundly unlike him it feels like a slip in character, and the pale glimpse of his collarbones is distracting, delicate in a way you hadn't expected. You shouldn't be looking, but it's hard not to. Enticing in a way that pulls gently at your attention, makes your breath catch for reasons you don't want to examine, not with him so close. You almost can’t stop staring, can’t help but wonder what else you’re missing—until the corner of his mouth twitches. Barely, but enough.

You clear your throat and press your spine against the wall, like it might make more space between you. It doesn't. "How recent is ‘not new’?”

“Weeks,” Suguru says, casually—so easily it startles you. You’ve never talked about his work before, and you’re still not, not really, but you’re closer now than you’ve ever been, in too many ways. “I’m fine.”

“You’re fine now,” you say, not quite believing it. His smile tightens, enough that it reaches the corners of his eyes, though you wouldn't call it warm.

And then his hand moves. Slow, deliberate, like he’s afraid of startling you. His fingers rise until they hover beside your face, and when they finally make contact—just the backs of his knuckles brushing your cheek—it’s featherlight. Reverent. It’s not possessive, not even asking; it’s a question in the shape of a touch, and somehow you already know the answer is yes. The air between you grows impossibly still, as if the world stopped turning just to see what you'll do next.

Your heart stumbles. You’ve never seen him like this—not the version that walks in shadows, not the one who smiles like a blade—but something else. Something stripped down and aching. It terrifies you how badly you want him to stay.

His eyes don’t leave yours. They could lie, but they don’t. "Yes," he says, "I'm fine now."

FOUR

Not much time passes, surprisingly.

Days, maybe a week or two, though time stretches differently when you're waiting for something—or someone—you’re afraid won’t come back.

Outside, the neon gutters spit their color against the wet pavement. The air smells like ozone, like the sky’s about to split open again. Maybe it will. You wouldn’t mind. Rain makes everything seem farther away. The night is nearly over; you’ve wiped the counters twice, swept the floor even though no one spilled anything, stacked the chairs with a little more force than necessary. You move slower than you need to, hands lingering on small tasks just to stay busy, just to keep from looking at the door.

The place is quiet—finally—and you welcome it.

Suguru left as he always has: without reason. Something has changed, yes, but still, he left you in the same shape he always does—like the world has flipped itself inside out. He never leaves without unmaking something. Every return, every departure, carves a new gap into you. They don’t heal. You don’t even notice they’re there until you're trying to stand still and find you can't—until gravity presses in wrong, sideways, like it's trying to fold you in half.

You've never seen him that way, so unraveled. It's been replaying in your head on repeat, unending: what if I told you they were evil? Would you believe me? Sometimes you think you should’ve said yes. Not because you would believe it, but because maybe—just maybe—he would’ve stayed, but that thought brushes up against something inside of you that’s cold and rotten and not meant to be touched. It makes your stomach twist. You don't like who you are in that version of the story.

You tell yourself, maybe it's for the best that he's done, that he doesn't come back—but the thought feels distant, like it doesn't belong to you. Like it doesn't belong to him, either.

You don’t hear the door open, but you feel it, a shift in pressure, like the world exhaling. You turn just as he steps inside, though it's not quite the same as before; his hair is down again, though only half-way, not the wild ink-spill it was before, and his shoulders seem more relaxed, like he’s shed whatever that unseen weight was. He’s not walking with that same tight, controlled confidence; this is different, lighter, somehow, but there’s still something about him, something sharp behind the soft way he moves.

And he's not alone.

Two little girls are with him, though they haven't moved from the door, haven't commanded the space as he has. They're just watching. One of them has her arms crossed tight like a shield, the other clutches something—maybe a toy, maybe a scrap of cloth—pressed to her chest like it might anchor her. Both of their eyes seem too old for their small, round faces.

It's been playing in your head on repeat, unending: would you kill them? Even if they were young?

You stand there, unsure of what to say. The silence stretches, taut as a wire, until his voice cuts through it.

“It’s quiet tonight,” he says, lightly. Too lightly. Like he’s trying to smooth the air between you, pretend nothing’s changed. Maybe it’s for the girls’ sake. Maybe it’s for yours.

You open your mouth. Close it again. A question rises and flattens against your tongue. You don’t ask. He doesn’t offer. But that’s always been your dance, hasn’t it? The space between what’s said and what’s not.

He follows your gaze, then crosses the bar to stand in front of you. In front of them. “I’m tired,” he says, quiet and sharp. “Of that world, of the filth it feeds on. Of fools who think hurting someone small makes them strong.”

That word—small—lands like a dropped glass; the question you never asked answers itself, shattering quietly between you.

Suguru lifts his hand to your face, like he did the last time—but now the gesture is different. Looser. No tremble at the edges, no hesitation, as if he’s no longer afraid he might break whatever he touches.

His thumb grazes the arch of your brow, traces down to the soft skin beneath your eye. You think—maybe—he’s counting your lashes.

“I want them to live in a world that’s better than ours,” he murmurs, barely louder than a breath. “Safer.”

You've always thought Suguru was built from something other. Something finer, sharper, less breakable. A different species from whatever you are, clinging to the bottom rungs in your corner of the world, but now, up close, that divide feels thinner. Imagined.

You don’t know where he came from, not really, but you know where he is now. You’ve seen the edges of it, the pieces he hasn’t named and maybe never will, and they’re ugly. Embedded like grit beneath his fingernails, worn into the quiet lines of his face. Ghosts clinging to the hem of his voice.

You’re not the same. But there’s something unkind that lives in you both. Something heavy, and tired, and human. Something he wants to cut out—for their sake.

You glance back at the girls. They’re clinging to each other now, as if the world might fall out from under them at any moment, and the only thing they trust to hold is each other. Their small hands are tangled in fabric, sleeves bunched in fists, pressed so close they breathe as one. The sight turns something in your gut—sharp, instinctive, like a wire pulled too tight.

The thought that someone, anyone, had wanted to hurt them—had tried—makes your throat close. Your body moves before your mind does and you lean into Suguru’s touch. Maybe it’s deliberate, maybe it’s not, but his hand doesn’t hesitate. His fingers drift into your hair, curling there like a root finding soil, like he belongs.

For a moment, neither of you speak. You don’t have to. The quiet stretches, warm and fragile.

Then, softly—barely above a whisper—you say, “I don’t know where you’re going to find a place like that.”

Because you don’t. You’ve lived your whole life in the dirt of this city, in the cracks of what people like to pretend is order. You’ve never been offworld, never even dreamed of it, but you’ve heard enough to know there’s no such place waiting out there, not one untouched, not one that won’t eat girls like those alive the moment you look away.

Suguru hums, low in his chest. The sound rumbles through his fingers where they rest against your scalp.

“I’m not going to find it,” he says, quiet but certain. “I’m going to make it.”

And when he says it, you believe him. Maybe not in the way of miracles, but in the way storms believe in rain. His hand lingers in your hair a moment longer, then slides down, slow, catching at your jaw, your cheek. He doesn’t move away. You don’t either.

