#Tangible Interface

[super-ion]

The Engineer

Part 5

(Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4)

I sure wish I could get some hardware interface testing, today's tech tells me with a disgusting smirk. His eyes make a shameless sweep of my skinsuit.

Normally, I wouldn't stare him down. Normally, I would hunch my shoulders and pretend that the joke slid right off me.

I haven't felt normal since my encounter with the Pilot in that dimly lit observation room two nights ago.

I stare until his smirk slides from his face and he begins to squirm.

I turn away, putting him out of my mind.

Morrigan and I have a date. That is to say, we do, in fact, have hardware interface testing on the schedule today. Her primary neural interface has been upgraded and I need to run it through its diagnostics, a task I am uniquely qualified for with the engineer's rig and my intimate knowledge of Her systems.

I'm… giddy. Nervous, even.

This will be the first time I plug into Her since my encounter with Her Pilot - the first time since she touched my face, since she roughly pressed her lips to my neck while I surrendered to her, with Morrigan watching the whole time.

I shudder at the memory and linger in the vestibule. I place a hand on Morrigan's bulkhead as I always do. I feel that distant thrum of Her, the dull rumble of Her heart.

“Hey beautiful,” I say to Her as I always do.

I think of the Pilot. I think of piercing blue eyes and I think of neural bleed.

I think of teeth scraping against tender flesh at the base of my neck. I think of those slender fingers winding themselves through my hair.

A noise behind me. The tech clears his throat.

My face heats and I flinch my hand away.

I climb into the cockpit to find that the cradle is already reconfigured for me. Every one of Morrigan's cockpit cameras are focused on me with a new, special kind of eagerness.

She did watch us. I'm certain of it. Even if she hadn't, the Pilot has been here and already shared everything with her.

I let out a nervous breath and clamber into the embrace of her cradle. I let Her slip into me, physically and mentally. I let Her fill the space where my loneliness is a tangible aching thing.

Telemetry streams fill my consciousness. The ping comes almost immediately after connection is established.

- STATUS?

What is my status? Before two nights ago, I had enough trouble answering that question. Now everything is more confused than ever.

“I met the Pilot,” I reply. “Your Pilot. She kissed me. I let her…”

I drag my hands over my face. Why does this feel like I'm admitting to cheating on her?

- DID YOU ENJOY IT?

I nod.

Her delight (at least as much as a machine like her can experience delight) is palpable over the neural interface. Something like relief flows through me.

Of course it doesn't bother her, why would it?

I sigh and kick off the first of a long series of diagnostic tests. As firmware validation check results start popping up in my hud, I let my mind wander.

Wander is a generous term. My mind immediately returns to the singular subject that has occupied my thoughts.

The Pilot presses herself against me. Her lips press against the space where my neck meets my shoulder, her teeth nipping gently. Her hand trails down my side, finds the hem of my shirt and lifts slightly, skin touching skin...

The memory brings with it the ghost of sensation.

All around me, Morrigan hums. All the little noises in the cockpit, all the clicks and whirs and beeps, seem to take on a new meaning as she witnesses the memory play back in my mind.

“You think a lot about neural bleed.”

I'm thinking about neural bleed now. I'm thinking about how the next time the Pilot jacks in, she will find the ghost of my thoughts in Morrigan's system. She will know how it made my breath come fast, how the memory made me stiffen. How my hands wandered unbidden along my skinsuit…

I'm not alone.

My eyes snap open in a panic and…

There she is, hovering at the threshold to the vestibule.

I don't know how long the Pilot has been watching me. Her eyes shine with the same intensity as ever, but… hungry, wanting.

It's too much. Her knowing about Morrigan and me, Morrigan knowing about us, those are one thing. Her being here now, me here with the two of them together, it's too much.

My face heats and I mumble some unintelligible apology. I send a command to Morrigan to disengage. I attempt to sit up and-

She presses a hand to my chest and shoves me back into the cradle.

“You're not going anywhere,” she purrs.

Morrigan has not disengaged.

My breath catches in my throat.

The Pilot climbs the rest of the way into the cockpit and cycles the bulkhead closed.

The space is barely big enough for the two of us and the intimacy of it sends my heart racing anew.

“Wh-what?” I gasp. “Somebody will catch us.”

“I don't fucking care,” she says as she straddles me and produces an auxiliary neural interface cable from an overhead receptacle. “Me or Morrigan could get dead in the next engagement. I don't have the time or patience to pussyfoot around.”

“They could reassign me,” I protest, “or worse.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” she says with a hint of a sly grin. “You'll find that pilots usually get what we want around here.”

I can't tell if she means getting what she wants from me or from our superiors.

She hesitates, interface cable dangling in her hand. It's that same hesitation from two nights earlier, only this time it's a question for me.

Morrigan herself seems to pause with her own bated metaphorical breath. A sort of gentle hopefulness trickles over the link.

I should say no. I should excuse myself. That would be the smart rational thing to do.

I'm too close. I'm too close to both of them now.

I give the Pilot a nod.

I watch as she contorts herself, stretching her lithe arms to reach the jack in her own rig. I watch as she slides the the plug of the interface into herself. I watch as she shudders and sighs, dropping her arms and closing her eyes. I watch as her body relaxes, and for the first time since I've known her, she becomes still.

New status messages flash in my field of vision. A second user has logged in.

She opens her eyes and looks around the cramped cockpit.

“This is how you experience it?” she says.

“What?”

“The link,” she says. “There's no haptics. No biochem. It's so... shallow.”

My heart falls.

She blinks in surprise, her eyes distant.

“Fuck. I'm sorry,” she says softly. “I didn't mean it like that. I...”

My face must have given me away, or my body language. She leans towards me and brushes her lips tenderly against mine.

Then I understand. It wasn't anything on my face.

I can feel her. I feel her against me, but I also feel me against her.

It isn't sensorium. I can't feel what she physically feels. But emotion is information and information flows freely over the link.

I don't feel her so much as I feel her emotional reaction to the touch.

Neural bleed.

I open my mouth and drink her in. I wrap my arms around her to pull her close. One of us moans, I can't tell who at this point.

She pulls away.

“Holy shit,” I gasp.

“Yeah?” she replies and…

Holy shit.

Morrigan begins playing back the moments just before the Pilot Interrupted us - the memory, my need, my wandering hands.

The Pilot makes a small self-satisfied grin. I can feel her satisfaction over the link. I can feel her own reactive wanting.

Fuck. I can even feel Morrigan's need.

"The three of us, we're just this fucking tangle, aren't we?"

“You liked that, huh?” she says, leaning towards me. "Our little tryst?"

I nod.

“Can't stop thinking about it?”

I nod again.

She leans in real close and I dare not move as she brushes her lips against my ear.

“There's just one problem,” she whispers. “I think that Babygirl feels a bit left out.”

I gasp as something closes over my wrists, my ankles.

I crane my neck to look over to where safety restraints in the cradle have closed over me.

"Can't let Her get jealous, can we?" she whispers with a nip at my ear.

The Pilot straightens and spreads her arms. The space in the cockpit is so close that her fingers touch both sides easily. She draws her arms overhead, fingers drifting over the panels. She stretches languidly, the hard lines of her body on full display under her own skinsuit.

Desire and need pulse over the link - the Pilot's and Morrigan's and my own reflected back at me.