Behind you, one of the girls makes a soft noise on the tile, barely a scuff of her feet, but it tethers everything back to the moment. The realness of it. This isn’t a story. It’s a turning point.

Suguru glances toward them, then back at you. You're not used to seeing him like this, less worn, less closed off. Like the jagged edge he’s always carried has been tucked away for a moment of stillness.

“It's not going to be easy, and I’ll need someone who knows how to build things that last. Someone steady.”

He’s not smiling, but his eyes hold the weight of something close to it. Hopeful, uncertain, wanting. A line cast into a dark sea.

You could laugh, if it didn’t feel like your whole chest was shaking. There’s no question what he means. Not really.

The silence sits between you again, but it’s different now—waiting, watching. Becoming.

And when you speak, your voice is quiet, but it doesn’t tremble. “Someone like me,” you say.

Suguru's thumb brushes your cheek again, soft as a promise. “Exactly like you.”

[the-most-humble-blog]

<!-- BEGIN TRANSMISSION -->

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap">

<meta anomaly-type="fossil-terror-omission">

<script>ARCHIVE_TAG="BIOLOGICAL_HORROR_002:TIME_MACHINE_DENIAL_PROTOCOL"

EFFECT: spine freeze, academic panic, traveler hesitation

</script>

🧬 **YOU SURE YOU WANT TO GET IN THAT TIME MACHINE, BRO?**

---

This isn’t sci-fi.

This isn’t a joke.

This is a warning.

You’ve seen the memes.

“Let’s go back and see the dinosaurs.”

“Let’s ride a pterosaur like a winged horse.”

“Let’s watch the Big Bang with popcorn.”

You ever notice how none of them end with:

**“And I made it back.”**

Here’s the truth — whispered in labs, buried under NDAs, and white-papered out of the peer-reviewed journals:

> **You are not ready for what Earth used to be.**

> And you’re especially not ready for what we have *no record of at all.*

---

## I. 99.9% OF LIFE FORMS LEFT **NO FOSSIL RECORD**

Let’s start there.

All those skeletons in museums?

That’s the minority.

That’s the “photogenic dead.”

> Over 99.9% of Earth’s lifeforms —

> including animals, fungi, viruses, and microbial horrors —

**left no trace**.

Soft-bodied, acid-blooded, radiation-fed, gravity-dense entities

that slithered, pulsed, hissed, and screamed their way across the planet

**without a single bone to bury.**

---

## II. OUR FOSSIL RECORD IS AN OBFUSCATED LIE OF ABSENCE

We think we know what lived.

We don’t.

We know what got **preserved.**

That’s not the same.

It's like looking at a battlefield

and only finding the metal buttons.

You don’t see the blood.

You don’t see the screams.

You see **what survived death long enough to be studied**.

And the scariest shit?

**Didn’t die properly.**

It was **erased.**

Or **refused to leave a corpse.**

---

## III. REAL SCIENTISTS WHISPER ABOUT CENOBITE-LEVEL ORGANISMS

They won’t say it on camera.

They won’t publish the full story.

But behind closed doors, in lab corners, in the margins of decoded epigenomes?

They whisper about things that:

- **Defy carbon-based life rules**

- **Existed with non-symmetrical limbs**

- **Functioned on inverted predator logic** (they *bred* by entering their prey and absorbing its lineage)

- **Left molecular scars** in the surrounding geology but no trace of DNA

- **Mimic organ structures to lure prey — including early human analogs**

One paleobiologist called them:

> “The biological equivalents of a Sumerian curse, frozen mid-scream.”

---

## IV. EVOLUTION IS NOT LINEAR.

IT IS **REPEATED EXORCISM.**

You think we evolved forward?

No.

We survived waves of **planet-wide horror experiments.**

> Mass extinction isn’t just random chaos.

> It’s **planetary reboot.**

A great flood wasn’t just water.

It was **pressure-washing nightmares off the crust**.

You know what we’re told?

> “That period had low fossil diversity.”

You know what that means?

> “Nothing left corpses because it was too f*cked up to die properly.”

---

## V. ORGANISMS EXISTED THAT **BYPASSED DEATH**

Literally.

Some didn’t rot.

Some didn’t fossilize.

They **collapsed into thermal shadows** or **vaporized upon environmental failure.**

> Think that’s fiction?

We’ve found heat shadows in billion-year-old strata.

We’ve found pressure-deformed mineral blooms

with no origin.

We’ve found **parasite signatures inside fossilized feces… with no host record.**

They weren’t “primitive.”

They were **too advanced to trace.**

And they **hunted by sensing consciousness.**

You want to travel back?

Hope your mind is quiet enough to not get **detected**.

---

## VI. TIME TRAVEL IS NOT A WINDOW.

IT’S A **DOOR INTO A DARK ROOM.**

You think you’re going back to ride a mammoth?

To hug a dodo?

To camp under Cretaceous stars?

No.

You are **entering a biosphere optimized for brutal dominance**.

No antibiotics.

No immune system compatibility.

No environmental prep.

And no record to warn you

about the **transparent predators**

that were **almost—but not quite—sentient.**

---

## VII. BIOLOGICAL STRUCTURES EXISTED THAT DON’T OBEY GEOMETRY

We’ve uncovered embryonic imprints

of multi-cellular organisms

**folded in recursive 5D geometry.**

They existed.

They functioned.

And they were shaped like **impossible knots**

that digested prey by **trapping them in localized spatial loops.**

Yes.

They fed by turning your body into an eternal folding pocket.

You’d never die.

Just loop forever.

Ask yourself:

> “What do you do when the thing that eats you doesn’t even have a mouth?”

---

## VIII. EPIGENETIC MEMORY CONTAINS **TRAUMA WE NEVER LIVED**

This is where it gets cosmic.

We’re finding emotional phobias in human subjects

**not traceable to their lived experience.**

These fears correspond to:

- **Slick, undulating motion**

- **Red-mottled texture signatures**

- **Low-frequency howling patterns**

These match theoretical reconstructions of creatures

we **only know about through energy imprint signatures.**

Your ancestors didn’t escape them.

**They carried the scream forward**.

And it’s still buried in your gut.

You *feel* what the fossil record refused to tell you.

---

## IX. THE PLANET DIDN’T JUST KILL THESE THINGS.

**IT BURIED THEM ON PURPOSE.**

The Cambrian explosion wasn’t an explosion of life.

It was a **clearing.**

A **mass incineration of what came before.**

You think Earth is nurturing?

No.

Earth is a trauma survivor

who has done **everything in her power to forget what she once hosted**.

There are strata **we don’t drill into**.

Geological zones where entire dig teams go quiet.

Not out of superstition.

But because **they found something**

and **chose to never report it.**

---

## X. YOU STILL WANT THAT TIME MACHINE?

Ask yourself again.

You sure?

Because this isn’t "Jurassic Park."

This isn’t "Stargate."

This isn’t "let’s go say hi to early man."

It’s **a biological crime scene**,

**a psychosexual furnace**,

**a pre-human gallery of godless anatomy**.

You step back far enough?

You’re not exploring time.

> You’re **entering a part of Earth that tried to die with its horrors intact.**

And when you get there?

They’ll see you.

They’ll know you’re soft.

And they’ll ask:

> “Why did you come alone?”

</div>

<!-- END TRANSMISSION [AUTO-WIPE IN: 00:07:07] -->

[dragqueenstarscream]

https://www.tumblr.com/dragqueenstarscream/780951418394836992/i-like-to-imagine-a-transformers-one-scenario

I feel like tfone optimus would probably be the most curious one out of the all optimis when it comes to humans. I'd imagine him very carefully picking up a human between his servos observing them before realising the human is cursing him out in a different language.

On the topic of language, i'd would love for the tf media to play around with that more.

imagine them having miscommunication issues before the bots learn english OR a more fun idea, a human somehow understanding cybertronian language. Like the matrix or the allspark giving them the ability similar to how Sari gets her key (that or they're just Dr dolittle)

optimus would definitely be the most curious about humans! given his whole reverence for life thing, he'd see humans and be fascinated that these tiny little guys have managed to make it this far in the universe. he's more impressed than anything... if not also apologetic that he might've spooked a few of them.

language issues are something that'd be really cool to cover, both cybertronians learning earth languages and maybe humans trying to decode cybertronian. my hc is that their language sounds significantly more like 80s sci-fi movie computer beep boops than a human tongue, so them having to adapt to english or mandarin or german or what have you would be fascinating!

[ariawhatstheirface]

Okay okay okay, now that I’ve caught up with Malevolent and The Magnus Archives/Protocol and started Welcome to Nightvale, I can finally give my take on all three. I will preface that I love them all and this is just my general thoughts about them :P

While they are all horror podcasts, they all deal with a different kind of horror, or more like a different kind of feeling. TMA/TMAGP is that creeping horror, it’s so close to reality that we can’t not be scared of it, of the implications that we have no real control over our own fear and what it will do to us. Malevolent is more sci-fi/fantasy and classic horror, where there are a lot of jump scares, different worlds, and things that make us go “ew” in general. While I’m not that deep into Nightvale, I already know that it’s more of the cryptic horror, the kind you have to sit with and decode. It’s more of a commentary on our own world, with supernatural stuff mixed in with it all. I’d closely compare it to Gravity Falls, but creepier (I just finished episode 13, A Story About You. and it was pretty ding-dang creepy)

All in all, I love all of them! And as soon as I catch up with Nightvale, I can probably give a better deep dive into all of them and go from there. I hope this helps anyone who wants to get into any of the three series, I know that my friend would’ve liked to know these things when I was trying to get her into TMA and accidentally scared her too much😅

[alldni]

“there’s always a twist at the end” ok susan TWIST. ok…… i’m so smart i’m solving doctor who mysteries like crazy call me a genius way i decode this family sci-fi show

[sulphuricgrin]

THE MOOT

Get to know the mutual

thank you for the tags: @oblivions-dawn and @pocket-vvardvark 💚💚💚💚

No pressure, of course, but I'd love to learn about you guys (sorry if you've done it and I missed it!): @hircines-hunter @lathepoquerose @flynnlives @flycasual @orfeoarte

@yewphoric @skyrim-forever @nyarevar @kiir-do-faal-rahhe

@bougainvillea-and-saltwater @hadvarandralof @bookworm-driven-insane @poor-ciceros-voring-again

@aleielle-of-roshar @illumiera @kathartic-kat @atomicgardenersheep

Currently reading: I've got 3 books I'm rotating through, depending on my mood at the time:

The King In Yellow by Robert W Chambers (did you know it influenced Lovecraft on his cosmic horror stories??)

The Book of Bill (I'm enjoying decoding the ciphers! :3)

Letters from a Stoic by Seneca

Last song I listened to: Level Clear by Tom Cardy

Last series: Fringe; currently rewatching it! One of the few sci-fi shows I LOVE

Last Movie: Maybe Deadpool and Wolverine?

Currently watching: HasanAbi on YT (Been watching a lot of Veritasium before bed lol)

Sweet/savoury/spicy?: I like both sweet and savory. I do love spicy too, especially when it's Indian food 🤤

Relationship status: Single and very happy for it

Favorite color: Green or Purple

Current obsession: Elder Scrolls (forever will be), Gravity Falls, Arcane

Weirdly fixating on what Summerset Isles's climate is like based off the flora (and fauna) on the islands

Tea or coffee: Tea! I don't like the taste of coffee nor can my body handle its caffeine content. And there's so so many delightful kinds of teas and combination of flavors!

Last thing I googled: Falconry Gauntlets

[mindblowingscience]

Humpback whale "conversations" provide valuable insight on how humans may one day communicate with life beyond Earth.  Researchers from the SETI Institute, University of California Davis and the Alaska Whale Foundation recently "conversed" with a humpback whale named Twain using an underwater speaker and recorded a humpback "contact" call. Twain responded to the researchers' call by matching the interval variations between signals of each playback call over a 20-minute period.  If you're having a Star Trek flashback, yes, this is awfully reminiscent of that one film in which the crew receives alien whale transmissions that can only be decoded underwater. And in fact, mirroring our sci-fi fantasies, this demonstration of interspecies communication has implications for the search for extraterrestrial intelligence, according to a statement from the SETI Institute. 

Continue Reading.

[theinstagrahame]

One of the best things about Crowdfunding is, stuff arrives even when you're cutting way back on spending. A *ton* of stuff arrived in the last month and a bit. Got a bunch of really neat projects in, and it's time to get hype about it!

Why these games rule, under the cut

The Revenant Society: Banana Chan is one of those names that immediately catches my attention when she's on a project. Actually, looking at the list again, the team for this game was stacked, it was a real All-Star Cast. But like, even without the powerhouse designers on the case, this just gets all the things I want in a game: Time loops, murder mysteries, trapped on the Underground. A PbtA game where you solve your own murder is, y'know, a pitch that'll attract my attention.

Hellwhalers: I saw this game coming up through design phases in the Plus One Exp Discord, and it sounded incredible. Using tokens and an old ship betting game, you're part of a whaling crew chasing Moby Dick into actual hell. Maybe Ahab wasn't crazy after all, and maybe we won't survive.

Xenolanguage: I might own everything Thorny Games makes now, because they make games about language. Folks who may not know me might not know that I *love* linquistics. Honestly, if I could repeat college, I'd put more of my time into Linguistics. But due to the linear nature of time, I'll settle for playing games about decoding alien language in a first contact situation. Sorta like that movie Contact. Which, I loved.

Mothership and Desert Moons of Karth: I read through the original version of Mothership a couple of years ago, and it's one I wanted to get more into. When I saw that there was a chance to pick up the full 1e boxset on KS, I jumped. I've also seen tons of people talk about Karth as a really awesome sandbox module for the system, so when I had a little cash on DTRPG from selling books, it was an easy pickup.