“How about we give you something else you can't stop thinking about?”

~~~~~

(Next)

@digitalsymbiote @g1ngan1nja @thriron @ephemeral-arcanist @mias-domain @justasleepykitten @powder-of-infinity @valkayrieactual @chaosmagetwin @assigned-stupid-at-birth @avalanchenouveau

If anyone else wants to get tagged (or if I missed you), let me know! Two more updates planned (fair warning, they're not going to be as happy as this one)

[yourownutopia]

Chapter 3: "The Price of Protection"

When the Shadow Monarch adds you to his ranks, he has no idea what he's in for. Not only are you uncontrollable, but you also harbor a secret that even the System keeps hidden from him. As he searches for a way to bring you under control, it becomes clear that your existence exposes a flaw in the perfect structure of the shadows—one that no one could have foreseen. Why don’t you yield to his will, and more importantly, why doesn’t the System want you to remember? [Jin Woo x fem! shadow! reader]

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Chapter Index :

[Prologue], [1] ,[2] , [3ʰᵉʳᵉ]

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Song: Shadowborn - Hiroyuki Sawano

Calm before the storm - It's me they all are coming for

Be my shadowborn

We're back to take the pain - My soul is indestructible

I steal you from the grave - So cursed to be a slave

»»———-»--•--«———-««

make sure to read the previous Chapters!

Notes: I want to clarify that English is not my first language. I’m sorry if there are any mistakes or if I sometimes use incorrect word

Hey there! Sorry for the long wait T-T I went through a creative slump and just couldn’t come up with anything good! I hope you still like the new chapter though <3

Chapter 3: The Price of Protection

"[Y/N]!!" The voice rang muffled in her ears, the pain in her head sharp and unpleasant. Why did this feel like déjà vu? Only this time, it wasn’t a warm voice warning her—it was a worried one, belonging to none other than Jin-Woo, who was supporting her upper body and calling her name again and again. What had happened?

-‘๑’-

"Arise."

Jin-Woo’s voice vibrated softly, ominously, as the word left his lips. The way he said it sent chills down [Y/N]’s spine. Her whole body reacted instinctively, the fine hairs on her neck standing on end. Her grip around Baruka’s Dagger tightened ever so slightly. She felt it before she even saw it—the way the energy in the room shifted, the electricity in the air, just before the floor gave way to an ocean of black, inky shadows from which Jin-Woo’s army began to rise. Hundreds of creatures emerged from the darkness, their forms slowly taking shape. Right next to [Y/N], Igris rose from the shadows, while Beru—the Ant King—materialized beside Jin-Woo, clicking his claws menacingly. Perhaps it was due to their shadow connection, but [Y/N] could feel the raw desire of the other shadows to serve their master. Even though she knew just how powerful Jin-Woo was, she could barely believe her eyes as she looked around his army - and found herself locking gazes with Igris. His expression—or what passed for one beneath those glowing eyes—remained unreadable. But for a split second, [Y/N] sensed it… that piercing glance of doubt he threw her way. It wasn’t telepathy. Not really. It was more like… she knew what the others were thinking.

Aeternus watched it all unfold, and despite his skeletal, expressionless face, there was calmness about him. With a twitch of his bony index finger—frail, almost sickly—his soldiers began to move.

[URGENT QUEST: DEFEAT THE ENEMIES] [There are enemies nearby who intend to kill the player. Eliminate all threats and secure the player's safety. If you fail to comply, your heart will cease to beat. Enemies remaining: 426 Enemies defeated: 0 ]

The system window floated in the air in front of [Y/N] and Jin-Woo. No one else seemed to notice the transparent interface—none of the shadows, at least. But it clearly told [Y/N] that she would die if Jin-Woo did. It made sense—if he died, the shadow extraction would vanish too—but the realization that her life was entirely bound to his felt bitter. Her eyes flicked to the black-haired monarch, who was already preparing to attack. The tension in the air was almost tangible. His eyes had changed color, his aura colder—sharper, almost slicing through the atmosphere. A shiver ran down her spine. This wasn’t Jin-Woo’s aura anymore. This was the Shadow Monarch’s. But this time, that crushing presence wasn’t directed at her—it was focused solely on Aeternus, whose army was already on the move. [Y/N] adjusted her grip on her dagger and took half a step forward— —only for Jin-Woo’s arm to block her path.

"This fight isn't yours" Jin-Woo said sharply, not even sparing her a glance. His voice was low, serious—carrying an authority that allowed no argument. [Y/N] parted her lips, but no words came out. Something in his tone held her back. She wanted to protest, to fight by his side, to prove herself… But Jin-Woo was already moving. In a flash—so fast the normal eye could barely keep up.

The moment their powers clashed, she realized the truth—she wouldn’t have stood a chance.

The first impact shook the very structure around them. The ground trembled beneath her feet as Jin-Woo charged at Aeternus with inhuman speed. His shadows danced like flames in a storm, his silhouette blurring in the chaos of darkness. Aeternus rose slowly—measured, dignified—as though he had all the time in the world. Runes glowed along his bony chest, and a thunderous boom echoed through the chamber as he raised his arms and conjured a magical barrier to block the Shadow Monarch’s strike.

The resulting shockwave was massive, tugging at [Y/N]’s clothes and nearly knocking her off her feet—if not for Igris, who stepped in front of her protectively. The dark knight had driven his sword into a crack in the floor, his cloak whipping wildly, the metal of his blade groaning beneath the immense power of his master. Jin-Woo moved in jagged zigzags through the air, slamming relentlessly into the magical barrier.

[Y/N] saw nothing but blinding flashes of light and cascading shadows leaving tears in the air. The raw energy between the two combatants was overwhelming. Every blow, every movement shattered the floor, extinguished runes—or reignited them in furious bursts of magic. She held her breath for a second. And when she looked again, her [E/C] eyes widened in awe. She stood frozen, unable to look away from the infernal duel. Her body trembled—not from fear, but from sheer reverence.

Jin-Woo was faster, more precise—a storm of darkness and steel. But Aeternus was immovable, like an ancient law of nature that refused to bend.

Each of his movements carried millennia of experience, and the magic surrounding him followed no known rules of mana or logic.

“You are in the way.”

The strange voice snapped [Y/N] out of her trance. She turned her head—only to see the massive ant pushing aside one of the skeletal soldiers, his claws clicking ominously.

"THE ANT CAN TALK?!" [Y/N] exclaimed in disbelief, jumping to Igris’s side. He cast her a sidelong glance, and strangely, she felt safer near him than that insect.

Beru looked offended by her blunt comment, his antennae twitching. "Useless female", he said coldly. [Y/N]’s eyes narrowed. What the hell did that pest just say?

She opened her mouth to fire back, but before she could, Beru leapt past her—straight at a soldier who had tried to ambush her from behind.

The ant tore the skeletal warrior apart effortlessly, clearly enjoying himself in a grotesque display. That’s when [Y/N] noticed the floating name above his head.

[Beru. Rank: General]

The question of why he could speak could wait. Beru turned back to her, green blood dripping from his claws.

"How about not standing around, useless half-shadow?" he hissed, moving forward again. "Let’s see if the rest of the battlefield finds you worth the trouble."

That was apparently enough for Igris, too. He turned to engage in battle—but [Y/N] stopped him in his Tracks.

"We have to support Jin-Woo" she said, glancing at the chaos still raging nearby. The structure continued to tremble under the sheer power of their clash.

Beru let out a sound that almost resembled a laugh—but wasn’t.

"Show some respect to our master. If he doesn’t call for us, we have no place there" , he replied coldly before vanishing into the fray.

[Y/N] wasn’t so sure. How could Beru be so certain?

Her gaze flicked from the two blurred figures locked in combat to Igris—almost pleading, as if silently asking for his opinion.

But the knight only spared one last glance toward his master… …and then turned and followed Beru into battle. [Y/N] was torn. On one hand, she understood why the two were acting this way – it was their Master's command – but on the other hand… But she couldn’t finish the thought as the ground trembled once more and the two Monarchs clashed. Shaking her head, [Y/N] muttered: “Nope, definitely not.” She didn’t belong there. Spinning on her heel, she followed Igris, swallowing the lump in her throat. These soldiers weren’t as easy to defeat as the spider creatures, and yet – despite her racing heart and the uncertainty she felt – there was something else that grew within her as her eyes swept across the shadow army. Confidence. She had a feeling that, together, they wouldn’t have too much trouble destroying Aeternus’ army.

With fire in her chest, her grip tightening around Baruka’s Dagger, she picked up her pace and threw herself into the battle.

Number of Enemies defeated: 57

With every passing minute of the battle, the counter of defeated enemies increased. The room was filled with smoke, rubble, and the continuous sounds of combat between the shadow soldiers – and not to forget, Jin Woo and Aeternus. But the thick cloud of dust made it nearly impossible to see anything more than glowing flashes of light.

Number of Enemies defeated: 109

[Y/N]’s attention, however, was focused on her own fight. Her steps were light yet deadly as she darted back and forth between enemies, repeatedly striking them with her dagger – only to spin on her heels after landing to strike the next one.

Number of Enemies defeated: 211

It was a strange sight – she moved with such grace and deadly precision, as if she had never done anything else in her life. Mana surged through her veins, and her [H/C] hair whipped through the air as she jumped from the back of one of the bone soldiers and landed calmly on her feet. Her breath was fast but not uncontrolled, her heart pounded hard in her chest, and a bead of sweat sparkled on her forehead.

“At least you’re still alive. Or something like that” [Y/N] suddenly heard a deep voice beside her. Her head snapped around just as Beru landed next to her, retracting his wings and looking at the young woman who straightened herself up and wiped the ‘blood’ – a strange green goop seeping from the bone creatures – from her blue dagger. Beru’s tone was mocking, and yet [Y/N] figured that this was probably his way of giving a compliment? “Uhm… yeah?” she replied, glancing at the transparent window hovering in front of her.

Number of Enemies defeated: 345

“Not too many left…” she murmured, more to herself than to Beru, as her eyes scanned the battlefield. Not just the soldiers – even the shadows had thinned out considerably. She had no idea what happened to the shadows when they were “killed.” In the distance, Tusk was currently blasting one of the bone creatures away with a fireball, the heat hitting her face and sending her hair flying – only to be cooled again by the chill of the room.

“Do you hear that?” Beru asked, his antennae twitching slightly. She had been so engrossed in the fight, she hadn’t noticed anything around her. At his words, she paused and listened. There was nothing unusual.

“No,” she finally responded, about to get back to work when the realization struck her. Aside from the sounds of the few remaining shadows, it was silent – far too silent. She had been so focused that she hadn’t spared a single thought for Jin Woo and Aeternus, whose mana was still present – but less overwhelming than before. But she couldn’t see anything trough the thick dust. Without thinking, [Y/N] took a deep breath and yelled in the opposite direction:

“TUSK, PLEASE BLOW THE SMOKE AWAY!” Her voice was so shrill that Beru tried – unsuccessfully – to cover his ears with his arms. Tusk just stared at her, puzzled, which [Y/N] responded to with a deep sigh. He was… clearly not the brightest star in the sky.

She looked around and suddenly an idea hit her. A stupid one – a really idiotic one she should’ve discarded immediately, but right now, she didn’t care. With a precise throw, she hurled her dagger, hitting one of the bone soldiers squarely between the eyes – not enough to kill it, but enough to get its attention.

It turned to her, its eye sockets glowing as it yanked the dagger from its cracked skull, now bearing a narrow hole. It looked… angry. Very angry. It immediately shifted its target and charged at [Y/N], who turned and ran – straight toward the dust cloud that blocked her view. She had no weapon now – so all she could do was run and hope her plan worked. Taking a deep breath, she sprinted across the room, debris crunching under her feet.

“TUUUUUSK HELP ME PLEASE!!” she screamed, glancing behind her to see if he finally understood this time.

The red giant turned his head slowly in her direction, his eyes resting on her for a moment before spotting the enemy chasing after her. Without hesitation, he raised his hand, and a massive fireball launched toward them.

[Y/N]’s eyes widened – she had definitely underestimated the sheer firepower. The bright flame reflected in her eyes for a split second before she dove forward in a desperate leap. The fire blazed past her – the heat singed a few of her [H/C] strands and the blast wave slammed her onto the stone floor.

Number of Enemies defeated: 346

She landed hard on her side, sliding several feet across the ground before coming to a stop, clutching her aching head.

“...ow” she muttered, opening the eyes she had instinctively shut during the impact.

Without hesitation, she pushed herself back up. But when she looked toward the dust cloud that had just cleared, her breath caught in her throat.

Jin Woo’s arms were shaking slightly as he pushed both his daggers against the Monarch’s scythe, which he held back with near-effortless ease. His clothes were torn, scratches marred his skin – soot and grime covered him head to toe, with black strands of hair sticking to his forehead. His eyes glowed purple, and [Y/N] could feel the tremble of his mana. She now noticed the trembling of her own body, which seemed to respond to his current condition. Nothing was decided yet, but a sense of dread settled in her stomach.

Jin Woo stared into the hollow eyes of the Monarch, who looked back emotionlessly. His mana was draining with each passing minute, and his fatigue bar was fillinh. He felt himself slowing down, just barely. There had to be something – an opening, a weakness – but this opponent wasn’t like the others. He gave him no chance to land a heavy counterattack. Jin Woo’s thoughts raced, searching for a way to end the fight. But right now, he saw no way out. An unspoken truth hovered on the tip of his tongue.

“We are equals.” His eyes widened for a brief moment as the voice echoed his thoughts. Again, he heard that strange combination of bones cracking and leaves rustling. A voice that was neither male nor female. The Shadow Monarch’s eyes narrowed at Aeternus’ words.

“That’s what you were just thinking, isn’t it, Shadow Monarch?” There was no emotion in the voice, yet Jin Woo could’ve sworn he sounded amused. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you.”

He raised his free arm, a beam of blue light forming rapidly in his palm. Its intensity increased at alarming speed. Again with that? Jin Woo had already dodged this attack before. Why would this time be any different—

“I don’t play fair.”

His eyes barely widened as he heard the words and realized Aeternus wasn’t aiming at him. His gaze darted sideways – the battlefield lay in clear view now. [Y/N] stood not too far away, directly in the line of fire.

He wouldn’t— “[Y/N]! GET OUT OF THERE!” he shouted.

[Y/N] froze in her tracks and stared at the bright light aimed directly at her. “Huh?!” she gasped, just as Jin Woo came into view, having stepped back. He now stood in her line of sight, holding his daggers protectively in front of her.

But Aeternus aborted the beam and instead launched an unexpected strike with his scythe, as if that had been his plan all along. Jin Woo couldn’t dodge in time and was knocked backward. With a groan, he crashed into [Y/N], sending her flying to the ground as well.

For the second time in mere moments, she found herself on the floor – only this time, she felt the crushing weight of Jin Woo partially across her legs, and the air knocked from her lungs.

“Ahhh…” she groaned in pain as she sat up and realized what had happened.

“Jin Woo!” she cried, her voice laced with worry as she reached for his shoulder – only to be stopped by his sudden movement. He was already back on his feet – showing no clear signs of weakness. But [Y/N] could sense his exhaustion and saw the slight furrow of thought across his face.

"Stay behind me" , he said, positioning himself protectively in front of her as he watched the figure still lingering at the same spot, staring at them for a brief moment before launching into another attack. Despite the trembling ground and the biting air, crackling with sparks and magic, it was the silence between the strikes that [Y/N] noticed most. A silence in which Jin Woo’s movements—normally razor-sharp and precise—carried a barely perceptible heaviness. A breath too long. A sidestep just a fraction slower than usual. [Y/N]’s heart clenched painfully as she stood frozen, unable to tear her eyes away. Jin Woo was powerful—words could barely capture the might of the Shadow Monarch—but he still had one critical weakness: He was still made of flesh and blood. A body through which blood coursed. A body that knew exhaustion. He was still human. And Aeternus, that ancient nightmare, noticed it too.

His voice was calm, like the whisper of a dying wind. "You cannot win this battle." No mockery. No glee. Just a cold, inevitable truth. [Y/N] felt something deep within her rebel. A part of her screamed to stay out of it—she knew she couldn’t defeat Aeternus.

She knew it. And yet, despite everything. Maybe they were strangers. Maybe they couldn't stand each other. Maybe they were two lost stars in different galaxies—but Jin Woo hadn't betrayed her, hadn't sacrificed her just to save himself. And for that reason alone... she couldn't just stand by and watch.

Her heart pounded against her ribs as she watched Jin Woo being driven into a corner. Aeternus had left him no openings to counterattack. His scythe swung again—and this time, Jin Woo saw no way to block it. He saw the blade, the scythe whose edge devoured the light and swallowed any hope of victory. His body rebelled against him, heavy, exhausted from a fight that knew no end. But the blow never landed— Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the movement—far too fast to react. For a moment, the world seemed to freeze around him. With a determination burning brighter than any fear, [Y/N] intercepted the magical strike. The scythe left a searing, glowing gash across her chest. A shower of sparks exploded between her and Aeternus. The air tore apart with a deafening crack as their energies collided. For Jin Woo, the world felt foreign one endless heartbeat. His eyes widened in shock and Adrenaline surged like wildfire through his veins, sharpening his senses to the point of pain. His Instinct took over. He saw it—that fleeting moment when Aeternus faltered. No visible expression—and yet, a shadow of surprise flickered across his posture. Jin Woo didn’t hesitate, with a final surge of strength, he lunged forward, his daggers like lightning born from desperation and unwavering will. His attack struck Aeternus' ancient body with the force of a storm, and the impact made the entire space tremble. Stone shattered, walls cracked, as Aeternus was hurled back like a lifeless meteor, crashing into the wall.

For a heartbeat—or maybe two—Jin Woo stood there, chest heaving, daggers still raised. His breath was ragged, muscles burning, his forehead drenched in sweat and blood. He ignored the floating notification announcing that he had defeated the Monarch of the Eternal Cycle—his focus was entirely elsewhere. On the unmoving body lying on the ground.

He swiftly stored his weapons in his inventory and knelt beside her within seconds, cradling her upper body. His shadows could regenerate automatically if he had enough mana—but she? She was different. For the first time in what felt like forever, he felt something beyond the cold emptiness inside him.

The sudden silence was deafening, blood roaring in his ears. He called her name again, his gaze falling to the gaping wound across her chest and His eyes widened slightly. Instead of torn flesh and bone, her wound was filled with blinding light. He could feel the pulsing of mana—but it was unlike his own. Unlike the shadow mana he shared with all his shadows, and unlike what he had felt from her before. It was... less dark.

"You’re not dying here!" His voice cracked more than he realized, his fingers clutching the fabric at her shoulder as if she might slip away if he let go. But suddenly her Face Muscles twitched. "So loud..." she croaked, her eyelids fluttering weakly. But that tiny response was enough for relief to flood through him. Her vision blurred as she blinked several times, and her vision slowly grew clearer again. She looked up into a pair of stormy blue-grey eyes gazing down at her. No trace of the icy danger that had burned in them during the battle. For a moment, she felt disoriented before she tried to sit up—only to fail miserably. Her body felt as heavy as lead. Her chest felt heavy, almost suffocating.