Inscrutable Cities: Possum Creek Games told me to back this, so I did (this is a joke, but I do love PCG a whole lot). In reality, I saw Inscrutable Cities on Itch a while ago, and the pitch grabbed me. I love reading solo journaling games (I still haven't found a way I like to play them, if I'm completely honest, but they're really neat reads). Walking through an impossible city is something I'd love to do, so, I have the book for it now.

Reap: Spencer Cambell makes bangers, and bangers only. I'm not *not* on a mission to collect all of his work, but Necromancers? Solo tactical board games, built on Rune? Sure. I'm in.

Luna: Spencer Campbell makes bangers, and bangers only. I also picked up another of his books this month. The Nova universe? Moon cultists trying to destroy the sun? Sure, I'm in.

3 Moonlight on Roseville Beach zines: I played Moonlight on Roseville Beach on my now-defunct podcast, and it's a game that I honestly think about a lot. The dice system was complicated, but in a really neat way that gave the players a ton of really interesting decisions with every roll. What part of my action succeeds? What kinds of complications am I opening myself to?

Anyway, R. Rook put together some characters, mysteries, and monsters for the game, and I really wanted to explore more.

Hiria, In the Margins, A Visit to San Sibilia: I mentioned earlier that I like the notion of exploring weird cities, right? Well, here's two games about that, and a cool bookmark RPG for reading. I listened to San Sibilia played in an episode of Friends at the Table, and it really captured my attention. The questions were fascinating, and they let the players flesh out a city we'd only heard of, but not seen prior to that game. It was a cool coda on a really fantastic and weird season, Sangfielle.

Grandmothership: The title alone had me, but Armanda Haller is a creator I keep an eye on, because she makes really rad stuff. This caught my attention because solving mysteries in a weird, Mothership-esque sci-fi setting, as nosy grandmothers, really just, gets me. I want to do that. I want to live that.

Holdfast Station: I've been watching Stonetop develop through its email updates. It's another PbtA game, but with a robust city-building and city development core loop that, is 100% my jam. (Low-key, one of my favorite games is Dragon Quest Builders 2.) This game takes that concept to space, which is 1000% my jam, in fact.

Spectres of Brocken: Aaron Lim is a designer I got into early on in my foray into games, and I do love Mech Anime. I am eager to see his take on Mech Anime, and I am really intrigued by the way this game handles playsets and worldbuilding as part of the game itself. Really can't wait to dive into this.

Lay on Hands: This is another of those games I've heard about, but never actually checked out. I know Alfred Valley better by reputation than by direct experience, but this is one of those games I hear people constantly telling people to check out. So, I'm gonna!

Penumbra City: Maybe 5 years ago, I read a novella by Margaret Killjoy about anarchists living in an abandoned city, and beset by assholes within their community, and supernatural horrors from without. The world kinda stuck with me, so when I saw she was working on an RPG not in the same world), I was curious to see what that would look like. I haven't cracked Penumbra City open yet, but I'm jazzed to do so.

These two fell off the pile for the big photo, so I forgot:

Deathmatch Island: I enjoyed the Hunger Games and Battle Royale movies a pretty moderate amount, but what really caught my attention here was the promise that players could also break the Reality TV Parody. The use of the Paragon system also caught my attention. After hearing one AP of Agon, I really wanted to see how that would translate into this, and it didn't take me too long reading it to go "Oh, okay, this rules."

Our God is Dead: What if you were a paladin or priest of a faith, and you found out your god was dead? What if you also had like, a bunch of people who really needed that god not to be dead, like this weekend? This sounds hilarious, and I am going to insert it into conversation often to see if people want to play it. Apologies to people who know me.

Eagle eyed viewers may have noticed a second Mothership box. What's that about?

It's a storage box for all my Mothership Zines so far... Except the two that are just slightly too big!

And, some fun comics/graphic novels:

Good Boy Paws: A friend of mine in comics put this together, and it looked extremely cute. A sweet tale of a good boi.

Wine Ghost Goes to Hell: Picked this up because the creator had contributed to Bugsnax, which is a game I enjoyed, and the concept seemed fun. Will have to check it out and report back!

[bonnibelleangelica]

🧬🧫🔬You’d Adore My Book Series 🍄🦋🌿

How do I know? Well tbh… you’re on Tumblr.

My new sci-fi, romance book series is about neurodivergent-coded characters with tails, animal ears and biology degrees exploring a wild, post-apocalyptic world. It has sex scenes that are tailor-made for each couple in each specific stage of their lives and the romances are feet-kicking adorable… and frustrating. The characters were designed to be OC fuel, a cosplayer’s dream and absolutely everyone is queer and/or POC because I’m not boring. Each chapter will have artwork drawn by the characters themselves and it also has a decodable secret alphabet.

You see my point, right? I’m marketing on Tumblr for a reason, I literally wrote this book for you.

Because I’m creatively stubborn, I’m self publishing and the first addition won’t be released until the second half of the year (because it’s being fully, professionally edited), so since you’re already EXCITED, you have to go follow my OFFICIAL series account so you can stay up-to-date and see all the artwork as it gets better and better!

Official blog here 👉 @status-quo-book

Art (wip) and book blurb here👇

[beesmygod]

i had my mom edit my bloodborne thing up to the latest release (shes smart and great at editing) and told her "i know this is all gobbledygook and makes me look literally insane" but apparently she loved it so far and is raving about it to anyone who will listen o_o

she reads a lot of sci fi and fantasy so its not totally out of her wheelhouse im just kind of surprised it wasnt like trying to decode the rosetta stone

anyway:

this is only 4 chapters. i had to re-adjust my timeline bc i realized i had the castle cainhurst raid all wrong and i spent a stupid amount of time trying to crack how teleportation is supposed to work. i think ive got it.

but: i havent really dug into the 4th chapter yet (logarius part needed a lot of work) and the 4th chapter is now the research hall. which is not exactly a straight forward area lol.

this is turning out to be a "THIS is how you critically analyze media" document as well . _. i intend for this to be the ultimate bloodborne post demonstrating how i got from point a to point b. authors notes before chapters to explain information outside of the game that influenced its creation. a section entirely on blood and its qualities. it even has a stupid glossary so i dont have to type out "new game plus" every time

my magnum opus. i will die immediately after its release. maybe turn into a dog or something

[satoshi-mochida]

Fragaria announces sci-fi mystery visual novel Stellar Code for PC - Gematsu

Tales from Toyotoki: Arrival of the Witch developer Fragaria has announced Stellar Code, a new science-fiction mystery visual novel due out for PC via Steam in August 2025 in Japan. There are also plans to support an English release in the future.

Here is an overview of the game, via its Steam page:

About

Stellar Code is the next-generation sci-fi mystery brought to you by the creators of Tales from Toyotoki: Arrival of the Witch, a doujin visual novel that sold over 30,000 copies. We plan to support an English version in the future. Thank you for your understanding, and please stay tuned for further announcements.