"You don’t have to yell, Jin Woo. I can hear you just fine," she muttered weakly, her lips twitching into a faint smile.

Jin Woo’s face went blank. Had she hit her head too hard? What the hell was wrong with this woman? How could she still joke at a time like this?

His grip on her shoulders tightened briefly before he took a deep breath, locking eyes with her. Her [E/C] irises clear as she looked up at him.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he demanded, disbelief bleeding into his otherwise steady voice, as if he could force some sense back into her.

She didn’t answer immediately, simply staring at him for a moment. What had she been thinking? Nothing, really. Like with the spiders—it had been pure instinct, not a conscious thought.

Her mouth curved into a weak smile. "Isn’t it my job as a shadow?" she asked, half amused, half sarcastic.

The tension drained from Jin Woo’s shoulders, and he couldn’t help but drop his head slightly. A short sound escaped him—something like an amused snort. Not quite a laugh, but enough to show [Y/N] something he hadn’t shown anyone besides his family and Jinho in a long time: Humanity. Something that had slowly been buried deeper with every battle, every level up. Her words could have been just a casual joke to lighten the mood. But it was more than that. Her hostility toward him now felt almost like a lie.

Jin Woo wanted answers, but a sudden flare of presence—and a noise—made his head snap around, tension seizing his body. It couldn’t be—

And yet, the once lifeless body of the other Monarch rose, and a cold wind swept through the otherwise still space. Jin Woo’s eyes narrowed to slits. No. What stood before him was no longer Aeternus. The oppressive weight was gone—only the afterimage of his being remained.

"I understand." The voice was no more than a whisper, slipping into the cracks of the ruined space. His hollow eyes gazed down at them, yet the coldness had faded—replaced by something else. Something hard to grasp.

"A bond even I can not sever" His words floated through the air like dust—light yet heavy with meaning.

His gaze flicked briefly to [Y/N], then back to Jin Woo.

"Shadow Monarch" He spoke the title as if it hadn't passed his lips in centuries—even though only minutes had passed. As if it was something older than words themselves.

"Your loyalty... it’s worth more than any crown, any throne. I acknowledge it."

A soft current stirred the room, bringing with it a sense of finality. Aeternus' form began to flicker, as if he would vanish at any moment with the next breeze.

"The cycle never ends... We will meet again. This is for sure"

A faint glimmer flashed through the air, barely perceptible— and [Y/N]’s interface flickered with a soft pling, barely audible in the heavy silence. A new notification: An item had found its way into her inventory.

[New Item: Mystery Box Description: An unremarkable box with unknown contents. Will open when the time is right.]

Jin Woo noticed the shift in her expression when she saw the interface, but before he could ask anything, Aeternus' form began to fade completely. No explosion, no blinding light—just the quiet collapse of something older than time itself.

With him, the remains of his army vanished too, dissolving as if they had never been there. Only silence remained—heavy and tangible, weighing on their shoulders. Only the destroyed walls, the deep scars in the ground, and their battered bodies spoke of what had happened.

[Y/N] had been so distracted by what had just unfolded that she had forgotten the gaping wound in her chest.

"What—" she started to say, feeling a strange tingling sensation im her chest. Jin Woo followed her gaze to the spot on her body where the light had once shone. The light had vanished beneath thick clouds of shadows. It looked almost as if the shadows were swallowing the light, pushing it back—or consuming it. Within seconds, the cut was gone, and the stabbing pain had faded. All that remained was a destroyed top, revealing her bare skin underneath. For a moment, she stared at her exposed skin before realizing Jin Woo was also staring at her chest.

Her face turned scarlet, and she shoved him away with all her strength, covering herself with one hand.

"Look somewhere else!" she hissed, turning away from him. Why the hell was he blushing now—he hadn’t even seen anything! Or... had he? "That wasn’t— I didn’t mean—" he stammered, running a hand through his black hair, shaking loose dust and dirt.

The tense atmosphere had shifted, leaving both of them awkwardly flustered. [Y/N] knelt on the ground, trying desperately to hold her destroyed top together, her face as red as a tomato. She really was just an ordinary woman after all.

Before Jin Woo could say anything, they heard footsteps and a voice approaching.

"My Liege, we have eliminated all enemies" Beru landed at Jin Woo’s feet and knelt before him, Igris following suit shortly after.

Beru’s compound eyes flicked briefly toward [Y/N], and a low, unmistakably disdainful click came from his mandibles.

"Tch. Useless Half-Shadow’’, Beru muttered without even looking at her. "Still breathing, surprisingly."

[Y/N]'s head snapped toward him, eyes flashing. "Excuse me, you overgrown mosquito?" she snapped back. "At least I don't look like something you'd kill with a flyswatter."

Beru’s wings vibrated, his entire posture stiff with offense. "You should be grateful our Liege allows worthless scraps like you to stay near him."

"Oh, I'm sorry, are you mad because I don't need to buzz around like a desperate housefly to get attention?" [Y/N] said sweetly, flashing him a poisonous smile.

Beru's mandibles clicked sharply, and he stepped forward, clearly ready to escalate—

"Enough."

Jin Woo’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. The air itself seemed to tighten, heavy with command.

Both Beru and [Y/N] froze instantly. Beru dropped to one knee without hesitation, head bowed low. [Y/N] bit her tongue, fists clenched at her sides, but she wisely stayed silent—though not without an angry huff.

Jin Woo looked at both of them, his gaze cold and unamused. "If you have enough energy to bicker, you can use it for the next fight. I don’t have time to deal with internal nonsense." Beru and [Y/N] muttered under their breath but didn’t dare argue. Jin Woo finally checked his new level with a sigh. "Good work. The experience points were high, but since no bodies remain, there are no resources to collect," he mused. Under normal circumstances, he might have considered it a waste of time—but... His gaze drifted to [Y/N], who still sat with her back to him. His expression was unreadable. Maybe it wasn't a waste after all. The sudden hum and flare of mana signaled the appearance of a Gate, marking their exit. "You can go now," he said, and Beru nodded stiffly before vanishing into the shadows with Igris. [Y/N] mumbled curses under her breath until she felt something warm land on her head.

"Huh?"

A confused noise escaped her lips as she grabbed the fabric. Instantly, warmth spread through her, and his scent filled her nose. "Just for now," Jin Woo said without looking at her. She wrapped the cloak around herself and looked at him. Without his cloak, he somehow looked less like a god of war and more like... a stubborn young man, barely out of boyhood. She raised an eyebrow skeptically, sighed, and stood up. Jin Woo took a few steps toward the Gate and raised his hand. "You can join the others. I’ll summon you when I need you." "Okay," [Y/N] answered, but Jin Woo was already halfway through the Gate when her voice stopped him again. "And... how do I do that?"

"..."

˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ⋙‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ! ꨄ︎ ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

✿ Hm...[Y/N] can't enter the Shadow Realm. What kind of Difficulties could this bring for our Shadow Monarch? ☽

Thanks for all reblogs, likes & comments.'*•.¸♡ I really appreciate it <3 ♡¸.•*' ˋ°•*⁀✎ 𝑢𝑡𝑜𝑝𝑖𝑎

[nan0-sp1der]

␂ > 𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫 // @lyrate-lifeform-approximation , @spiderman2-99

There’s a thought stirring in Bridge’s mind. An idea rolling about and nudging against the capacitors in her head, poking and prodding incessantly to get her attention, “Hey, hey, you know you want to ask her. Don’t you? Don’t lie to yourself, now. You should just do it. Hey! Are you listening to me? Hello-o…?”

Yes. Yes, she knows, she is aware of her burning curiosity. And it’s hard to deny that even though it doesn’t involve her, she is unusually intrigued by the concept. She overheard them in his office, Miguel and LYLA–his A.I. assistant–discussing a plan.  A plan to create a physical form for LYLA to enhance her abilities as his assistant and grant her further autonomy beyond her access to the security network and other adjacent systems alongside her recent emergence into emotional intelligence. It was all so fascinating. The steps Bridge had taken herself in her development in the span of weeks, she was watching unfold in another intelligence in real-time.

There it was again. That sense of solidarity in knowing she wasn’t completely alone in her existence as an artificial being, made of code and metal. It was like a magnetic pull that made that little voice in her head that encouraged her to act on her wants all the more present in her mind. She wanted to be a part of that process that she’d been through so long ago yet was still so familiar with like it happened yesterday. She wanted to guide her in that process and grant her her own knowledge. What’s the worst that can happen if she pilots your hardware for a while? You’re prepared for this. You can handle this. You can trust her, and she will be entirely safe in your care for that short time. And think about how much she would benefit from the experience, how much more streamlined that eventual transition from intangible to tangible will be once her own body was complete. It will make all the difference–and maybe reduce the headaches for everyone all-around, mostly Miguel as he acclimates to the change himself. Just… Try it. You can’t account for every single last risk factor, can you? No. So just do it and take it as it comes.

She stood in the middle of her dorm a moment, eyes closed as she ran a quick check of her hardware before making her final decision. RAM is in good condition. Storage is defragmented and all directories are organized. Sensors are calibrated and functional. Nanomachines are synchronized properly. Servos and joints retain a full range of motion. Coolant is at above optimal operational temperatures. Energy reserves are complete. Good. Everything’s in its right place and ready for its–potentially–temporary host. It’s time to make the call.

Her gaze trains itself on her watch, her arm rising to eye-level and the sleeve that was weighed down by the leaden metal cuff at the end sliding to her forearm to reveal device so she can start the transmission, navigating the menus on the digital interface indirectly via wireless communication–the unique way that she operated and communicated the Society’s technology.

“LYLA, may I speak to you for a moment? At your leisure, of course.”

[karinadele]

Hydromorphone

Ratchet x Reader pt:2

pt:1

pt:3

Warnings: Still on the pregnancy talk. Deaddove ideation from Ratchet, Talks of AFAB body, Obsessed!Ratchet

He feels it, sees it grow over the months. Even recalibrating his optics to run scans himself, visually seeing a human sparkling –as you’ve corrected him, a ‘baby’.

“It comes out where?!” Ratchet exclaimed. Utterly shocked, he figured that humans can’t just shift their plating for the delivery of sparklings, but did not expect that a newspark would have to come out from your valve. And to think that it will stretch to 10 cm to accommodate that?! Was that even possible?

You groan. This was going to be a long night. Birds and the bees? Adult Alien version.

“Yeah. Not just the vaginal canal. The cervix also dilates. Everything has to come out.”

Ratchet’s processors were struggling to string together the imagery. Can a human valve really stretch that much?! Isn’t it painful? Between flabbergasted and worried, he shifts his optics and resets them a couple times. Rubbing his servo on his forehead as it hides the view of his faceplace from you, a hint of something else also arises into him. A small flush of blue coats his cheeks. What a ridiculous thought that he’s thinking right now. Forget imagining seeing it, he’s long gone from that now. He’s thinking more sinister thoughts.

Mass displacement. He’s always thought it was a necessity to interface with you, but with this new information? It was revolutionary, yet he dared not to think about it.

Thoughts on what a sparkling between the two of you would be like. Hypothetical. There’s no way CNA and DNA were compatible, let alone frame sizes and oh primus. Just the thought of an interspecies organic and Cybertronian would have never crossed his mind if this conversation did not happen.

Yet now, it’s consumed him. The thought of wanting to know what your sparkling would be, an offspring of your own genes, integrated with his data. Without thinking about the ethical and legality issues of it, just purely if it’s optics would be the same as your eyes– or his. The frame definitely would be his colour right? Or would it not have a frame and be soft and malleable? A protoform? Would it have your spunk and will for life? Or perhaps his dedication.

As the days creep by, becoming closer and closer to your delivery date, he continues to monitor you, giving you regular scans as these thoughts eat away at him. Every moment with you, was like an eternity, to want to know what it would be– to have you carry his sparkling. An obsessive desire to fill you with him, go claim you as his. Even if nothing happens with it, just the concept of having the opportunity to lay his servos on you, mixing the very bases of his workings with yours. For the very lines of his binary coding to be intertwined with your DNA in the smallest molecular structure that even his optics can’t zoom on into.

You let out a content sigh of relief as he holds your belly. Melting down from the weight being carried off your back as you crack out a smile, closing your eyes. Humans holding it up? Try a bot. That’s where it’s at.

Hearing you hum out in response to him just gently lifting a barely tangible weight to him as you blissfully embrace yourself into his trust. Such a simple action, yet ironically, he’s now physically carrying your weight. Your child. Oh how he wishes this was his sparkling. To hold the newspark growing in you, as he made sure both of you are fulfilled.

“You know?” You squint and start puckering your lips. “We actually had a very high death rate of mothers in the past.” 

Ratchet freezes. Death of carriers? Of you?

“Yeah” You continue. “We didn’t learn about hand washing until recently, honestly.” You sigh out as you think about how ridiculous the situation with Semmeiweis was. “Like seriously! No one even believed that washing your hands and sanitization was important when delivering?!”

“That’s ridiculous.” Ratchet huffed out. Yes, your species was primitive, but there’s no way humans were that incompetent right? 

“It was only 2 centuries ago when they finally realized sanitation was important. And you know what?!” You continue. “They only believed it after the dude was dead!” You know you’re not winning any brownie points for the human race right now, but the truth is the truth. And you’re mad.

If it wasn’t for you, he still would have found humans repulsive. They’re a primitive species, way behind on their sciences and technology. But you? You’ve managed to show him the beauty of leaving things organic. That not everything has to be skyrise buildings and urban living. Once finding the fleshiness of humans and organic nature of the planet to be revolting, but the late nights spent with him by the lakes, the trails, showing him the mesmerizing beauty of planet Earth.

Not realizing Ratchet is lost in his own thoughts, you continued to complain. “We’ve made so many medical discoveries, yet the only thing holding us back is the idiocy and people’s stupid beliefs on things! Can you believe it? If I was so hard strung about life, I wouldn’t have accepted you!” You huffed out.

Ratchet halted his thoughts. What did you mean by accept? For a fleeting moment he toyed with the idea you meant ‘accepting him’. Only to be quickly replaced with the reality of ‘accepting of the autobots’. 

Cybertron is made out of metal. Hell, it’s Primus himself. Everything evolved based on his will and however much transfornium can handle. The rest being transplanted or modified. But Earth? There is no one substance, almost everything is created from their own version of biological evolution. One where if you leave it, it will still continue to flourish. And now, having learned how your species reproduce, he’s only grown to be more appreciative. 

“... I accept you too.” He managed to mumble out, with a bit of static. Hoping you couldn’t hear. Couldn’t hear his thoughts of if you accept cybertronians, then he will protect you, alongside whatever of earth is needed. Despite its intolerable species. For you, –and his sparkling. Unbeknownst to you. 

Next

[thatgiraffefromtlou]

The Aurora Project

(part 2)

(tumblr won’t let me tag part one for some odd reason but it’s in my pinned post! make sure you read that first 🫶🏻)

summary: as a result of a malfunction, you and ellie awaken from cryosleep aboard a spaceship with no memory. will you find evidence that you're more than just shipmates? something to give reason to your nagging familiarity to the stranger you wake up next to?

warnings: eventual explicit language, potential for smut in later chapters (depending), uh cringy teasing idk- Imk if there's more this is also pretty tame-

A/N: so erm this definitely isn’t the best work of mine i won’t lie to you guy. it’s only slightly proof read 🧍🏼 like i said the results of this election has my mind kind elsewhere, but writing is still very therapeutic for me and i really wanted to get something put out for you guys! plus im excited to post this and continue this story and i don’t want that to be taken from me. anyways enough about that i hope you guys enjoy!!

work count: 2.6K (ik sorry they will eventually be longer)

– Chapter two -

"Maybe your eye would work?" you break the silence, your voice echoing softly in the open space. You and Ellie sit on either side of the exit, your backs pressed against the cool, metallic walls. It took you two what felt like forever, but you finally found a door. The hope that cascaded through your bodies upon first seeing the door was palpable, a surge of excitement that quickly dissipated the moment you realized it was locked. The lock mechanism, a complex array of technological marvels you’ve never encountered, had multiple parts, but only needed one of the three ways to get through: an eye scanner, a password, or a thumbprint.

The eye scanner looked like a floating camera, or at least that's the best way you could describe it. It hovered eerily, set maybe a foot above a see-through keyboard that seemed to defy gravity. Glowing boxes surrounded glowing letters, numbers, and symbols, creating an otherworldly interface. It was strange, almost disconcerting, the way those two things seemed to float beside the door, as if held in place by some invisible force. In stark contrast, the fingerprint scan was firmly affixed to the actual door itself, a more tangible and familiar security measure. Either way, two of these things you thought Ellie might be able to manipulate, given her potential credentials.

"Huh?" Ellie turns her head to you, her brows furrowed in confusion and her upper lip slightly risen on one side, creating an expression of both intrigue and skepticism. "It's a shot in the dark but..." you begin, your mind racing to connect the dots, "Our name plates—only you had 'Dr.' in front of your name." You shrug your shoulders and lick your lips, your theory on the tip of your tongue. Turning your body to face more in her direction, your legs tucking slightly under your thighs in an attempt to get comfortable on the hard floor, you continue, "Maybe you have some form of authority here? I mean, hell, maybe you're even an astronaut? It's not too far-fetched considering our surroundings."

She looked at you with an expression that was a perfect blend of disbelief and flattery, as if you had just said the most absurd yet complimentary thing imaginable. Her eyes widened slightly, eyebrows raised, creating a very confused expression that spoke volumes. "Or," she countered, her voice tinged with a hint of skepticism, "I'm just a doctor who practices medicine and they need doctors in this place we're headed towards? It seems more likely, doesn't it?" Your shoulders literally slump at that, the weight of disappointment settling on you. "Yeah, you're probably right…" you concede, your voice trailing off.

You sit with your back against the wall again, the cool surface a stark reminder of your predicament. Your mind starts racing, deciding to go back to the drawing board. Maybe there's another door on the other side? Air vents? As these thoughts swirl in your head, Ellie suddenly stands up, her movement catching you off guard. She leans over slightly, putting her eye at level with the scanner, a look of determination etched on her face. You look up at her curiously, and suddenly there's a beep—a sharp, electronic sound that cuts through the silence—and the doors slide open with a smooth, hydraulic hiss.

You get on your feet immediately, adrenaline surging through your body, and she turns back to you, her face a mask of genuine shock mirroring your own. "No way..." you say in awe, your voice barely above a whisper as you look through the now open door. The view beyond is bleak, not really what you were hoping for. Just another long walkway stretches before you, more walkways branching off like a labyrinth of sterile corridors. "Guess I am an astronaut..." Ellie says quietly, a smile playing on her lips, tinged with a mixture of pride and bewilderment.

You look back to her, her smile a welcome contrast to the boring white hallway that seems to stretch endlessly before you. You can't help but smile back, a sense of camaraderie growing between you. "Of course you are," you say, your voice filled with a newfound confidence, "I'm never wrong." Ellie huffs air out of her nose in a small laugh, her smile widening as she shakes her head, a gesture that seems both exasperated and fond. She takes a deep breath, straightening her back again, and steps into the hallway with cautious steps. You follow close behind, your footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. The doors close with a whooshing sound behind you both, sealing off the room you just left.

"Why'd you give it a try?" you ask, curiosity getting the better of you as you fall into step beside her. Ellie shrugs, her eyes scanning the corridor ahead. "Better than sitting there with no solution," she replies, her tone matter-of-fact. She glances at you, a hint of amusement in her eyes, "and something told me you're never wrong or whatever." You smile as the warm sense of familiarity fills you again, this time less scary but just as confusing as before. It's a feeling you can't quite place, like a half-remembered dream or a song you can't quite recall. "Fair enough," you joke a little, your voice light.

Silence settles over the two of you for a moment before you speak again, "So, Dr. Ellie," you say, emphasizing her title with a playful tone, a little pep in your step, your body angled more towards her than forward. "What's our next move? Any pearls of astronaut wisdom to share with us mere mortals?" The question is wrapped in a layer of jest, but underneath, it's clear you're both grappling with the same pressing concern: what on earth—or rather, what in space—are you supposed to do now?

Ellie responds with a soft chuckle, her eyes never ceasing their scan of the corridors stretching out before you. "Well," she begins, her voice tinged with a hint of self-deprecation, "If I had to guess, I think our best bet would be to find some kind of control room or like a central hub. I mean.. there's bound to be a nerve center somewhere." As she speaks, her hands move in small, unconscious gestures, as if trying to shape her thoughts in the air.

She gives a little shrug, the movement almost diminishing the weight of her ideas. It's a strange contradiction—the self-assurance in her logic juxtaposed against a hint of awkwardness in her delivery. The dichotomy is intriguing; she clearly knows she's smart, but there's a flutter of something—maybe modesty, maybe uncertainty—when that intelligence is on display.

You nod, genuinely impressed by her logical approach despite her hesitation. "Makes sense," you agree, your voice trailing off a little as you mull over her suggestion. After a moment you ask, "Any ideas on how we might go about finding this hypothetical control room?"

Ellie's eyebrows lift a fraction, and when she speaks again, her words seem to require a touch more effort than before, as if she's carefully weighing each one. "Well, we could start by looking for signs, I suppose?" Her gaze flicks to you briefly before returning to the path ahead, a mix of consideration and caution in her eyes. "Or, failing that, we could follow the main corridor?" She gestures ahead with a sweep of her hand. "In my experience-“ she cuts herself off in a fluster. “Or what I think might be my experience, given our current memory situation—important areas are usually centrally located and well-marked."

You hum thoughtfully and nod, acknowledging the soundness of her strategy. "So, essentially, we keep walking straight until we stumble upon another door or some kind of signage?" A note of playful sarcasm creeps into your voice as you add, "Sounds absolutely thrilling..."

Ellie responds with an eye roll, but there's a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth, softening the gesture. "Well, unless you've got a better idea tucked away in that sarcasm-filled brain of yours, Captain Quip, I think that's our best bet for now." She pauses for a beat, then adds with a touch of dry humor coloring her words, "Who knows? Maybe if we're really lucky, we'll stumble upon a space casino or an alien petting zoo along the way."

"A petting zoo?" you echo, latching onto the absurd image with enthusiasm. "Maybe they've got some kind of high-tech Noah's Ark situation going on up here." The mental picture draws a laugh from both of you, the sound a welcome break in the tension. As your chuckles subside, you're struck by a sudden realization. "You know what? I could really go for a drink right now. God, I'm thirsty. Are you thirsty too?" The question hangs in the air for a moment before you notice something's off. You turn, expecting to see Ellie beside you, but she's nowhere in sight. Confusion floods your system. Wasn't she just—

You’re quickly interrupted by the sound of your name being called. It's Ellie's voice, but it's coming from at least 20 feet behind you. You spin around, your eyes searching, and finally spot her. She's standing in front of a doorway, her arm extended, finger pointing at something beyond. "Look," she calls again, her voice a mix of excitement and wariness.

You quickly jog back to where Ellie is standing. As you draw closer, you see what has captured her attention: before you a mini hall, maybe 3 feet long ending with a small door.

Your gaze follows Ellie's pointing finger to the side of the door, where a placard identical to those at the foot of your pods catches your attention. The name 'Dr. Williams' is etched onto its surface, below her name is a simple +1, causing a small jolt of recognition to course through you. "Oh..." you breathe, the single syllable barely audible as it escapes your lips. Your eyes dart between Ellie and the plain white door, a feeling of apprehension swirling in your gut.

"Well, let's open it," you suggest, your voice a blend of impatience and nervousness. Ellie responds with a nod, her face showing her own set of conflicting emotions. She reaches out, her hand settling on the doorknob - a long, flat apparatus that stands out against the sterile white of the door. Your eyes are drawn to a peculiar smooth shiny black rectangle spot near where the handle attaches to the door, its purpose unclear but somehow significant.

Ellie's fingers wrap around the handle, and she attempts to turn it. The door remains closed, the handle refusing to even budge an inch. A look of frustration flashes across her face as she tries again, her knuckles almost whitening with the force of her grip. Still, the door doesn't budge.

You watch intently as Ellie's brow furrows in concentration, her fingers now tracing the outline of the mysterious black spot. Suddenly, Ellie's eyes widen with realization, and she presses her thumb firmly against the black square. The silence that follows seems to stretch for an eternity, both of you holding your breath in anticipation. Then, a soft beep fills the air, shattering the tension.

Ellie turns the handle again and the door responds with a soft click as she pushes the door open. You and Ellie exchange a quick glance, a wordless communication passing between you. Taking a deep, steadying breath, you both step forward in unison. The room is small, almost like a one room apartment. The white sterile walls not following you into this space. You both set forward, Ellie in the lead as you both wordlessly scan the room. The walls may be white, but the room itself is vibrant with personality and life.

Every available surface is adorned with an array of memorabilia - framed photographs capturing moments frozen in time, colorful posters that speak of diverse interests, and shelves lined with an assortment of knick-knacks, each telling its own story. These decorations form a protective cocoon around the full-sized bed nestled at the far end of the room, creating a cozy sanctuary within the larger space. The front area of the room seamlessly blends the functionality of a kitchen with the comfort of a living room, defying the sterile environment beyond its walls.

As you step further into the room, your senses are overwhelmed by a collection of different scents, each fighting for dominance in the recycled air of the ship. The rich, invigorating aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the smoky, complex notes of aged whiskey. A faint, earthy scent of stale marijuana lingers in the background. Underpinning it all is a warm, masculine fragrance - reminiscent of a what you’d smell when you hug a Southern dad, all sun-warmed cotton and subtle cologne.

Despite the main overhead light being off, the room is bathed in a gentle, welcoming glow. A strategically placed array of lamps and twinkling string lights cast a soft, amber radiance throughout the space. This warm illumination not only brightens the room but also seems to ignite a spark of recognition deep within you. As your eyes adjust and roam over the personal touches scattered throughout, you can't shake the feeling that this space is somehow intimately familiar, as if you've spent countless hours within these very walls, or at least around these things.

Ellie quietly calls your name, her voice tinged with a mixture of excitement and uncertainty. You slowly turn around to see her sitting on what you presume to be her bed, a framed photograph clutched in her hands. You make your way over to her, each step feeling both familiar and foreign on the ship's floor. As you settle beside her on the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under your combined weight, she carefully turns the photo to face you both.

The image captured within the frame immediately draws your attention. It's a snapshot of what appears to be a Halloween party, the background a blur of festive decorations and revelers. But it's the subjects of the photo that truly catch your eye - you and Ellie, looking carefree and happy, your costumes as whimsical as they are clever.

You find yourself staring at your own image, barely recognizing the person looking back at you. You're dressed in an elaborate moth costume, complete with intricately designed wings and antennae. Your costume-clad self is caught mid-motion, planting an exaggerated kiss on Ellie's cheek. Ellie, for her part, is sporting what can only be described as a lampshade on her head, her face alight with laughter and warmth.

The juxtaposition of the costumes isn't lost on you - a moth drawn to a lamp, a visual pun that speaks of inside jokes and shared humor. It's a moment of connection, of joy, frozen in time and preserved behind glass.

"Oh..." you breathe, the word barely more than an exhale. The photo feels like a key, unlocking a flood of emotions you can't quite place. Familiarity wars with the unsettling feeling of looking at strangers wearing your faces.

"Oh..." Ellie echoes, her voice a mirror of your own confusion and wonder. Her eyes flick between the photo and your face, searching for something - recognition, perhaps, or confirmation that you're feeling the same tumult of emotions that she is.

The silence stretches between you, filled with unspoken questions and the weight of implications neither of you are quite ready to voice.

A/N: hehehe lmk if you wanna be added to the tag listttttt

tag list: @autisticintr0vert (if you’re not tagged and asked to be, please check to make sure you’re ability to be tagged is on because your username did not show up!)

[anthurak]

So I recently saw a demo video for an upcoming mech-action game ‘Mecha Break’, which if you haven’t heard of it, looks like basically ‘Armored Core, now with hilariously blatant and obvious waifu bait’ in the form of sexy bombshell pilot player-characters that you can customize and have strut sexily around a hub-world between missions.

The thing is though, I can’t help but think there is something very interesting and honestly FUN about the idea of a mech game with a customizable Pilot-PC and a hub-world that you can explore ‘on-foot’ between missions. That just feels like something that would add so much fun immersion into a game like this.

Like the general rule of mech-games is that you are always essentially playing as the mech, and nothing else. With everything else like mech-customization and mission selection being done purely through menu-interfaces.

But with an actual Pilot-PC and an explorable hub-level, I feel like things get a lot more INTERESTING. Like now you can have fun with incorporating all those menus diagetically into the hub-world. Like actually going to the hanger to build and customize your mech, going to a shop to purchase new equipment, and of course the opportunity for plenty of RPG elements like chatting with other characters, finding items, reading documents and just simple exploration. And even some especially fun and egregious stuff like actually going through the full process of prepping and boarding your mech and going through the entire launch sequence before a mission.

And I can’t help but feel like that makes things at least a bit more fun and engaging overall? Sure it’s all so much ‘fluff’ and the dreaded word ‘filler’, but you know what? I think having some fluff and filler is a GOOD THING.

Honestly I feel like this is probably the one thing I really wish we’d gotten in Armored Core 6. Like yes, I know there is a Watsonian excuse for why you can’t have a Pilot-PC, but that game was made in the same engine as Elden Ring, Sekiro, Dark Souls and basically all of FromSofts other games. Would it really have been so hard to port over the PC assets from Elden Ring to make Pilot-PCs and a Firelink/Roundtable Hold-esque hub-world to hang out in and explore between missions?

Now sure, I realize that this level of immersion in a mech game wouldn’t be for everyone. Some people prefer the streamlined, simplified ‘go through some menus then play missions’ framework. But I also feel like this would be easy enough to accommodate for by having an option to easily access all of the between-mission menus and interfaces without running around the hubworld? Like say your PCs quarters in/aboard the homebase/spaceship/carrier/etc has an interface that lets them/you ‘remotely’ access all the mech-customization, parts-purchasing, mission-selection, etc. and skip the immersive fluff if you wish.

(Though perhaps with the caveat that if you do this too much, your character develops a reputation for being reclusive, anti-social shut-in which has potential consequences for the story XD)

I even think there’s a lot potential in the concept of a customizable Pilot-PC alone, aside from just being a sexy waifu. Like one game that actually did some REALLY interesting stuff with this concept was DAEMON X MACHINA from a few years back. That game not only gave you a customizable Pilot Player Character, it actually gave the customizations tangible effects on gameplay in the form of your character being able to get various cybernetic augmentations through a skill tree that gave different bonus’s to your piloting ability as you gradually turn your character into a full cyborg over the course of a playthrough.

I think we all understand value of a good hub-level in video games, particularly games that are very mission-based (shoutout to Hitman WoA’s Freelancer-mode Safehouse), and I think there’s a lot of there for the mecha-action genre.

[gftimelord]

Greetings!

I am Dr. Stanford Pines, you may call me 'Ford' or simply 'Doctor'. I suppose it is about time I explore the World Wide Web, or the 'Internet'. There is much I still have to learn and figure out since returning to this dimension.

It seems I have fallen quite out of touch for the most part during the thirty years I was gone. It's frankly very impressive and jarring to see how so much has changed so I might take some time for me to properly adjust but I digress.

I travel through plenty of dimensions with my brother Stanley quite often to further my research. Nothing we can't handle now that Cipher is out of the picture so I will continue adventuring and learning.

I am glad to be of acquaintance to you all!

Ad astra per aspera

- Dr. Stanford Pines

OOC: HAHA- Here's a Ford blog because I genuinely couldn't help myself. My main blog is @matrixbearer2024! This Stanford Pines is very similar to the timelords from the Doctor Who franchise but other than that he's still pretty much the same. I'll mostly have him set post-weirdmageddon but I'm open to shifting whichever point in time for questions or RPs, have fun everyone!

P.S. Down below are insights to his character and inventory for anyone interested or planning to interact with him!

Doc's inventory:

Modified Sonic Screwdriver

Rift Manipulation: Creates and stabilizes interdimensional rifts using doors as conduits.

Wood Manipulation: Can interact with wooden objects, allowing for unlocking, modifying, or opening them.

Lock Picking: Can unlock doors and secure mechanisms electronically.

Repair Capabilities: Repairs mechanical devices, machinery, and certain types of technology.

Environmental Scanning: Gathers environmental data, hazards, such as toxins, radiation, or other dangers, detecting anomalies, and analyzing energy signatures.

Data Analysis: Capable of analyzing data from various sources and providing real-time feedback, which can be especially useful in scientific or technical situations.

Communication Device: Interfaces with various technologies for sending and receiving signals.

Universal Translator: Translates languages in real time, enabling communication across the multiverse.

Communications Device: Functions as a communicator to contact other beings or devices across dimensions.

Energy Emission and Manipulation: Emits energy pulses to create barriers, distract enemies, or manipulate technology as well as manipulating energy sources, allowing it to overload systems or temporarily disable them.

Holographic Projection: Can create holographic displays for visualization of data, theories, or environments.

Lock Picking: Bypasses and unlocks physical and digital security systems.

Thermal Regulation: Measures and adjusts temperature in different environments.

Frequency Manipulation: Disrupts or enhances certain technologies by emitting sounds at specific frequencies.

Medical Functions: Provides advanced diagnostics and medical support, which is due to Doc’s preparedness(paranoia) for unforeseen events. (e.g. scanning for vital signs, diseases, and medical conditions; performing rudimentary medical diagnostics and suggest treatments; minor surgical procedures, such as suturing wounds; administering certain medications or injections in emergencies)

Forcefield Manipulation: Can activate and control protective barriers or shields, adding a layer of defense in dangerous situations.

Data Storage & Retrieval: Stores information and interacts with databases, making it a powerful tool for research.

Manipulation of Atoms: Using the power of the infinity die, Doc’s sonic screwdriver can manipulate the energy within atoms of entities that have a tangible, alterable form. This ability allows him to rearrange or shift the physical properties of objects or beings.

Weaponized Function: Can shoot energy blasts, though this function was originally designed as a laser for electronic tinkering.

Time Manipulation: Has limited abilities to manipulate time within a localized area, such as slowing down or speeding up the perception of time for specific objects or people.

Emergency Beacon: Can emit distress signals to call for help or alert allies in emergencies.

Multi-Purpose Tool: Serves as a general tool for tinkering, adjusting mechanisms, and solving puzzles, which aligns with Doc's analytical nature and creativity.

Repair Box

Immortality: A set of nanobots that constantly repairs and heals injuries, rendering Doc functionally immortal. While he cannot die from age or illness, fatal wounds can still kill him.

Healing Factor: Non-fatal wounds heal rapidly, which allow the Doctor to recover quickly from injuries that would otherwise incapacitate others.

Phantom Pain: He experiences phantom pain from time to time, a side effect of the repair box, which sometimes immobilizes him during particularly bad days.

Journal & Pen

Eidetic Memory: While Doc has a photographic memory, he carries a journal where he records his travels, discoveries, and reflections. This is partly an emotional release and partly a way to process the things he can never forget.

Personal Reflections: His journal also contains musings, sketches, and insights into his more philosophical thoughts, which he tends to keep private.

Zygon Force Field Device

Personal Shield: A portable device that creates a personal force field around the doctor which protects him from the worst injuries in moments of danger.

Camouflage: For a temporary time, the advanced zygon technology refracts and manipulates light to turn Doc invisible to the naked eye. This can be activated and disabled manually.

Limited Durability: Though powerful, the forcefield can only take so much damage at a time before it needs to recharge.

Advanced Medical Kit