Overview

Prepare to unravel an extraordinary mystery. While Stellar Code is a mystery visual novel, it deviates from traditional formats—there’s no need to identify culprits or decode intricate tricks. Instead, the mystery you must solve is a cosmic enigma rooted in the wonders of space and theoretical physics.

No Prior Knowledge Required You don’t need a background in science to enjoy this story. The keys to solving the mystery will be revealed as you progress through the narrative. All you need to do is question the unknown alongside the characters and immerse yourself in the unfolding story.

A Visual Novel Experience As a visual novel, the primary focus is on following the story and uncovering its secrets.

View the first screenshots at the gallery.

[karinta-agogobell-unified]

Five underappreciated anime that I would recommend!

1. Canaan (2009)

This is, from what I understand, an adaptation of a side-story chapter for the visual novel series 428: Shibuya Scramble, guest-written by Nasu Kinoko and guest-illustrated by Takeuchi Takashi. That is to say, the Type-Moon guys — the creators of Tsukihime, Kara no Kyoukai, and the now-legendary Fate/Stay Night. However, Canaan doesn’t take place in the Type-Moon shared universe(s), since it’s for another company’s property.

That being said, the anime adaptation is quite comprehensible on its own terms, likely due to the adaptation being written by the prolific and highly skilled screenwriter Okada Mari (Hanasaku Iroha, O Maidens In Your Savage Season, Mobile Suit Gundam: Iron-Blooded Orphans, Maquia). Her writing imbues the narrative with enough emotional intensity to make up for the occasionally-convoluted nature of the plot, and the backstories of the characters are hinted at just enough so that the viewer can understand their relevance, without taking up too much precious screen time. It can be a little hard to follow at points, but I ended up understanding it decently well anyway.

The production values are very high indeed, due to the anime being produced by P.A. Works, and directed by Andoh Masahiro (Sword of the Stranger, Hanasaku Iroha, O Maidens In Your Savage Season). The action animation is consistently stunning, the characters are beautifully expressive, and the overall look of the show is fantastic.

And the voice acting is an absolute treat, with the lead role of Canaan herself taken by Sawashiro Miyuki, the antagonist role of Alphard taken by Sakamoto Maaya, and Nanjou Yoshino in the role of Oosawa Maria, the POV character for a lot of the story. The supporting voice cast is packed with talent too — Hamada Kenji, Tanaka Rie, Nakata Jouji, Tomatsu Haruka, Hirata Hiroaki, Noto Mamiko, and even Ootsuka Akio in a minor role!

The premise is sort of a science fiction type of thing, but set in the (quasi-)contemporary location of 2000s China, where outside of the sci-fi conceit, the setting is largely realistic. The tone and mood is mostly that of an action thriller, with some nail-biting suspense here and there, but there are some beautifully soft and tender moments as well — often involving Canaan and Maria. Yes, folks, this has yuri in it, although it’s (strongly) subtextual.

Anyway, I would recommend this to people who love Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex, Kara no Kyoukai, Fate/Zero, and probably also Cowboy Bebop.

2. Tetsuwan Birdy OVAs (1996)

This is distinct from the later adaptation of the original Tetsuwan Birdy (Birdy the Mighty) manga, called Tetsuwan Birdy Decode, which came out in the late 2000s — this one came out in 1996 and was produced by Studio Madhouse in their prime.

The main characters are Senkawa Tsutomu (voiced by Iwanaga Tetsuya), a hapless teenager who gets accidentally killed(!) by an alien spaceship on his way to school one day, and Birdy Cephon Altirra (voiced by Mitsuishi Kotono), a human-looking alien and an intergalactic government agent who saves Tsutomu by merging her body with his. Effectively, they become two people in one body, which can shift between the forms of Birdy and Tsutomu…. except Birdy still needs to deal with all the rogue aliens who threaten the safety of the galaxy, while Tsutomu needs to study for his high school entrance exams. From what I’ve been told, the premise is fairly reminiscent of Ultraman and other classic tokusatsu series.

It’s four tight episodes of classic ‘90s OVA goodness, with a fun and slightly silly sci-fi concept that is nonetheless wrung for some surprisingly effective drama at times. The main thrust of it, though, is action comedy — and it definitely delivers on that front. The fight scenes are superbly animated, including some early-career work from now-legendary animator Suzuki Norimitsu, and the character designs by Takahashi Kumiko (Witch Hunter Robin, Snow White with the Red Hair, Cardcaptor Sakura) are amazingly expressive. Birdy’s striking asymmetrical design is a particular favourite of mine. The direction by Kawajiri Yoshiaki (Cyber City Oedo 808, Ninja Scroll, Vampire Hunter D) is solid, and the writing is quite serviceable despite the brevity and premise.

Overall, I wouldn’t say it’s much of an intellectual watch, but if you just want a fun action-comedy ride with an extremely charismatic female protagonist and stunning animation quality, Tetsuwan Birdy is likely to be your jam. I’d recommend it to people who enjoy classic tokusatsu series, the original ‘90s Sailor Moon anime, and the less-depressing parts of Neon Genesis Evangelion.

3. Noir (2001)

This anime series is perhaps not as underappreciated as the others on this list, but I do still feel that not enough people have seen it. It was made by the studio Bee Train, and it’s the first entry in their so-called “Girls with Guns” trilogy (which isn’t actually a coherent trilogy, since they’re three different stories). The series was made right at the end of the cel-anime era, before the transition to digital colouring and compositing, so the masters were shot on film, but it was also made at the beginning of the slow transition to widescreen TV broadcasts, so it’s one of the very rare cel anime that’s in 16:9. This allows for a beautifully detailed look that, IMO, serves to offset the occasionally-limited animation and the frequent re-use of footage.

The premise is basically “secret assassins in France are caught up in weird intrigue and conspiracies”; as such, there’s a lot of very fun gunplay and kickass fight scenes, but also a lot of suspense and mystery. The writing is a little bit slipshod at times, but it ends up holding together, and the characters and (especially) the fantastically moody vibe make the show worth watching.

The characters are imbued with a lot of life and colour, both by their extremely attractive designs and by their voice actors’ wonderful performances. Mireille Bouquet, a young Corsican assassin and one of the two protagonists, is voiced by Mitsuishi Kotono; Yuumura Kirika, the other main protagonist who is a Japanese schoolgirl who has seemingly lost all her memories (but not her exceptional assassin skills), is voiced by Kuwashima Houko; and the mysterious Chloe, who shows up partway through the show, is voiced by Hisakawa Aya. There are definite yuri vibes between Mireille and Kirika, but as with Canaan, it’s all subtextual.

The main draw of the show, though, is its phenomenal soundtrack, courtesy of Kajiura Yuki (.hack//Sign, Kara no Kyoukai, Fate/Zero, Sword Art Online, Demon Slayer) in her very first anime scoring gig. It’s at times propulsive, at times dark and moody, at times beautifully serene, at times melancholy and nostalgic — and it’s utterly memorable.