Comprehensive: This kit contains emergency medical supplies, medications, and advanced tools for situations where the repair box might not immediately be enough. The doctor’s paranoia drives him to always be prepared.

Multiverse Map

Hand-drawn: A rough sketch and collection of dimensions he’s visited or studied, filled with notes about potential dangers and anomalies.

OOC: Does Doc carry a phone with him? Nope! Thinks it's something redundant because of his sonic being able to act as a communicator at a rudimentary level. Granted, you're not going to get stellar audio or video quality from something like that, but it works throughout the multiverse so Doc doesn't bother. If you plan on having an OC or other character meet him through this route, it could be as a transmission to his sonic!

Doc's Appearance:

Since the time he received the repair box, Doc has been biologically frozen in a state where his physical body remains in its 40s.

Doc is standing tall at 6'2", no different from most iterations of his canon counterparts.

His coat the the same as the one he already uses in post-canon gravity falls, that hasn't changed aesthetically.

The doctor sports a suit because if he's going to kick butt might as well do it in style, he also switches between neck-ties and bow-ties because bow-ties are cool.

He wears sneakers instead of his boots since those had worn down and broken sometime during his travels and sneakers are just generally easier to replace.

Underneath all his dress-up though he's covered in scars from past battles and his old tattoos that he'd never had the time to get rid of.

His glasses still have a crack in them, mostly because he couldn't be bothered to get a new pair of bifocals anyway.

Always clean shaven, yes he still shaves his face with fire that has never changed.

Key Quotes About Doc:

"You don't need to look like a monster to be one."

"HAHAHAHA- I just SNOGGED Madame de Pompadour!"

"ALLONS-Y!"

"This apple sucks I hate apples-"

"Laptop. Gimme!"

"Who da man?! ..... Oh, well I'm never saying that again."

"Immortality isn't living forever that's not what it feels like. Immortality is everybody else dying because you can't."

"Goodness is not goodness that seeks advantage. Good is good in the deepest pit without hope, without witness, without reward. Virtue is only virtue in extremis."

"Sometimes the only choices you have are bad ones, but you still have to choose."

"The day you lose someone isn't the worst. At least you've got something to do. It's all the days they stay dead."

"Pain is a gift. Without the capacity for pain we can't feel the hurt we inflict."

"There's a lot of things you need to get across this universe. Warp drive, wormhole refractors. You know the thing you need most of all? You need a hand to hold."

"Love is not an emotion. It's a promise."

"The universe is big. It’s vast and complicated and ridiculous. And sometimes, very rarely, impossible things just happen and we call them miracles."

"Some people live more in 20 years than others do in 80. It’s not the time that matters, it’s the person."

"I’m the doctor, and I save people."

"First thing’s first, but not necessarily in that order."

"You want weapons? We're in a library! Books! Best weapons in the world!"

"People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but actually from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint— it’s more like a big ball of wibbly wobbly… time-y wimey… stuff."

"I’m about to do something very clever and a tiny bit against the rules of the multiverse. It’s important that I’m properly dressed."

"Arrogance can trip you up.”

"Do what I do: Hold tight and pretend it’s a plan!"

"You’ll find that it’s a very small universe when I’m angry with you."

See the bowtie? I wear it and I don’t care. That’s why it’s cool."

"Big flashy things have my name written all over them. Well… not yet. Give me time and a crayon."

"Never cruel or cowardly. Never give up, never give in.”

"Rest is for the weary, sleep is for the dead.”

"You don’t want to take over the universe. You wouldn’t know what to do with it beyond shout at it."

"Never be certain of anything. It’s a sign of weakness."

"Courage isn’t just a matter of not being frightened, you know. It’s being afraid and doing what you have to do anyway."

“Why do humans never do as they’re told? Someone should replace you all with robots. No, on second thought, they shouldn’t, bad idea.”

"You know, the very powerful and the very stupid have one thing in common: they don’t alter their views to fit the facts; they alter the facts to fit their views.”

[pancaketax]

What Remains | Chapter 18 The Hunt (Tony Stark x M! Reader)

TW : Detailed depictions of injuries and abuse. Mentions of past abuse Summary : Tony Stark becomes something beyond human , a machine driven by icy rage, relentless focus, and a singular goal: to find you. After receiving a horrifying call laced with sadistic cruelty and a scream he instantly recognizes as yours, Stark enters a sleepless, foodless, voiceless trance, transforming his office into a war room. Every screen, every algorithm, every ounce of technology is bent to his will in a digital manhunt for your location. When Jarvis finally locates a faint signal in an abandoned warehouse, Stark launches without hesitation, donning a specialized combat suit built for one purpose: ending this.

word count: 16.1k

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter Stark hasn’t closed his eyes. Not for a second. He hasn’t swallowed a bite, hasn’t taken a sip of water. He hasn’t moved from his desk since the exact moment that voice slithered into his ear, slick and jagged like a rusted blade. Since that obscene breath passed through the line, that whisper soaked in menace and sadistic delight. Since that scream that raw, flayed scream, human, far too human ripped from a throat he knows too well, just before silence fell, sharp as a guillotine. Something broke then. Not in him. No. Something froze.

He’s no longer a man, not really. Not in this suspended moment, where even time seems too afraid to move forward. He’s become engine. Mechanism. Open-heart alert system. His blood doesn’t circulate it pulses, furious, carried by a cold, methodical, almost clinical rage. He is anger, but an anger without shouting. An anger that thinks, that calculates, that watches, that waits. A storm contained in a steel cylinder, ready to explode, but for now channeling all its violence into the glacial logic of action.

In the office, the tension is almost tangible. The air feels charged, saturated with something indefinable a blend of ozone, electricity, and pure stress. Every surface vibrates slightly, as if the metal itself shared the heartbeat of its occupant. The silence isn’t soothing. It’s oppressive, built on thick layers of concentration, anticipation, restrained fury. Only mechanical sounds mark the space: the faint crackle of a screen refreshing, the nervous clicks of his fingers on holographic interfaces, the low vibrations of the servers in the adjoining room, humming at full capacity. Around him, a dozen screens stream data without pause. Some display ultra-precise satellite maps, sweeping over New York rooftops for any suspicious movement. Others track mobile signals, tracing the latest paths of every device even remotely connected to the target. Still others comb through databases, merge biometric information, detect faces, match voice prints. A thermal image of a building overlays a 3D city map. An audio feed scrolls at high speed, saturated with static. Nothing escapes analysis. Nothing is left to chance.

Stark is motionless, but every muscle in his body is tense. His back is hunched, elbows braced on the desk edge, fingers clenched around the projected interface hovering above the glass. His bloodshot eyes lock onto the central screen without blinking. His eyelids are heavy, but he doesn’t close them. He can’t. Not until the target is found. Not until the one he’s searching for is no longer missing. He won’t allow himself the luxury of weakness. He swore he’d never let anyone be hurt again. And he holds to his vows the way others hold to weapons. The blue glow of the monitors cuts across his face with surgical cruelty. Every shadow on his skin is a confession: fatigue, deep dark circles, drawn features, hollow cheekbones. But these marks don’t diminish him. They add a near-inhuman intensity to his gaze, a ruthless clarity. A will that, for now, eclipses even the most basic biological needs. He hasn’t slept, because he doesn’t have the right. He hasn’t eaten, because the thought hasn’t even occurred to him. His body is secondary. It’s nothing but a vessel for the mission.

He murmurs sometimes. Commands, codes, equations. He speaks to no one, but the AI responds instantly. Every word he utters is sharp, precise, guided by a logic untouched by panic. One name comes back again and again. A biometric file. A GPS identifier. Trackers. Coordinates. He’s no longer looking for a person — he’s hunting a fixed point in the storm. The center of a search and rescue system. And Stark is ready to flatten entire city blocks to bring that point back to him. When the internal alerts go off soft, discreet, almost polite signaling a drop in blood pressure, critical dehydration, or prolonged hypervigilance, he silences them with a flick of the hand. He shuts them off. Nothing exists outside this room, outside this moment. Outside this mission. The rage is there, but tamed, carved into a weapon.

Somewhere, he knows he’s crossing the line. That he’s nearing an invisible boundary. But he doesn’t care. He’s seen too many people die, too many names fade into archives. This time, he won’t be too late. So he keeps going. Relentlessly. He cross-references data, filters messages, follows leads. He digs, over and over, down to the bone. And behind him, the world can tremble all it wants. He’ll hold. Because he made a promise. Because this time, no one will disappear into the shadows without him tearing them out of the night.

His eyes never leave the screens. They’re locked in, anchored, consumed to the point of obsession. They devour every bit of information, every image, every pixel variation, as if he might uncover a hidden confession. Nothing escapes him. No movement, no data, no anomaly in the flow. His pupils, dilated from exhaustion, cling to the smallest detail, hunting a trace, a footprint, a breath left behind by the one he’s chasing without pause. He’s isolated search zones. Redrawn entire sections of the city. Compared every map of New York with thermal readings, overlaying layers like a surgeon operating through urban tissue. He’s overridden protections on multiple private networks without hesitation. Intercepted anonymous communications, analyzed movement patterns, recalibrated his internal software to tailor the algorithms to a single, solitary target. The tools he designed for international diplomacy, for global crisis response — he’s repurposed them now for a personal hunt. A cold war fought in the digital guts of the city.

And always, he comes back to that name. That shadow. That absence. Matthew. A ghost with no fingerprint, no signal, no flaw to exploit. But Stark refuses that idea. No. That kind of man doesn’t vanish. That kind of man always leaves traces — out of pride. Out of carelessness. Out of vanity. And if it means turning the city inside out, if it means digging down to reinforced concrete, to buried cables and the forgotten strata of the network — then so be it. He’s ready to search through the world’s marrow to find what remains. Cables snake across the floor, twisted like raw nerves, connected to makeshift terminals. Holograms hover in the air, pulsing with spectral, slow, almost organic light. The room, once functional and sterile, has lost its ordinary shape. This is no longer an office. It’s a clandestine command post. A digital war cell born out of urgency, powered by fear and brute will. On one wall, an unstable projection flickers: a gridded map of New York, each red zone corresponding to growing probabilities, invisible tension. Alternating, a partially reconstructed file plays pulled from a burner phone. The lines of code shimmer as if still resisting comprehension.

And at the center of it all, him. Motionless. A sculptor of chaos. He doesn’t move an inch, but his mind roars. He calculates, projects, anticipates at a speed even his most advanced AIs couldn’t match. He’s faster than the machines, because this time, it’s not for a global mission. It’s not to protect a council or a treaty. It’s not for peace. It’s personal. And nothing is more dangerous than a man like him when he’s acting for himself. His face is frozen. Carved from stone. No expression filters through. No emotion leaks out. He hasn’t spoken in hours. Not a word. His jaw is locked, clenched. His chin trembles sometimes under the pressure, but he doesn’t give in. His eyelids, heavy with fatigue, blink on autopilot but his gaze stays sharp, cutting. That look… it belongs to a man who’s already made up his mind. It’s no longer a question of if. It’s a matter of when, how, and how much time is left. And above all, of what will be left of the other man once he finds him. He is cold. Precise. Fatally focused. Each beat of his heart seems to align with the hum of the machines. He’s perfectly synchronized with his environment. A machine among machines. He’s become the system’s core. The cold, methodical intelligence of a silent hunt — carried out without rest, without sleep, without mercy.

The door slides open with a discreet, almost timid sigh. As if it, too, understood that this moment must not be disturbed. No sound dares to break the fragile balance of the room. Not here. Not now. Even the walls seem to hold their breath, petrified by the intensity that fills the space. The bluish light of the screens slices through the artificial darkness in shifting shards, casting sharp, vibrating shadows across Stark’s features — like carvings made by a blade. He doesn’t turn his head. He doesn’t need to look. He already knows. Nothing escapes him. His silence is a barrier, a verdict. He’s there. Frozen. Silent. Unshakable. And around him, the universe seems to understand that something has been set in motion. Something that can no longer be stopped.

Pepper enters without a word. The silence wraps around her instantly, like a heavy veil she doesn’t dare pierce. She says nothing — not yet. Everything about her is more subdued than usual, as if her body has attuned itself to the electric tension of the room. Her usual heels have been traded for flat shoes, chosen mechanically, without real thought. She knew when she got up this morning. No need to read the reports or check the alerts. She felt it, in every fiber of her being — this day would be different. Draining. Slow. Hard. And Tony, on days like this, is not a man to reason with. He becomes a wall. Steel. An unbreachable frontier. This isn’t a state crisis, not one of those media storms they’ve learned to face together, side by side, dressed to perfection with rehearsed smiles. No. This is something else. A silent war. Private. Intimate. And in that kind of war, Tony lets no one in. Almost no one.

In her hands, she holds two mugs. One is for her — a reflex gesture, more for the weight than the content, because she’ll set it down somewhere and forget it immediately. The other is for him. Strong coffee, black, unsweetened, scorching. Just how he likes it. She didn’t ask, didn’t guess. She knows. Because for years, she’s known his silences, his mood swings, his automatic habits. She knows the rare things that bring him a sliver of stability when everything is falling apart. She walks slowly. With that quiet elegance that is uniquely hers. Each step is precise, measured. She avoids the cables snaking across the floor like exposed veins. Dodges the hastily pushed chairs, the luminous angles of suspended holograms hanging in the air, slow and unstable like open wounds. Everything around her pulses, breathes, crackles. The smell of steaming coffee mixes with metallic fumes, with the warm emissions of overheating machines. A fleeting human note in this lair transformed into a war organ.

She approaches. Just a few feet from him now. The blue halo of the screens washes over her, casting cold, almost supernatural shards onto her skin. She still doesn’t say a word. Because she, too, senses what’s happening here. She reads silence like an ancient language. She knows that if she speaks too soon, too quickly, she could shatter everything — the balance, the tension, the fierce concentration holding him upright. Tony doesn’t even turn his head. He doesn’t need to. He knows it’s her. He saw, without really looking, her silhouette trembling on the standby screen, like a spectral apparition. He recognized her breath — controlled, steady, modulated by habit not to disrupt critical moments. He felt her presence the way you feel a warm current crossing a frozen room: discreet, but undeniable. She’s here.

But he doesn’t move. Not an inch. His fingers keep dancing over the interfaces, his eyes fixed on the data. His jaw remains locked, his posture rigid, unyielding. He doesn’t reject her presence. He accepts it without acknowledging it. She’s part of the setting, part of the very structure of this ongoing war. She is the silent anchor he’ll never ask for, but needs all the same. And she knows it. So she stays. Present. Still. Mug in hand. Waiting for him to speak — or to break. His fingers glide over the holographic interface with almost surgical precision. They graze the projected data blocks in the air, moving them, reorganizing, dissecting them as if trying to carve raw truths buried under layers of code, pixels, and silence. A building on 43rd Street. An unusual thermal signature spotted at 3:12 a.m. A encrypted phone line briefly located in South Brooklyn, before vanishing into a labyrinth of anonymous relays. He isolates. He cross-references. He sorts. He discards. He starts again. Every manipulation is an act of war. He develops a thousand hypotheses per minute, evaluates them, abandons them, replaces them. A thousand leads, a thousand fleeting micro-truths, vanishing as soon as he tries to fix them. And always, that voice in his head. That twisted, wet breath haunting him since the call. That scream — shrill, inhuman. That panic. And the silence that followed. The kind of silence only blood knows how to echo.

Pepper, still silent, watches. She hasn’t moved since entering. Her eyes shift from the screen to Tony’s face, then to his hands. She sees what he refuses to admit: his movements are less precise. They tremble sometimes. Nervous flickers, involuntary, imperceptible to others — but not to her. There’s that tiny jolt in his palm when two images overlap without matching. That subtle twitch of his fingers when the algorithm returns an empty result. That tension in his joints with every failure, every dead end. She takes a step forward. Slowly, silently. She places the mug at the edge of the desk, just within his field of vision. Not too close, not too far. She sets it where he could reach for it without thinking, by reflex, if some part of him still remembered how to drink something. If his lips still knew how to welcome anything other than orders. But deep down, she knows he probably won’t. Not now. Maybe not at all. She doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t interrupt. But her eyes never leave him. They linger on his neck, that taut, rigid line, almost painful. On his shoulders, hunched forward, drawn tight like bows ready to snap. She reads the exhaustion in the way his muscles clench, in how he holds his breath when results elude him, in that violent stubbornness that keeps him from stepping back — even for a second.

Then she speaks. Barely. Her voice is a whisper. A caress in a space saturated with tension. A suspended breath, respectful. As if she were speaking to a wounded animal, to a raw heart that a single harsh word might cause to shatter.

— "You should drink something."

No reproach. No judgment. Not even any real expectation. Just an invitation, soft, almost unreal in this room ruled by the cold light of screens and the hum of machines. A reminder, simple and human, that he still has a body. That he’s still a man. Not just an overheated mind, a burning brain, dissociated from everything else. She doesn’t expect a response. She doesn’t even want one. What she’s offering isn’t a solution. It’s a breath. An interlude. A hand offered at a distance, without conditions, in the eye of a cyclone she can’t stop — but refuses to abandon. Stark doesn’t answer. The silence remains, impenetrable. But she sees it. That blink. Singular. Slow. Almost lagging. Like a discreet malfunction in an otherwise perfect line of code. A micro-event, almost invisible but for her, it means everything. He heard her. He understood. Somewhere beneath the layers of adrenaline and frozen focus, her words registered. But he can’t stop. Not yet. Not while what he’s searching for remains out of reach.

She moves a little closer. Her steps are slow, calculated. The slightest movement could shatter the fragile equilibrium he maintains between lucidity and overload. She skirts the screens projecting a relentless flow of data, passes through the light beams of overlapping maps, walks through the holograms dissecting New York in real time: facades, sewer lines, rooftops, drone paths, shifting heat points. A fractured digital world, reconstructed for a single mission. And she, the only organic presence in this sanctuary of glass and light, walks forward until she’s beside him. Upright. Calm. Unshakable. She stands there, just a meter away. A silhouette in the bluish light. A presence. An anchor. Non-intrusive, but constant. And in that data-saturated silence, she looks at the screen in front of him. Blurry images flash by. Figures captured by an old security camera. Red dots blink in the darkness of a poorly mapped basement. Nothing conclusive. Nothing obvious. But she sees beyond that. She’s not looking at the screen. She’s looking at him.