I would recommend Noir to anyone who likes Canaan, Witch Hunter Robin, Ghost in the Shell, or anyone who just wishes that James Bond were a woman.

4. Flip Flappers (2016)

This anime was produced at Studio 3Hz and directed by Oshiyama Kiyotaka, in a dazzling yet underappreciated directorial debut that was presaged by his impressive animation work on Dennou Coil, Space Dandy, A Letter to Momo, The Secret World of Arietty, and The Wind Rises. Owing to this extremely solid animation background, Oshiyama was able to recruit a lot of prime animation talent for Flip Flappers, and it definitely shows in the stunning sakuga of the wild action sequences that pepper the show’s narrative.

While the fantastic animation is a key draw of this show, the sheer creativity in the worldbuilding, conceptual, and visual design spheres also contribute to its inimitably psychedelic look and feel. The landscapes of the worlds contained in Pure Illusion — the dream-realm that the protagonists enter each episode at the behest of a mysterious scientific organisation — and of the “real” world are whimsical, storybook-like, and slightly “off” in a slightly unsettling but compelling way.

The dreamlike atmosphere pervades the narrative as well — very little about the mechanics of the world is specified out loud, relying heavily on symbolism and visual storytelling to do the heavy lifting for the audience’s understanding. This might be a turn-off for audiences who prefer to have things spelled out for them clearly, but the point of this story is not always to make perfect logical sense, but rather to work on an emotional and metaphorical level. And work, it certainly does.

The episodic structure involving the various worlds of Pure Illusion explores the concept of the Umwelt (the individual sensory “world” of a person or organism), as well as some Jungian concepts and archetypes, in order to express the strange and sometimes-scary developmental stage of adolescence. The characters of Cocona (voiced by Takahashi Minami) and Papika (voiced by Ichimichi Mao) undergo a metaphorical and literal puberty, a coming-of-age similar in some ways to that experienced by the protagonist of FLCL, but with significantly more yuri. In fact, this show has the most outright yuri of any of the anime on this list. But that isn’t very strange for what is essentially a psychedelic magical-girl show: lots of magical-girl anime seem to include homoerotic vibes in some form or another, from Sailor Moon to Nanoha to Madoka.

There are some minor flaws in the storytelling towards the end, IMO, but overall it’s a wonderfully impactful emotional journey to watch Flip Flappers. Plus, the OP and ED are both extraordinarily catchy tunes that I’ve found myself humming on many an occasion.

I’d recommend this anime to anyone who loves weird magical-girl stuff, weird yuri, and/or amazing action animation.

5. Claymore (2007)

An adaptation of the manga by Yagi Norihiro, this anime is considered by many to simply be “basic”, or at least simply “inferior to the manga”. Now. I haven’t read the original Claymore manga (yet! I plan to eventually), but I found this anime to be compelling nonetheless. And if it really is the case that the manga is better, then I definitely look forward to diving in.

Having been produced by Studio Madhouse in the mid-2000s, it’s unsurprising that the vast majority of this anime was outsourced to Korean animation studio DR Movie, a longtime powerhouse subcontractor for both Japanese and American animation alike. That said, the direction of Tanaka Hiroyuki (director of a portion of Hellsing Ultimate and frequent close collaborator of Attack on Titan director Araki Tetsurou) remains sharp, compensating for the sometimes-limited animation with good storyboarding and a strong sense of mood and atmosphere.

Another aspect of Claymore which helps make up for the occasional visual shortcomings is the soundtrack by Takumi Masanori. The compositions are a mix of harder rock and electronic elements with a strong orchestral backbone, as befits a dark-fantasy setting and mood — the faster pieces are edgy and propulsive, very appropriate for the bloody action scenes, and the calmer pieces have a melancholic beauty to them that sticks in one’s memory. I wish the soundtrack were on Spotify, but alas, it is not.

The other sonic element that helps this anime out immensely is its absolutely STACKED voice cast. The main character, Clare, is voiced by Kuwashima Houko, in a fantastic yet understated performance. The other main character, Raki, is voiced by the less-well-known Takagi Motoki, but nearly all the other roles — including many bit parts — are filled with industry legends. Teresa is voiced by Park Romi, Miria is voiced by Inoue Kikuko, Irene is voiced by Takayama Minami, Rubel is voiced by Hirata Hiroaki, Priscilla is voiced by Hisakawa Aya, Ophelia is voiced by Shinohara Emi, and Jean (whom I cannot help but ship with Clare: there’s so much homoerotic tension there!) is voiced by none other than Mitsuishi Kotono. Yes, they got three of the original Sailor Senshi VAs — and I don’t know why that’s funny to me, but it is. And all of the voice actors deliver killer performances.

The premise of the show, before I completely forget to explain it, is that of a dark fantasy world where demons called youma ravage human settlements, with only the titular Claymores to protect humanity. They are a guild of platinum-haired and silver-eyed warrior women who possess superhuman fighting abilities, due to the fact that they’ve been fused with youma essence, and wield the massive broadswords that give them their name. Basically, (s)he who fights monsters must become (partly) a monster to do so.

I’ve heard the vibe of Claymore compared to manga like Berserk, and I don’t know how true that is (not having read the latter for myself), but there’s certainly a lot of bleakness and monstrosity in this fantasy tale. However, the Claymore manga was published in none other than Weekly Shounen Jump, so it’s perhaps unsurprising that the story remains resolutely forward-looking, the protagonists’ arcs focussing on the power of grit, determination, true friendship and loyalty, and protection of the weak and downtrodden. It’s never cynical or sarcastic — always straightforward and sincere despite the frequent darkness of the story.

The writing is consistently solid, even through the controversial anime-original ending (the manga continues long past the point where the anime cut things off), so I’m not sure who to point to for that: Yagi Norihiro for writing the original material, or Kobayashi Yuuko (JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure, Attack on Titan s1-3, Kakegurui, Casshern Sins) for adapting it cleanly for the screen? Either way, it made me want to read the manga to experience more of these compelling characters and their travails.

I would recommend this anime to those who enjoy Kill La Kill or RWBY, or just to those who enjoy powerful women hacking at monsters with massive weapons and making lots of blood spray out.

[galaxydoesstuff]

Tetro Sci-Fi bits that i wanna talk about

so, of course this AU is inspired by that one log in Staff Side, so I'm kinda running off of the limited info about the AU that Von wrote.

here's some stuff i wanna talk about!

0K4Z4K1 as an INLOID(?).

Okazaki WAS human at some point, but something went extremely wrong. Kan took them and filed them as an "experiment" to avoid getting flagged by Yonekura. his real intentions were to see if he could bring them back from the dead. in doing this, he used parts of Executioner Bots. in the end, he succeeded in making 0K4Z4K1, but they were more of a weapon now than a human being. more machine than man. neither minded this, in fact it gave Kan ideas.