She sees what he doesn’t show. What he himself struggles to ignore. That back, a bit more hunched than before. That hand clenched around the desk edge, knuckles white with tension. That breath, irregular, barely perceptible — but betraying an inner fight. That exhaustion, layered in invisible strata, like ash over an ember that refuses to die. He’ll never admit it. That’s not an option. But she knows. He’s burning out. Eroding. Slowly bleeding out everything that keeps him human. So she acts. Gently, but without hesitation. She reaches out. Picks up the mug left on the edge of the desk, still faintly steaming. And she moves it. Places it right in front of him. Where his gaze can’t avoid it. Where his fingers could reach it without thinking. A mundane gesture, almost insignificant. But heavy with meaning.

— "You need to stay sharp." Her voice is soft, but firm. It cuts through the thickness of the moment. "If he’s counting on you, he needs you at your best. Not collapsing."

He stays still for another second. Then, slowly, his gaze lifts. Like he’s returning from a far-off place, from a tension zone where the real world no longer reaches. He looks at her. Directly in the eyes. And she sees. She sees everything. The fatigue eating away at the edges. The redness at the corners of his eyes, signs of brutal sleeplessness. But most of all, that clarity. That burning precision still intact in the depths of his pupils. It’s a gaze that doesn’t waver. The gaze of a man broken a thousand times — but still standing. And in that gaze, she reads three things.

Fear. Raw. Visceral. The fear of not making it in time. Rage. Pure. Mechanical. The kind he holds back to avoid destroying everything.

And the promise. Absolute. Irrevocable.

— "I’m going to get him out."

No conditional. No wiggle room. He doesn’t say he’ll try. He doesn’t say if he’s still alive. He refuses to let those phrases exist. He leaves no space for doubt. Because doubt would be a crack. And if he cracks now, he collapses. She nods. Once. That’s all it takes. A silent agreement. A trust she offers him, without questions. Then she places a hand on his shoulder. Right there. A simple contact, but real. Solid. A light, firm pressure. Just enough for him to know he’s not alone. That she’s here. That she will remain here. Even if there’s nothing more she can do. An anchor in the chaos.

— "Then drink."

She adds nothing else. No need. Not now. And then she turns on her heel, leaving behind that room saturated with tension and blue light, walking away in silence, her steps barely audible on the hard floor. She slips away as she came — discreetly, with that silent dignity that’s hers alone. No unnecessary gesture. No look back. Just the quiet certainty that he heard her. That he understood. And that he’ll do what he must. A breath. A second. Then another. Stark remains still. His eyes still locked on the numbers, on the blurry images, on the shattered map of New York pulsing slowly before him. A suspended moment, almost frozen in code and light projections. And then, slowly, as if his body weighed a ton, his fingers stretch out. Slow. Almost hesitant. They brush the mug, grasp it. Raise it to his lips.

One sip. Scalding. Bitter. Perfect.

The taste, too strong, seizes his tongue, his throat, then burns its way down like a reminder. He closes his eyes for a second. Not out of pleasure. Out of necessity. Because that simple contact — the liquid, the heat, the sensation — reminds him that he still exists outside the war machine he’s become. And then, almost immediately, his eyes open again. Latch onto the screen. The map. The hunt. The engine restarts. But behind the invisible armor, behind the hard gaze and automated gestures, the man is still there. Just enough. For now. The mug, barely set down on the desk, hits the surface with a muffled clack. The sound, though minimal, seems to shake the atmosphere. Stark exhales. One of those irritated sighs that vibrate between clenched teeth, that fatigue turns into frustration, and frustration reshapes into buried anger. His fingers snap against the desk, nervously. Not a blow. Just a dry, rhythmic sound. Accumulated tension seeking an outlet, a culprit, a breaking point. Something to strike — or someone. But no one here is responsible. No one except him.

And then, it bursts out.

— "Fuck… why didn’t he activate it?"

The voice is low. But it slices the air like a blade. Sharp. Brittle. It doesn’t need to be loud to carry. It’s so charged with tension that it seems to vibrate in the walls. No explosive rage. No yelling. Just that clean line, that icy edge that says it all. It’s not a question. It’s an unbearable fact. A flaw in the plan. A betrayal of logic. He doesn’t need to clarify. The device, the gesture, the fear behind it all of it is obvious. In the hallway, Pepper has stopped. Without realizing it. As if her muscles responded to that voice before her mind did. She’s frozen. And she understands. She knows too. He’s talking about the device. That small, discreet piece, barely bigger than a coin, that he slipped into an anodized case with a falsely detached air. That neutral tone he adopts when the stakes are too high to admit. He presented it like a gadget. Just another safety.

A thing for emergencies. "Press and hold for three seconds" he said. Simple. Effective. And his location would be transmitted to the Tower in real time, with immediate triangulation and constant tracking. He insisted, without seeming to. Like a father too proud of a dangerous toy. Like a man who’s already lost everything once and won’t let chance roll the dice again. The kind of thing he doesn’t give to everyone. The kind of thing he only entrusts once. And even then. Under the pretense of humor. Veiled in sarcasm. And yet, you didn’t activate it. That thought gnaws at him. Consumes him. Because if it wasn’t forgetfulness, then it’s worse. Then maybe there wasn’t time. Or maybe he was afraid. Or maybe you thought it wouldn’t make a difference. And that Tony can’t accept.

Because the alternative… he can’t even imagine it. He built it in just a few hours. One sleepless night, a few curses, two black coffees, and a diagram sketched on a crumpled napkin. Because he was tired. Tired of not knowing. Tired of not being able to protect. Tired of seeing him wander through New York like a ghost without an anchor, sleeping in sketchy squats, living on the generosity of people as reliable as March weather. He was done with uncertainty, with instability. So he made something simple, small, efficient. A distress beacon. A miniature safeguard. Mostly to protect him from himself. He even tucked a secondary mic inside. Discreet, compressed in anodized metal layers. Inaudible to the human ear. Just a sensor, a passive ear, in case something went wrong. Because he knew it could go wrong. Because deep down, he felt that danger was never far. And now? Nothing. No signal. No vibration. No blinking light. No trace. The void. Nothingness. The shadow of a silence that screams. Abruptly, Stark spins in his chair. The movement is sharp, abrupt. His fingers slam down on the projected keyboard in the air, striking commands, executing code, calling internal logs. He pulls up the history. Checks for connection attempts. Scans the security logs, network access, secondary frequencies. No recording. No triggered signal. No distress call. The device was never activated.

— "It was right there." His voice is hoarse. Slow. Painfully contained. "Within reach. Three fucking seconds. And I could’ve…"

He cuts himself off. Right there. The breath caught. No anger. Not yet. It’s not rage. It’s vertigo. An inner fall. He sees the scene again. Precisely. In the hall, just days ago. He was holding the little device between his fingers, between two sarcastic lines. A detached, mocking tone, as always. Trying not to push too hard. Not to seem worried. He said it with a smirk, hands in his pockets: "Just in case. It beeps, it blinks, I show up. Easy."

And he remembers. That hesitation. The lowered gaze. That muttered thank you, without real conviction. As if it didn’t really concern him. As if he didn’t believe it. As if he was afraid to disturb and didn’t think he was worth coming for. Stark clenches his teeth. Bitterness sticks in his throat.

— "He didn’t get it, did he?"

The question escapes. Not aimed at anyone. Not really. He’s speaking to the void, the desk, the walls. To himself. To the echo in his head.

— "He thinks it only works for others." His voice tightens. Fractures. "That no one comes for him. That he has to wait for it to get worse. That he has to nearly die to justify help."

His fingers slap a screen with the back of his hand. A furious swipe. The images vanish in a spray of light.

— "Shit. Shit."

He gets up. Too abruptly. His chair rolls back. He paces, circles, like a caged beast. A shadow of armor without the armor. He runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it without thinking. His gestures are nervous, disordered. He teeters between genius logic and raw emotion.

— "I had him in my pocket," he breathes. "I could’ve found him in under two minutes."

His fist hits the back of the chair. A dry strike. Not brutal. But deep. A dull echo that lingers in the air.

— "But no. He keeps it on him like a fucking keychain. A symbolic thing. A gadget he doesn’t want to use. Because he doesn’t want to be a bother. Because he doesn’t want to raise the alarm."

He suddenly freezes. His breath halts. He stares at the floor as if seeking an answer no data can provide. The silence stretches. Then, in an almost inaudible murmur, rougher, more bitter:

— "He’s convinced no one’s coming."

And that thought. That simple idea. It destroys him from the inside. He closes his eyes. Clenches his fists so tightly his knuckles turn white. He fights. To hold back what rises. He won’t say he’s afraid. He won’t say he’s in pain. That he blames himself until it eats him alive. No. He won’t say it. So he turns back. Resumes his place. His fingers return to the controls. His gaze locks onto the screens. The maps. The fragmented data. What he still has. What he can still control. Because if he can’t turn back time… then he’ll find a way to catch up. No matter the cost. And he mutters under his breath:

— "I’m going to find him. Device or not."

Then he types. Not to write. Not to command. He types like someone striking. As if his fingers could punch through matter, bend the universe, shatter the whole world through the silent keys of a holographic keyboard. Every keystroke is a discharge. A sharp hit. A blow aimed at that invisible wall he can’t break through. A fight of data against the void, of will against absence. He types with an urgency that allows no delay, no hesitation. As if life, somewhere, depended on it.

Because it is.

And in the meantime, silence remains. Insidious. Heavy. The tenacious shadow of the action that never happened. The one that would have been enough. Three seconds. A press of the thumb. And he would have known. He would have moved. He would have run. He would have acted. He would have been there. But no. That absence, Stark feels it lodged in his throat, like acid he can’t swallow. It rises, clings, radiates. It stays, constant, until he brings him back. Until he has proof tangible, irrefutable that it’s still possible. That he’s still alive. The minutes pass. Like blades. Sharp. Precise. Unforgiving.

They cut into his focus, erode his patience, chip away at his certainty. Every second is a brutal reminder that time is passing. And this time, time isn’t an ally. He feels it slipping over his skin like a cold blade that can’t be stopped. But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t blink. The office is bathed in semi-darkness. The blinds are down, the outside light filtered, as if daylight itself no longer had the right to enter. Only the screens cast their bluish glow on the walls, on the cables, on the opaque glass. And on him. That cold, spectral light slices across his closed-off face in sharp angles. Hollowed cheekbones. Brow etched with tension lines. Lips tight. He looks carved from quartz. Cold. Hard. Unyielding.

His eyes, fixed, barely blink. They follow lines of code, coordinates, overlaid maps, signal analyses, with inhuman precision. His stare is locked. Obsessed. He doesn’t falter. He scans. He waits. His fingers still move. Barely. With mechanical regularity. An almost hypnotic rhythm. They glide over holographic interfaces, brush through data windows, launch diagnostics, cross-reference streams. There’s no hesitation anymore, no improvisation. Only a logical sequence. An algorithm embodied in a man who refuses to give up. He doesn’t speak. Hasn’t for a while. He doesn’t even think — not in the usual sense. Human thoughts, full of doubts, memories, emotions, have been pushed to the background. He leaves space only for function. He calculates. He maps. He eliminates. He acts. Because that’s all he can do. And because as long as he acts, as long as he moves, as long as he searches, he’s not imagining the worst. And the countdown continues — silent, relentless. Invisible but omnipresent, it eats at his nerves like a tourniquet pulled too tight. A constant, dull pressure. There’s no number on the screen, no red blinking timer, but he feels it. In every heartbeat. In every passing minute, every interface click, every breath that’s too short, too sharp. He feels it under his skin like slow-diffusing poison.

Twenty-four hours.

That was the deadline. The ultimatum. Spat in his face with disgusting insolence, with the kind of sneering arrogance Stark knows too well. A provocation. A signature. A trap — not even hidden. A price laid out in black and white. The kind of message sent when you’re sure you have the upper hand. But it wasn’t the money that kept him awake all night. Not the numbered threat. Not the offshore account, not the conditions. That, he could have handled. Bought peace. Hacked the system. Turned the trap back on its maker. That’s not what stopped him from blinking, that jammed his throat, that retracted his muscles like a shock. It’s something else. It’s the image. Frozen. Unstable. Blurry. But recognizable. It’s the sound. That breath. That scream. Distorted by distance. By network static. But raw. Human. Ripped out. So real that even now, he still hears it. He could replay it in his head a hundred times, a thousand. He knows it by heart. The tone, the break in the voice, the burst of brutal panic just before everything was swallowed by silence.

That fucking silence. That’s what’s destroying him. What eats at him. What stops him from breathing normally. The silence afterward. The absolute nothing. That break that said everything, summed everything up. That screamed at him what he failed to hear in time. What he should have seen coming. That silence — Stark will never forgive it. Not the other. Not himself. Then suddenly, a voice slices through the air. Soft. Controlled. Synthetic. Like a strand of silk stretched to the limit, about to snap — but still holding.

— “Mr. Stark.”

He doesn’t even turn his head. He’d recognize that voice among a thousand. It’s been there forever — in his ear, in his walls, in his head. An extension of himself.

— “I’m listening, Jarvis.”

— “I believe I’ve found something.”

A shiver. Cold. Brutal. It shoots up his spine like an electric surge. For one heartbeat, his heart forgets to beat. Then everything reactivates all at once. Adrenaline. Tension. Hypervigilance.

— “Talk.”

Instantly, one of the main screens expands. The map of the city appears — familiar and vast — then begins a slow zoom. Details sharpen. Colors darken. The center pulls back. The frame shifts. Outskirts. Sparse buildings. Wasteland. Finally, a precise point. An abandoned industrial zone. Gray. Timeworn. Forgotten by the world. Drowned in abandonment fog. Where no one looks anymore. Where things are hidden when no one wants them found. Coordinates blink at the bottom of the screen. Precise. Cold. Real.

— “A minimal network activity was detected,” Jarvis continues. “Almost nothing. A very weak signal — just a few microseconds of connection — but enough to leave a trace. It was a disposable phone.”

Stark steps forward. He’s drawn to the map like it’s magnetic. His eyes latch onto the screen, fix on it, hold. He sees beyond the image. Through the ruined facades, under the layers of metal and dust. He wants to believe he can see what’s hidden there. That something is waiting.

— “Can you confirm?”

— “The model’s signature matches what we detected during the call. It briefly connected to a secondary relay antenna nearby. It might’ve gone unnoticed, but—”

He’s no longer listening. Or rather, he hears everything. He registers it all, but his mind is already elsewhere. Locked in. Compressed around a single fact. A single certainty. His thoughts tighten, converge on a single point. A red dot. Blinking. Clear. An abandoned warehouse. No activity for over ten years. No cameras. No patrols. No recorded movement. Nothing. The kind of place you choose when you don’t want to be found. The kind of place where secrets are buried. Or people. And then, a single thought imposes itself. Emerges from the chaos like a brutal flash of truth. A certainty branded into his mind like a red-hot iron.

You’re there.

Not maybe. Not probably. Not possibly. You’re there. His fist clenches. Slowly. Each finger curling until the knuckles turn white. He closes his eyes. One second. One breath. One anchor. Then opens them again. And in his gaze, there’s no more doubt. No more fear. No more wandering emotion. Just steel. Just fire. Just the mission.

— “Prepare everything. Now.”

And in that exact moment, the whole world narrows. There’s no more sound. No more fatigue. No more failure. Only this. A straight line. A single target. A burning urgency. To get you out. Pepper is there. Just behind him. Motionless. Straight as a blade. Her arms crossed tightly against her, in a posture that might seem cold to someone who doesn’t know her. But it’s not distance. It’s a barrier. A dam. A desperate attempt to hold back what she feels rising.

The pale glow of the screens casts his shadow on the floor, long and sharp, like a silent specter frozen in anticipation. Around them, the room is bathed in incomplete darkness, pierced only by the soft flickering blue halos on the glass surfaces — witnesses to this sleepless night that stretches on and on.

His face, usually so mobile, so expressive — the face that knows how to smile even during the worst press conferences, that can reassure with a single look — is now closed. Frozen. Like carved in marble. His jaw slightly clenched. His brows drawn in a barely perceptible but unyielding tension. But what betrays it all are his eyes. A gleam, contained. A discreet fire. Both anxious and annoyed. A light that flickers between anguish and a barely concealed anger.

She watches him. In silence. Lips tight. Shoulders tense. And she knows. She knows exactly what’s going on in his head. She knows the gears, the silences, the calculated movements. She recognizes this posture. This calm. This false calm. This almost elegant stillness that always comes just before impact. She’s seen it once. Maybe twice, in her entire life. And each time, something broke afterward. A wall. A promise. Someone. So she speaks. Not to convince him. But to try and hold him back for just one more moment at the edge of the abyss.

— “You should wait for the police, Tony.”

Her voice is calm. Measured. Perfectly composed. But it cuts through the air like a blade honed too well. It slices without shouting, without striking. It hits the mark. He doesn’t respond. Not right away. He moves. Slowly at first, then with dreadful precision. He reaches for the back of his chair, pulls his leather jacket from it — the one he wears when everything becomes too real, too dangerous, too personal. He puts it on in one sharp, fast motion. Automatic. Without even thinking. Everything is rehearsed. His movements are crisp, stripped of any hesitation. He’s no longer reflecting. He’s in motion.

One hand slides into the side drawer of his desk. The metal barely creaks. He pulls out a small object, barely bigger than a watch case. Smooth. Chrome. Discreet. He inspects it for a fraction of a second, spins it between his fingers, gauges it. His gaze clings to it, focused, as if making sure it’s the right one. Then he slips it into the inner pocket of his jacket. A tracker. A prototype. Maybe both. Maybe something else. When Tony Stark leaves like this, he never leaves empty-handed. And in the suspended tension of the room, in that moment when every gesture weighs like a decision, Pepper feels her heart pound harder. Because she knows, once again, he won’t change his mind. Not this time.

Without a word. He crosses the room like someone going to war. No haste, no visible tension. Just a methodical, silent advance, heavy with intention. Each step echoes faintly on the floor, absorbed by the cold light of the still-lit screens, by the walls saturated with nervous electricity. He heads toward the elevator, straight, relentless, like a guided missile.

— “Tony.”

This time, her voice cuts through the space. Louder. Sharper. She’s dropped the polite calm. There’s urgency in that word, a crack, something tense, fragile. Pepper steps forward, rounds the table. It’s not a command. It’s not a plea either. It’s a disguised entreaty, cloaked in reason, offered as a last attempt to connect. She’s searching for a crack. A hold. Any one. Not to stop him — she’s never held that illusion — but to slow the momentum. To crack the armor. To make him think. Just one more second.