0K4Z4K1 is quite independent, but will hunt for targets if paid the right price. such as when they hunt down Hiroaki and T4K35H1, they were paid pretty good, since the demand on T4K35H1 is preeeetty high in KFTI. in the end, they are swayed to help protect them since they want to be the most evil being, not their mother or KFTI.

Wada and Ophelline

In the AU, Wada dies. its never specified how, but Hiroaki and T4K35H1 (using Ojima now to make himself feel more human with a full name) are sent some sort of recording stored on a hologram disc. Wada explains that if they got the message, he's dead. throught the message, he stresses certain sounds or letters. when they manage to decode it, it says "Ophelline is alive, find me". Ophelline is Wada's backup body. he found a way to create a second body through pure bullshitting it. luckily it worked, but she isnt really...wada. she lacks a majority of his core memories, almost like she's a different person entirely.

Where do the Mokos fit into this?

The mokos arent entirely physical, save for Monomoko. the other mokos only appear to INLOIDS or those with cybernetic eyes when a certain code is activated. for Ojima, they appear to him after he's struck with a Kill Virus. once the Virus is cleared up by Wada, he can catch sight of them . they can talk to him and only he will hear and see them.

those are some of the more fleshed out ideas!

[ectogeo-art]

Hi, @lady-sci-fi I wrote you a fic for your request of Garashir + stranded in a desert + hurt/comfort, for the @startrekwintergiftexchange! Hope you like it! ^_^

Here's the start of the fic! (The whole thing can be found at the ao3 link OR you can expand this post to read the rest of it.)

Red lights flashed and consoles blared angry warnings. The whole runabout shook violently. The planet was getting closer, much too quickly.

“What happened?” Garak asked frantically, coming up behind Julian’s seat and holding tightly to the back of it as the turbulence tried its best to throw him to the floor.

“Solar flare. We’ve lost propulsion, we’re—Shit!—we’re going to crash, I’m sorry, I—” Garak set a hand on Julian’s shoulder for just a moment. Julian took a breath and exhaled. He needed to focus. “I’ll beam us down, I just need to set the coordinates.”

“I’ll grab what supplies I can.”

Julian didn’t have time or presence of mind to acknowledge this, too engrossed in trying desperately to feed in all the parameters the computer would need to transport them somewhere safe. Somewhere on the surface not in midair or underground, somewhere on dry land, somewhere without any other obstacles or topographical features nearby since it wouldn’t do to beam into a rock or a tree or the ledge on the side of a cliff…

The computer finished its calculations and the transporter pad lit up. Julian ran to the back of the runabout, grabbing Garak’s hand on the way and pulling him along with him. 

Julian squeezed his hand and they stepped into the transporter beam simultaneously. He wasn’t sure where they would end up. But at least wherever they went, they would go together.

~

The Defiant would rescue them soon, Garak knew. 

Garak’s most recent decoding efforts had narrowed down the location of the new base to three possible planets, and when he’d learned that Julian was up next for a shift of runabout piloting, he’d offered to accompany him on the recon mission himself. 

Their first stop, Eolia III, had turned out to have an atmosphere that was a bit thin and a climate that was a bit extreme, but the scans showed that it was Jem’Hadar-free. Perfectly harmless, they’d determined. 

But the star of the system seemed to object to that categorization, releasing a massive solar flare just as they were attempting to leave orbit, and knocking out propulsion and guidance systems.

And now they were trapped on this world until someone on the Defiant or Starbase 375 noticed that they were late for their rendez-vous. It shouldn’t be long. Starfleet required regular comms and check-ins for missions like these, and they knew exactly which planet they were on. It would be a day or two at most. Sooner, if the distress beacon they’d activated was working.

Knowing all of this did nothing to ameliorate Garak’s sense that this would be the end for both of them. 

They were in the middle of a sandy desert, no water or shade cover in sight. They’d painstakingly climbed to the crest of the tallest dune they could see, the loose sand underfoot making them slip back one step for every two steps forward, only to find that the undulating waves of periwinkle sand stretched to the horizon on all sides. With a view like that, it was hard to dismiss the glum—and irrational, he hoped—thought that their bodies would soon get swallowed up by this sea of sand, never to be found.

Garak was sure that he would have very quickly given up and succumbed to the elements without the calming effect of Julian’s incongruously optimistic disposition in light of their problems.

“Oh, Garak, we’re in a right mess, aren’t we,” Julian said with a chuckle and a shake of his head. “When I told the transporter to set us down in a nice, safe, soft, flat spot, I must have searched for a safe landing ellipse of kilometers not meters. Well, there’s no point in wandering far away from the distress beacon. Nothing for it but to wait. Come on, there’s a little shade on this side.”

Then he turned so he was facing parallel to the crest of the dune and planted his feet at different heights on the steeper leeward slope, and let himself slide down the slope, using the arm closer to the dune to slow his descent and keep his balance.

When he looked up at Garak, triumphant, dusted in sand, his smile somehow outshone the sun that was beating down on them.

Garak followed him down, more slowly and cautiously. He was sure it was taking much more energy to control his descent compared to Julian’s method, but it would be worth it to keep himself a little less dusty. Besides, he was sure that he would immediately fall on his ass if he tried it, and he didn’t fancy making a fool of himself in front of Julian.

As it was, he still almost fell a few times, despite his less reckless approach. Julian watched him closely, starting to move toward him each time he wobbled, then stopping when Garak kept his balance. He offered his hand to help Garak on the final stretch to the base of the dune.

It was a relief when he reached the bottom. After the exertion of setting up the distress beacon and climbing up and then the sisyphean slopes of the dune, the sun’s heat seemed to throb in Garak’s head.

“Thank you, my dear,” Garak said, nearly out of breath, letting go of Julian’s hand. 

He’d meant to add “Doctor,” but it was too late now. 

“Any time.”

They set down their packs—two bug-out bags of emergency survival gear and Julian’s medkit—and sat in the slight shade that the steeper slope of the dune provided. Julian slathered himself with sunscreen and insisted that Garak do the same, despite any protests over the sliminess of it.

The light blueish-purple color of the sand, while beautiful in theory, was irritating in practice. The way it reflected light provided no relief from the intensity of the sun. Garak kept his eyes closed as much as possible, but the brightness of this planet seemed to pierce his eyelids, and he complained about it incessantly for a while until his mouth started to feel dry. He gave up on keeping his clothes pristine and leaned back against the sandy slope with one arm thrown over his face to create more shade.

Julian never stopped talking, except to take precious sips of water from their limited supplies. He told Garak everything he knew about the morphology of sand dunes, the rare diseases that can be transported by dust storms, the various places on Earth and Mars that they could visit to see impressive rock formations made from ancient sand dunes (and tentative plans to visit them together, once there was time), the strange plants and animals that inhabit various deserts on Earth… anything that came to that delightful mind of his. 