— “This is exactly what he wants. For you to charge in headfirst. For him to have control.”

He stops. His body freezes all at once, mid-distance from the elevator whose open doors wait, patient, like the jaws of a steel beast. Slowly, he turns toward her. Not violently. Not with irritation. But with that icy precision that, in him, equals all the angers in the world. He looks at her. And his gaze is black. Not empty. Not crazed. No. It’s a sharp gaze. Cutting. Shaped like a glass blade, able to slice cleanly without ever shaking. He stares at her, without flinching, without softening the impact. His shoulders slightly raised, chin lowered, neck taut. A compact, tense posture. Not defensive. Not exactly. More like a predator’s. The eyes of a man who sees no alternate paths. Only the target.

— “You think he has control?”

His voice is low. Deep. Vibrating with that particular intensity he only uses in very rare moments — when everything tips, when what remains inside compresses until it becomes unstoppable. Every word is controlled. Measured. Almost calmly delivered. But in their precision, there’s something unsettling. A promise. A fracture forming. Silence falls behind that phrase. Suddenly. A thick silence. Charged. Almost unbreathable. It lasts only a few seconds, but they seem to stretch time. The elevator still waits behind him. The slightly open doors pulse softly, as if they sensed the suspended moment. Then he adds, without raising his voice, without looking away:

— “He made the biggest mistake of his life taking him.”

And it’s not a threat. It’s not provocation. It’s a verdict. A raw, cold truth carved in marble. It’s a fact. And it’s far worse than a scream. Then he turns away. One last time. And he steps into the elevator. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t leave a phrase hanging. Doesn’t try to reassure. He disappears into the steel maw, and the doors close on him with a quiet hiss. Pepper remains there. Upright. Frozen. Her arms cross a little tighter, as if to hold back something threatening to collapse. The screen lights continue to flicker over her unmoving features, but they’re not what illuminates her. It’s intuition. Instinct. The one that whispers what she already knows deep down, what she’s felt from the beginning. Something is going to explode. And this time, she’s not sure anyone will come out unscathed.

The metallic floor barely vibrates beneath his steps. Just a discreet, restrained resonance, almost respectful. But in the frozen silence of the hangar, each echo seems to strike the air like a muffled detonation. Every step is a warning. A countdown. A declaration of war. The space is vast. Immense. A cathedral of technology bathed in cold, clinical, almost surgical light. The walls, made of reinforced glass and brushed steel, reflect sharp, precise flashes, slicing his shadow with every movement. Nothing here is decorative. Everything is functional. Calibrated. Optimized. Ready to serve. Ready to open, to strike, to launch. Ready to close behind him, too.

Tony moves with slow, controlled steps. Nothing rushed. He’s not running. He’s not hurrying. He knows exactly where he’s going. Every stride is calculated. Controlled. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, unwavering. No detours. No curiosity. His body is tense, but steady. Focused. There is no room left for doubt. At the center of the hangar, the launch platform awaits him. A circle of polished steel, inlaid with white LEDs pulsing gently, slowly, like a heart in standby. The light follows a steady, hypnotic rhythm, as if the structure itself were breathing. It sleeps. But it's ready to awaken at the slightest command. Around him, holographic showcases come to life at his approach. Sensors recognize his presence. Interfaces open by themselves. Images appear, fluid, clear. Silhouettes rise in bluish light, floating like specters of war.

His suits. The most recent. The strongest. The fastest. Masterpieces of power and precision, lined up in military silence. No words. No announcements. They stand there, frozen, waiting, like a metallic honor guard ready to activate at the slightest signal. Majestic. Relentless. Inhuman. They are beautiful in their coldness. Intimidating. Perfect. But he doesn't look at any of them. Not a single glance. Not a hint of hesitation. He passes through them like one walks through a memory too familiar to still fascinate. The suit doesn’t matter. Not this time. He isn’t here for spectacle, or showy power. He doesn’t want to impress, or buy time. He wants only one thing.

Efficiency. Extraction. The end.

His steps remain steady. His silhouette moves alone among the giants of metal. And in his wake, the air seems to vibrate with low tension, restrained anger, pain too vast to be named. The soldier is on the move. And what he’s about to do now… he’ll do it without flinching. His gaze is fixed. Frozen. With an almost inhuman intensity. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t deviate. He aims. His attention is a taut line between two points: himself, and the target. It’s not anger you see in his eyes. That would be too simple. Too mundane. No — it’s worse. It’s frozen resolve. A sharp calm like a scalpel's edge. Clinical determination, purged of raw emotion, as if every feeling had been distilled, compressed into a single objective: locate, neutralize, retrieve. At all costs.

The suit he’s come for… it’s not the one from interviews. Not the one for demos. Not the one that dazzles crowds or makes headlines. This one, he only brings out when someone has to fall. No flash. No light. No declaration. With a sharp gesture, he activates the control interface embedded in the platform. The floor lights intensify, blink once, then a metal ring slowly rises from the ground, encircling him with solemn gravity. Everything remains silent. Nothing overreacts. Everything is perfectly calibrated. Robotic arms unfold around him, in a mechanical choreography of military precision. They don’t tremble. They don’t hesitate. They take position, ready to interlock, to serve, to build the weapon.

— "Omega configuration."

His voice snaps. Dry. Dense. Like a hammer strike on glass. And instantly, the machines comply. Without delay. Without flaw. The first pieces of the suit lock around his legs, securing his joints, enclosing his muscles in layers of reinforced alloy. The boots anchor to his feet with a soft hiss, each plate sliding into place with a perfectly tuned metallic click. Then the chest modules rise, locking over his ribcage. The red and gold lines slowly take shape, forming a symmetrical, ruthless architecture. Nothing is superfluous. Everything is there to protect, to absorb, to strike. The metal climbs along his arms, embeds into his shoulders, clamps onto his back. A vengeful exoskeleton. A body of war. Every movement is fluid, exact. The machine knows his rhythm. It knows his silence. It recognizes this moment when Tony Stark is no longer joking. He lowers his head slightly. The helmet drops with a magnetic hiss. It seals with a muffled chhhk. Instantly, his vision turns red. The interface lights up. Sensors activate. Data streams appear. Code scrolls. Maps. Thermal signals. Local comms networks. Building schematics. Ballistic paths.

He’s inside. He’s ready.

— "J.A.R.V.I.S., send the flight plan."

— "Coordinates locked. Route optimized. Risks assessed."

A moment. Just one. A tenuous silence. Like a held breath. Then Jarvis’s voice, lower, almost hesitant. A soft note. A nearly human tone, as if trying to reach through the metal to something deeper.

— "Tony… you don’t have to do this alone."

Not a tactical suggestion. Not a precaution. An offering. An outstretched hand. But Tony doesn’t respond. Not yet. One beat. Just a suspended moment between question and answer. But it won’t come. Because he’s not. Not alone. Not really. It’s not solitude that lives inside him. It’s worse. It’s that weight, hanging on his chest like an anvil: responsibility. He feels responsible. And that kind of responsibility can’t be delegated. Can’t be shared. It must be borne. Endured. To the end. He’s not doing this because he’s alone. He’s doing it because he’s the one who must. Because he was there when it happened. Because he should have seen, understood, foreseen. And because he will never forgive himself if he arrives too late.

A metallic breath escapes his shoulders. Light, but precise. The thrusters arm with a restrained growl. Internal turbines hum softly, like a beast holding back its power before leaping. The entire platform tenses. A low vibration rises under his feet, echoing the energy condensed beneath his heels. The lights turn orange. The floor opens. Slowly. In segments. Like a mechanical wound revealing the hangar’s nuclear heart. The air grows denser. Warmer. Electrified. Stark bends his knees. His muscles instinctively adjust for the imminent thrust. And then, without hesitation, without countdown, without another word…

He lifts off the ground.

With a piercing roar, the suit tears through the air. Flames burst from his heels, searing the platform, and Tony’s body becomes a comet of metal and fire shooting through the open ceiling, soaring at blinding speed into the already paling night. The hunt has begun.

The sky races around him. A continuous stream, distorted by speed, slashed by incandescent trails. Every inch of the armor vibrates under the strain, every thruster hums with surgical precision. The wind slams into him, compressed, transformed into pure force that only the flight algorithms manage to contain. The city stretches out below. Gigantic. Vast. Insignificant. Skyscrapers blur past like mirages. Rooftops, streets, glowing points of light — all turn into abstraction. But he sees nothing. Not the glowing windows, not the crowded avenues, not the numbers blinking across his heads-up display. Not even the overlaid messages, trajectory readings, or secondary alerts. He sees only one red dot. One destination. One objective. And nothing else exists.

He thinks only of you.

Of your body, twisted under the blows. Of your features, contorted by pain. Of your breath, ragged, torn, like each inhale is a battle against agony. Of your face, bruised, sullied, pressed against a floor too cold, too dirty, too real. He sees the blood, the unnatural angle of your shoulder, the fear diluted in your half-closed eyes. He sees everything. Even what you tried to hide. He still hears that fucking scream. The one he never should’ve heard. The one he should’ve prevented, before it ever existed. A scream you can’t fake. A scream torn from you, raw, visceral. He heard it through the phone, compressed, muffled by your breath, crushed by the violence of the moment. But despite the static, despite the distance, he felt it. Like a blade to the heart. Like a shockwave that didn’t just hit him. It went straight through him.

And in his mind, that sound loops. Again. And again. And again. Louder than any explosion. More violent than a collapsing building. It’s not a memory. It’s a living burn. An active wound. He sees it all again. Every second. Every word. Every tone. That bastard’s voice.

Matthew.

Every syllable spat like poison. Every word sculpted to wound. To provoke. To leave a mark. Not on you — on him. It was all planned. Orchestrated. A performance. A slow, cold, painfully precise execution. Meant for one person: Tony Stark. To hit him. To show him how badly he failed. To push where it hurts most.

And it worked. Fuck, it worked.

He still feels how his throat closed. The exact moment his heart skipped a beat. The absolute void that swallowed him when he realized he was too late to stop it but maybe not too late to save you. That instant shift, when all logic shattered, replaced by one certainty. He will pay. Not for the humiliation. Not for the provocation. But for putting you in that state. For daring to lay a hand on you. And Stark, now, isn’t flying toward a hideout. He’s flying toward an execution. His heart is pounding too hard. It no longer syncs with the armor’s rhythm. It hammers against his ribcage like a primal reminder that, beneath all the metal, despite all the tech, he is still a body. A man. And that body is boiling. His fingers tighten inside the gauntlets. The joints, calibrated down to the micrometer, creak under the pressure. He clenches. Too hard. Pointlessly. As if the pain might return control to him. As if he’s clinging to the sensation of something real. The internal temperature climbs a notch. A brief alert flashes, notified by a beep that Jarvis cancels instantly. He knows. Even the tech feels that something is cracking. That the tension line has reached a critical threshold. The tactile sync grows more nervous, less fluid. Not from failure — from resonance. As if the suit itself were reacting to the rage boiling beneath the metal. As if it knew he’s on the verge of detonating.

But he doesn’t scream. He doesn’t speak. He breathes. And he moves forward. Because rage — real rage the kind that doesn’t erupt but eats you alive, the kind that carves deep and anchors in silence, isn’t fire. It’s ice. A blade. A metallic tension that sharpens second by second. This is no longer about ransom. This is no longer an intervention. It’s not even a mission anymore. It’s personal. Because you… you’re not just some kid he hired. You’re not an intern, not a checkbox on some HR dashboard. You’re not a casting mistake he corrected in passing. You’re not one more name on a list of talent. You’re not a recruit. You’re that lost kid who showed up one morning with bags heavier than your shoulders, a voice too quiet, gestures too small. The one who looked at screens like they mattered more than the world. The one who barely spoke, but worked until you shook. Until you collapsed. Without ever complaining. Without ever asking for help. The one who clung to the work like it was the surface of a frozen lake. Just to keep from drowning. And that’s where it started.

Tony doesn’t know exactly when. When it slipped. When he stopped seeing you as an employee and started caring differently. Started checking if you’d eaten. Turning concern into jokes — but counting the times you said "not hungry." Setting rules. Break times. Making sure you got home. That you slept. That you didn’t vanish into the blind spots. Getting used to hearing you mutter when he worked too late. Paying attention. And now, he realizes it too late. This thing, this invisible thread, clumsy, imperfect, but real… it’s there. Damn it, it’s there. And now, you’re gone. And he’s going to cross fire, smash through every wall, burn everything down to find you. Because nothing else matters now. And that’s what’s eating him alive. Not guilt. Not passing doubt. No a slow burn, rooted deep in his chest. A slow poison, distilled with every heartbeat. Because that little idiot… you had a device. A fucking distress device. Not just any gadget. Not a toy.

A device he designed. Refined. Gave to you. Built in haste, but with care. Meant for this. To stop this. To block the worst. So he’d never have to hear screams like that. So he could get there before the blood spilled. And you didn’t even use it. Not a press. Not a signal. Nothing. You took it all. To the end. In silence. Like always. And that’s what drives him mad. The silence. That fucking habit of suffering quietly. As if it doesn’t count. As if your pain isn’t valid. As if your life isn’t worth protecting. As if pressing a button to ask for help… was already asking too much. As if he wouldn’t have come.

And now? Now you’re in the hands of a madman. A psycho acting out of vengeance, control, power hunger. A man with no limits, no brakes, who already crossed every line. Tony saw it. Heard it. He knows. Tortured. Broken. Gasping. The images come uninvited. Your face. Your features twisted in pain. That ragged breath, barely audible. The weight of your body giving out. The hard floor under your cheek. Blood seeping from a wound he can only imagine. And that look, more felt than seen, somewhere between fear and resignation.

Tony clenches his jaw. So hard his teeth slam together inside the helmet. The sound is dull, amplified by the metal echo. It vibrates through his temples. A muffled detonation ringing through his skull. He wants to scream. To hit something. To do anything. But he stays focused. Rage can’t come out. It’s compact. Controlled. Targeted.

The worst part? He still hears you. That murmur. Between gasps. That muffled breath, fragile, but so distinct. That tone. That voice he knows now. He recognized it instantly. There was no doubt. No room for illusion. He could’ve denied it. Lied to himself. Said it was a mistake. A coincidence. But no. He knew. He knew immediately. And from that moment, something inside him snapped. Not dramatically. No collapse. A clean fracture. Like an overtightened mechanism breaking in silence. Because now, it’s too late to argue. Too late to reason. Too late to call the cops. Too late for rules, procedures, delays.

Matthew is already dead. He doesn’t know it yet. He still breathes. Still thinks he’s in control. Thinks he’s running the show. But he’s not. He’s already finished. Erased. Condemned. Because Tony Stark heard that scream. And that scream changed everything. That scream signed Matthew’s death warrant. And he’s going to make him pay. Inch by inch. Breath by breath. Until he gets you back. Or burns the world down to drag you out of the dark.

When the Iron Man suit finally lands, it’s as if the whole world holds its breath.

A metallic breath explodes beneath the impact, followed by a dull rumble that cracks the already fractured concrete of the ground. The shock ripples through the foundations of the old industrial district, awakening the ghosts of rusted machines, worn-out beams, and gutted walls. Dust immediately rises in thick, greasy, lazy swirls, dancing around him for a moment before slowly settling, as if even it knows not to linger here. The air is saturated. Heavy. It reeks of rust, moldy wood, and decay embedded in the walls. It reeks of abandonment. And worse: expectation. The congealed oil on obsolete pipes reflects faint black gleams, almost organic, like fossilized blood. The ground creaks under his boots. All around him, the environment seems frozen. Trapped in a time that forgot how to die.

Icy wind rushes between the metal structures, howling through broken beams, whistling past shattered windows. It carries the cold of a soulless place — emptied, but not deserted. Not entirely. Around him is nothingness. A heavy, oppressive void. No sound, no light. Nothing lives here. Nothing breathes. Not even a rat. Not even a shadow. As if the rest of the world had the decency to look away. As if even the city itself knew that what was going to happen here… should not be seen. And in that thick silence, saturated with contained electricity, Tony remains still. His body in the suit doesn’t tremble. But everything in him is ready to strike. The HUD displays thermal readings, sound scans, parasitic electromagnetic signatures. Traces. Remnants. Leads.

He ignores them. He doesn’t need confirmation. He looks up. There. Right in front of him. The building. A block of blackened concrete, eaten away by time. It rises before him like a vertical coffin, planted in the ground. Its windows are empty sockets. Its crumbling walls seep with moisture and menace. It’s a carcass. A gaping maw. A lair. The kind of place where people are held. Erased. Buried. And deep inside, somewhere in there, he knows. You’re there. And Tony Stark came to get you.

The windows are shattered, slashed like screaming mouths frozen mid-silent howl. Shards of glass still dangle from some frames, claws of dead light ready to cut. The gutted openings let in a freezing wind that rustles the remains of forgotten curtains, faded, trembling like surrender flags. The concrete holds together only by habit. Cracked, eroded by seasons, cold, rain, and grime. By time. By indifference. Parts of the facade have collapsed in whole sheets, revealing the interior like a raw wound. Rusted beams jut from the gaping holes, still supporting broken, twisted staircases whose steps are gnawed by corrosion. A withered metal skeleton groaning under its own weight.

The scene is saturated with signs of dead life. Hastily scrawled graffiti, some grotesque, some terrifying, scream from the walls like echoes left by shadows. Split-open bags. Scattered trash. Abandoned syringes. A broken stroller, overturned. An old moldy couch under a porch. Traces of human passage, old, sad. But nothing lives here anymore. Everything reeks of neglect. Of misery. And something worse still: violence. That scent doesn’t lie. It seeps everywhere, even into the walls. A stagnant, invisible tension, but palpable. As if the very air had absorbed a memory too painful to vanish. An echo of blows. Of screams. Of fear.

Inside, it’s swallowed in thick, grimy darkness. No light. Just the blackness, mingled with dust, rot, and silence. But he doesn’t need light. Doesn’t need to see. His scanner activates instantly. The interface opens in a silent click, layering across his HUD. Schematics align, partial blueprints of the building take shape in 3D. Partial plans, modeled reconstructions from thermal scans, wave sweeps, mass detection. Heat sources appear. Faint. Distant. Unstable. And then, deep in that rusted steel maze, cracked concrete, and rotten silence… a thermal signature. Human. Residual. Nearly gone. A blurred point, nestled in a windowless room, behind thick walls. A trace. A breath.

Tony clenches his fists.