Garak, for the most part, was content to take in the pleasant sound of his voice, only occasionally throwing in his own commentary and comparisons to Cardassian deserts. It was striking how animated Julian seemed now, and Garak found himself grinning, susceptible to the infectiousness of Julian’s good mood.

And what a difference from this entire past month! They’d all been shuffling mindlessly between the Defiant and Starbase 375, from battle to battle, but Julian in particular had seemed more affected than most. His once eager eyes were now haunted, his once rosy outlook darkened. So it made Garak glad to see that Julian’s spark of joy hadn’t been lost completely to the horrors of war. It had just been a little bit buried. Garak wondered what about being stuck on this desolate planet could have possibly unearthed it again.

Thirst began to gnaw at Garak’s throat more insistently as the day wore on. Unlike Julian, and in defiance of the rational part of his mind, he still didn’t completely trust that they would be rescued quickly, so didn’t want to use up all of their supplies right away. It was uncomfortable but he could handle it. He liked heat—well, it was better than cold, anyway. And this sun was no harsher than Cardassia’s. His scales should be well suited to the climate. 

But soon, the sun was nearly overhead and all of their shade was gone, and he wasn’t so sure anymore. His clothes were dark and drank up the heat of the sun, and, despite his usual complaints about the unacceptable chill of Federation stations and starships, he was now much, much hotter than he would have liked. Julian was sweating too; he could see the glisten of it on his skin—

“Garak, could you give me a hand setting this up?”

He blinked. Julian seemed to be wrestling with the tent poles and tarps from their packs. Garak dutifully stood up, then immediately staggered. His head was spinning.

Julian ran over, and put an arm around him to steady him. “Hey, careful now.” He helped him gently back down to the ground and knelt beside him. “What are you feeling?”

“Dizzy.” He licked his dry lips. “Hot.”

Julian looked him over. He placed his fingers on the pulse point on his wrist and then after a little while brushed the back of his hand across Garak’s forehead. “I think it’s heat exhaustion. That’s not good, but at least there’s no obvious fever, so it’s probably not heat stroke. Not yet anyway. But I’ll need to monitor you with the tricorder to make sure it doesn’t get any worse, is that okay?” 

Garak hesitated, then nodded.

“All right,” Julian said, seeming a little relieved that Garak was going to let him scan his vitals without the usual fight about it. “You’ll need to drink more water. Slowly, though. I’ll see if I can find a packet of electrolytes to add to it, too, that might help a bit. And then I’ll finish the tent and we can get you out of the sun.”

Garak nodded weakly, as Julian pressed the water bottle into his hand. He took little sips, as instructed, while Julian bustled about setting up camp and fussing over Garak at intervals. Garak felt foolish for thinking he could handle the elements. He’d either grown unforgivably weak in his years on the station or he’d simply forgotten what it was like in an environment like this and had overestimated his ability. 

After what felt like a long time of doing nothing but diligently following doctor’s orders, the worst of it did begin to ebb. He even managed to force down a ration bar, at Julian’s behest, while Julian was putting the finishing touches on the tent.

When it was all set up, Julian ushered him into the tent, then followed him in. Garak was a little surprised by that. He’d expected Julian to start setting up the second tent next. 

It barely felt any cooler inside. They left the flaps open in hopes of a breeze to make it less of an oven. Still, the reprieve from the direct sunlight was undeniably welcome.

Julian took another scan of Garak with the medical tricorder and studied the results. 

“You’re doing great, Garak! You seem well on your way to recovery, and as the sun goes down it should start cooling off to a more comfortable temperature soon…” His brow furrowed. “Hmm, the temperature may then get uncomfortable in the other direction at night. But I suppose we’ll deal with that later. I think for now you should try to get a bit of rest.”

As he spoke, Julian was already pulling a sleeping bag out of one of the packs and spreading it out for him.

“You’ll get no argument from me.” Garak, still feeling utterly drained, curled up on top of the sleeping bag once it was ready. Garak laid on his side looking up at Julian, whose long legs splayed out across the floor of the tent.

“Mmm, and that’s one way I can tell you’re out of sorts. Lack of argumentativeness is a symptom not to be taken lightly for you, Garak,” he teased. “But some rest should get you back into fine arguing form.”

“Good. I’d hate to deprive you of such a thing for long.” 

Julian grinned. “I don’t know how I’d survive,” he said sarcastically and yet so fondly that Garak’s heart began pounding in his throat.

Garak’s lingering delirium and the beauty of Julian’s smile conspired to make him blurt out, “It’s good to see you smile again.” 

“Oh?”

“I’ve been worried about you lately, but this trip… I have no idea what could have possibly lifted your spirits in this horrid wasteland, but whatever it is, I’m glad.”

Julian grew a little bit somber then.

“I suppose a big part of it is that it’s nice to have an excuse not to think about the war, for just a little while. When we’re in the midst of things, I feel like I’m carrying the weight of the entire war on my back. Always trying to figure out how we could win against impossible odds, or at least make it out alive. Always thinking about the people I couldn’t save—or worse, the ones who I maybe could have saved if I’d just done something differently. But right now…” He shrugged. “There’s absolutely nothing we can do except try to survive ourselves. And that’s freeing, I suppose, in a way.”

“I see. Nothing like a smaller crisis to distract from the much broader, vaguer one.”

“Exactly,” he said emphatically, like he was relieved that Garak had understood him. 

Then a slight smile crept back onto his face. “And besides, I’m here with you.”

“Ah yes. ‘Misery loves company.’” Garak recited the human expression, recalling their recent time in the Dominion prison together. “I’m glad that you didn’t get stranded here alone.”

“Well, yes, but…” Julian bit his lip. “It would be a bit more accurate to say that misery loves this company in particular.”

Garak’s eyes widened.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, I know you made sure that we got assigned to this mission together. I know you missed me, too.”

“Of course I did. Hardly anyone on Starbase 375 has read The Never-Ending Sacrifice.” 

“Am I really the only one willing to indulge you?”

“That’s right. You spoil me.”

Julian laughed and then sighed. “I wish that it hadn’t taken a shuttle crash for us to get to spend time together. But these days I’ll have to take what I can get.”

After a moment of consideration, Garak felt he ought to get back on even ground with him. He  pushed himself back up to a seated position. Once certain he wasn’t having another spell of dizziness from the change in position, he reached out for Julian’s hand. 

Their fingers slipped together so familiarly. 

“What else might you take,” Garak asked, “if you could get it?” He rubbed his thumb delicately over the back of Julian’s hand. 

“Anything.” 

Julian lifted their joined hands and pressed his lips to Garak’s knuckles, lingering long enough that Garak’s breath caught in his throat. 

“Everything,” Julian breathed, looking at him from under long lashes. 

The heat burning in Garak now had nothing to do with the weather. Their lips met and then their bodies met, and soon enough hands were slipping across sweaty skin to explore the last of each other’s secrets. 

~

They were sound asleep, tangled in each other’s arms, when the Defiant arrived to rescue them the next morning.