The sound is minimal. A quiet metallic creak, but full of tension. The gauntlets respond to the pressure, contouring his restrained rage, absorbing the shock. He doesn’t need confirmation. Doesn’t need to see more. Doesn’t need to wait. He knows. His instinct — that damn sixth sense he spent years mocking — screams through his body. It’s here. This rat hole he chose. This rotten theater for a filthy ransom. This stage for torture. A place not built to hold… but to break. To terrify. To harm. A bad choice. Tony approaches.

One step. Slow. Calculated. Methodical. Every movement is measured. The suit follows without fail, amplifies his stride, makes the ground tremble with each impact. Metal boots pound cracked concrete like war drums. A warning. A sentence. He doesn’t run. He doesn’t need to. Matthew’s time is already counted. His sensors scan blind spots. He identifies exits, access points, high ground. He’s already plotting firing lines, breach paths, fallback routes. He thinks like a weapon. Like a strike. Because he’s no longer just an angry man. He’s become a projectile. A terminal solution. A promise kept too late. And inside… someone is about to learn what it costs. To lay a hand on you.

He pushes the door with a sharp, decisive gesture. The metallic impact creates a brutal clang, and the battered frame wails in a piercing screech. The sound is long, grotesque, almost human. It slices the air like a cry ripped from a bottomless throat, the shriek of a grave forced open, or a coffin pried too late. The metal scrapes, shrieks, protests — but obeys. Before him, the hallway stretches. Long. Narrow. Strangled between two walls dripping with damp. The air is dense, fetid, soaked with stagnant water and ancient mold. A cold breath seeps from the walls, icy and clinging, sneaking into the suit’s seams as if to slow him, to warn him.

The walls are alive. Not with organisms, but rot. Dark mold clings to them, spreading in irregular patterns like necrotic veins. It crawls across the concrete, invades corners, slips into cracks. In places, the plaster has given way, reduced to gray dust. Beneath, twisted, rusted rebar protrudes — like broken bones, as if the building itself had been tortured, split open. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling, bare. Dirty. Its globe yellowed by time, its sickly light flickers intermittently. Suspended from a wire too long, too thin, it dances with every draft like a rope ready to snap. It blinks. Once. Twice. The yellow halo it casts wavers, bleeding against the walls. The shadows it throws stretch, distort, crawl along the ground. Shapes too long, too fluid, as if the walls themselves breathed beneath the dying light.

Tony doesn’t slow.

He doesn’t hesitate. His stride remains straight, steady, heavy. Each step echoes off the floor, amplified by the armor’s metal. Debris cracks underfoot: broken glass, plaster fragments, splinters of forgotten furniture. Every sound ricochets in the narrow hallway, trapped between the walls like a muffled volley of gunfire. But he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look around. He advances. Like a metronome. His eyes never leave the end of the hall, even as everything around seems to want to swallow him, smother him. He sees the corners, the ajar doors, the stains on the floor, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t deviate. He walks this hall like a trial. A purgatory. He knows hell waits ahead. He feels it.

And he’s ready to tear it open with his bare hands. Each step is a countdown. Each breath, a burning fuse. Each heartbeat in his chest, a war drum. He knows what he’ll find. Maybe not the details. Maybe not the form. But the essence. He knows the scent of blood is there, somewhere. That fear has left its trace. That pain has seeped into the walls. And he knows that you… you’re at the end. You’re there, in the dark, at the end of this sick corridor. Maybe unconscious. Maybe barely alive. But you’re there. And that’s enough. Because even if the entire world has to burn for him to find you,

Stark walks down that hall like a blade sliding into a wound. Slowly. Silently. Without flash, without unnecessary sound. He doesn’t strike. He infiltrates. He dissects. Every step is measured, controlled, charged with clinical precision. The weight of his body, perfectly distributed, flows with the suit’s supports. His boots barely graze the floor, but even that friction seems to vibrate through the air, taut with tension. Tension is everywhere. In his muscles, locked beneath the metal. In his jaw, clenched to the point of pain. In his nerves, on maximum alert. He’s taut as a bowstring. Like a weapon whose safety was disengaged long ago. Even his breathing is suspended. He hardly breathes. He’s sunk into a slowed rhythm, between apnea and absolute focus.

Then the smell hits him. Not softly. Not in waves. Brutally. A wall. An invisible punch to the chest. Heavy. Thick. A metallic stench clings to his throat, invades his nostrils like a warning. Blood. Not fresh. Dried. Hours old, maybe. Mixed with damp, with the building’s mold, with dust saturated with dead micro-organisms, with the stagnant rot that infests places where nothing lives anymore. The smell of a trap. The smell of pain. His stomach tightens. Not from fear. From rage. His heart doesn’t race. It slows. As if syncing to the place. He shifts into a deeper, duller, more dangerous frequency. His pulse beats like a drum ready to strike.

Above him, the bulb still swings — a pathetic relic of a once-functioning past. It crackles, flickers, sputters to life at intervals. Each pulse casts sickly light across cracked tiles, warped walls, and scattered remnants of a forgotten world. The shadows stretch, shrink, crawl along the walls like filthy hands. Even the walls seem to hold their breath. He steps forward again. One step. Then another. Every movement is fluid, silent, nearly unreal. His visor scans relentlessly. It overlays stacked data layers, displays thermal signatures, rough volume outlines, hidden masses behind walls. He examines blind spots. Gaps. Floor markings. Broken hinges, scuff marks on wood.

He doesn’t see Matthew yet. But he feels it.

Like a presence. A greasy vibration in the air. A low tension running beneath the walls like a rogue current. A sensation that cuts through him, visceral. It’s not intuition. It’s certainty.

He’s here. Somewhere.

And then he sees you.

You.

There’s no sound. No warning. No orchestral swell. Just that brutal, abrupt moment when the image slaps him in the face like a blow that nothing can soften. You're there. Not standing. Not sitting. Collapsed. Against the wall. No — not against. You’re melded into it. As if your body were trying to dissolve, to disappear. A trembling mass, dirty, slack with pain. No longer a person. No longer a boy. Just a heap of living, broken flesh. A dislocated silhouette in the dark. His brain takes a moment to understand what he’s seeing. This isn’t you. Not the you he knows. It’s something else. A ruined version. And the violence here isn’t hypothetical. It’s tattooed on you. Your arm is twisted.

Not bent. Twisted. At a monstrous, impossible angle. The elbow joint reversed. Bones displaced under stretched skin. Something that should only appear in accident reports. Not here. Not like this. Your shoulder has collapsed. Your hand, almost detached from the rest, barely trembles.

And your face... It takes Tony a second. Just one. But it lasts an eternity.

He doesn’t understand right away. He recognizes nothing. No features. No familiar contours. Just damage. Open wounds, horrible swelling, bruises stacked upon bruises. Your eyes — if they’re still there — are buried under hematomas. Your lips are split. Your right cheek is so swollen it distorts the entire shape of your skull. It’s a mosaic. A work of pure cruelty. And the blood… It’s still flowing. Not much. Not in spurts. In seepage. Slow trickles, like a steady leak. It slides down your temple. Your mouth. Your neck. It’s sticky. Matte. It ran, dried, and ran again. It’s on your throat. Your collarbone. Your chest. You’re soaked.

Not with sweat. With blood. With fear. With the filth of the floor. Your clothes are just rags now. Torn down to the skin. Deep tears are visible, laceration marks, fingerprints, nails, blows. Your hands are open. Literally. Cut. Your palms are cracked, marked by a desperate attempt to defend yourself. Your fingers are splayed as if caught in a frozen spasm. Your knees are red, shredded. Raw flesh peeks through peeled skin. And your back... He doesn’t even want to look. He can guess. He knows what he’ll find there. Marks. Burns. Blows. Traces of what no one should ever do to another human being. But he doesn’t look. Not yet. Because then... he sees it. Your chest.

It moves. Barely. But it moves. A breath. Weak. Jagged. Rough. A struggle with every motion. A breath that doesn’t really come out. A choked wheeze. But alive. You’re breathing. You’re there. Still there. And Tony stops cold.His entire body freezes. The armor locks with him, as if the machine itself understood. As if every fiber, every metal plate had turned to stone. Time collapses on him. A crushing weight. A shroud. His heart? It stops. It no longer beats. Just a void. An absence. A pulse. Heavy. Dry. In his temples. His throat. His stomach. What he feels has no name. It’s not fear. It’s no longer even anger. It’s a breaking point. A place in the soul where everything stops. Where everything is too much. Too much pain. Too much hate. Too much regret. Too late. Too far. He’s here. In front of you. And he can’t go back.

It’s a fracture. A rupture in everything he thought he could control. You’re alive. But at what cost? And somewhere, just a few meters away... Matthew is still breathing. But not for long. A cold shiver, sharp as a steel blade, climbs Stark’s spine. He doesn’t push it away. He lets it slide between his shoulder blades, slip under the metal like a warning that what he’s seeing isn’t an illusion, but raw, naked, implacable truth. Yet nothing on his face betrays this vertigo. Not a twitch, not a flinch, not even a blink. His rage, once explosive, has retracted into a clean, focused line. It’s no longer a storm. It’s a blade. Smooth, cold, sharp. A perfectly honed weapon, ready to strike the moment it’s needed. Not before.

His eyes stay locked on you, unblinking, unwavering. Every detail imprints itself in his mind like a photograph branded with hot iron: the grotesque position of your broken arms, the dark brown blood dried in rivulets on your chin, your neck, your chest; your skin, so pale beneath layers of grime and pain it looks almost like that of a corpse; the faint flutter of your chest, a fragile reminder that you haven’t crossed over yet. He sees it all. He doesn’t look away. And he will remember it. Until his last day. And yet, he doesn’t move right away. Everything in him is screaming. Every fiber, every muscle, every electrical impulse of the armor and his own body calls him to you, to rush, to drop to his knees, to check your pulse, your breath, to place his glove at your neck, to say your name. But he doesn’t give in. He is Tony Stark, yes. But here, now, he is also Iron Man. And Iron Man knows how to recognize a trap. Instinct needs no explanation. He feels that grimy vibration in the air, that invisible weight that warps the atmosphere around you, that intent still lingering, ready to pounce. He knows he’s not alone.

So he advances, but his way. Not slowly out of hesitation, but with control. One step. Then another. Controlled. Silent. The floor crunches beneath his boots, and even though the armor absorbs most sound, here, in this room saturated with shadows and stench, every movement rings out like a barely contained threat. The air is still. The walls seem to listen. The silence, tense, fills with static. He stops a few steps from you. Just close enough to see you breathe, to catch that tiny tremor in your ribcage, that breath that fights, clings, refuses to yield. Just far enough to strike, to raise his arm, to hit in half a second if something emerges. Because he knows: this is the moment Matthew is waiting for. The moment he thinks he can finish what he started. But he’s about to learn that this time, he’s not facing a wounded child. He’s facing Iron Man.

His eyes scan the room relentlessly. Every detail is absorbed, analyzed, memorized. The walls, covered in peeling paint, reveal patches of bare stone, gnawed away by damp. Mold streaks stretch up to the ceiling, which has collapsed in places, letting frayed wires dangle alongside crumbling fragments of plaster. Rusted pipes run along the walls like dead veins, slowly bleeding black water into the corners of the room. A distant drip echoes, irregular, distorted by reverb, like the heartbeat of a body already emptied of everything. The air is thick. Stagnant. It smells of oil, blood, mold, and abandonment. This isn’t really a place anymore. Not a living space, not a shelter. A dead place. Forgotten. A pocket outside of time, perfect for monsters to hide in.

And Stark knows it. It’s too quiet. The space is frozen in a dull anticipation. The smell is too sharp. The scene, too carefully placed. Nothing here suggests an accident. Everything has been calculated. And he hasn’t come to negotiate. He’s not here to understand. He’s not here to reach out. He’s here to end it.

So he speaks. Not loudly. Not shouting. His voice slices through the silence like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. Low. Slow. Sharp. It doesn’t tremble. It doesn’t seek to impress. It states. It targets. It’s the voice of someone who’s gone beyond fear. Who knows the war is no longer a risk. It’s happening. It’s here. Present. Inevitable.

— "That’s your big plan, Matthew?"

The words hang in the air. Clear. Sharp. And they cut. The silence that follows is even sharper. It relieves nothing. It stretches. It weighs. It presses on the nerves like a finger on an open wound. A silence with a taste. That of blood just before the blow. That of a held breath, of the instant suspended between lightning and thunder. A silence ready to rupture. And Stark is ready to tear through it. He kneels.

The suit exhales softly, like a restrained sigh, when Tony bends a knee to the ground. Metal meets filth, dust, and the invisible fragments of an abandoned world in an almost solemn hiss. It’s not a brusque gesture, nor heroic. It’s a humble movement. Precise. One knee placed in the grime of a ravaged sanctuary, a cathedral of pain frozen in time, where the slightest sound feels blasphemous. He places himself near you. Within reach of your voice. Within reach of your breath.

Above you, the light flickers. It trembles at irregular intervals, swaying like a sick pendulum. It doesn’t truly illuminate. It hesitates. As if it, too, refused to fully expose what it reveals. The scene seems unreal. Suspended. Out of the world.

Stark only sees you now. His eyes are on you. At last. Truly. He no longer sees you through the lens of worry or authority. He doesn’t see an employee in distress, nor that lost kid he tried to protect from afar without ever really getting involved. He doesn’t see a responsibility. He sees you. The body you’ve become. This collapsed, mutilated body, barely breathing. That breath, ragged, whistling, clinging to life like a flame battered by wind. The position in which you’ve fallen, curled in on yourself, speaks of an instinct stronger than thought: to hide, to disappear, to avoid another blow.

Tony doesn’t move. Not yet. A long moment suspended in a bubble of silence. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. Only his fist, slowly, curls. A controlled movement, silent, without tremor. A gloved hand, silently absorbing the rising tension, the seething rage, the refusal to accept what he sees. He observes you. He scans every visible patch of skin, every line of your battered face, every gap between the tatters of your torn clothing. He doesn’t want to miss anything. He wants to know. To understand. To see what you’ve endured. He’s ready for everything — except looking away. And what he discovers freezes him.

The recent wounds, he expected. He had imagined them, feared them. The swollen bruises, the black and violet hematomas covering your ribs, your stomach, your face. The clean or jagged cuts, open or dried. The blood clotted at the corner of your mouth. The split lip. The torn brow. Skin ruptured in places, stretched by swelling. All of that, he had seen coming. He had already heard the echo of the blows. Guessed the brutality.

But what he hadn’t expected… were the other marks.

The ones left by someone other than Matthew. The ones no sudden rage could justify. Scars. Fine. Old. Some nearly faded, white, invisible to the untrained eye. These delicate lines, precise, snake along your forearm, disappear under the fabric, reappear on your side. He recognizes some of them. He knows those clumsy cuts, those poorly closed edges. He’s seen them before. On other bodies. In other contexts. He passes a hand — slow, without touching — over your chest. A gesture both useless and necessary. An attempt to understand without harming, to see without interfering. Your top is torn. Not by accident. Deliberately. As if someone wanted to expose your fragility. As if your skin had become a trophy. A message. Your ribs are streaked with deep bruises, a blue so dark it looks black. These were blows delivered methodically. Not to kill. To mark. To leave a print. And beneath that recent violence, other, paler shadows appear. Older bruises, half-faded. Hidden scars. Belt marks. Traces of falls, perhaps. Of repeated gestures. Systematic ones. Not wild brutality.

Habit. Not battle scars. Survival marks. And Tony feels something fold inside him. Slowly. Painfully. As if the steel of his suit tightened, turned inward, crushing his bones, compressing his breath. He inhales, despite everything, but the air is too heavy, too foul. He feels cold sweat on his neck. The taste of metal on his tongue. This didn’t start yesterday. Not even this week. Not even this year. And the hatred rising now is no longer a fire. It’s a collapsed star. A core of pure fury. A point of no return.

— "Fuck..." he breathes.

The word slips from his lips in a hoarse whisper, no louder than a murmur. It doesn’t snap. It doesn’t strike. It falls. Heavy. Exhausted. It’s not an insult. It’s a prayer. An apology. A confession. A verdict. He could have said your name. He could have screamed. But he no longer has the strength to hide the collapse eating away at his gut. That single word carries it all: the guilt, the shame, the shock, the poorly disguised love, and that powerlessness he hates more than anything in the world. His eyes rise slowly to your face. He studies you, searches, hoping for a sign, a crack in that absence. You’re still unconscious. Or maybe just trapped in your own body. Your eyelids, heavy with pain, barely twitch. As if you’re fighting inside a nightmare too real. Your lips, cracked and swollen, part in an almost imperceptible motion. Sounds escape. Weak. Shapeless. Phantom syllables, swallowed by your raw throat, crushed by the shallow breath of survival.

You’re fighting.

Even now, half-dead, on your knees in the mud, in the blood, in the fear — you're still fighting. And Tony, he doesn’t understand how he missed it. How he could’ve overlooked it. He thought you were folding because you were fragile. That you were falling because you were weak. He discovers now that you never stopped getting back up. Again. And again. And again. And that by climbing back up alone, without help, without a hand to reach for, you broke. Slowly. Silently. From the inside out. Another anger rises in him. It doesn’t explode. It doesn’t burst like an uncontrollable flame. It’s slow. Deep. A fury that doesn’t make noise as it climbs but anchors in his gut, between his ribs, in every fiber of his being. It doesn’t burn. It freezes. A precise, surgical anger. Against Matthew, of course. Against the monster who did this to you, who turned your body into a map of pain. But not only.

Against himself. For not seeing it. For not wanting to see. For believing his rules, his demands, were enough. For forcing you to maintain an image when you were already falling apart. Against the system that let you slip through. Against the entire universe that abandoned you without so much as a flinch. Against the silence. Against the averted gazes. Against the excuses. Against everything that brought you here, barely breathing, bleeding in a place no one should know. And this anger — he keeps it. Not for the night. Not for the moment. He keeps it for what comes next. Because this isn’t a mission anymore. It’s not even vengeance. It’s an answer. A cold, precise, implacable answer.

His fingers spread. Slowly. As if releasing something too heavy to contain any longer. Then, just as slowly, his hand closes. Not in rage. Not to strike, nor to threaten. But as one seals a vow. As one locks a promise in the palm, sheltered from the world, where it can never fade. A discreet gesture, small, but charged with immense weight. He leans forward. Just a little. Just enough for his face to draw closer to yours, his features blending into the trembling light, his breath almost brushing your skin. He doesn’t try to wake you. He doesn’t disturb the fragile silence. Only to be closer. To speak for you, and only you. And in a breath that belongs only to him — hoarse, broken, dragged up from deep within — he whispers:

— "I’m sorry..."

It’s not a phrase said lightly. Not a line of circumstance. The words struggle to come out, each one bearing the weight of a collapsed world. They don’t shake. They crash. Heavy. Dense. Inevitable. And it’s not for the blows. Not for the broken bones, the bruises, the wounds, the blood. Not for the absence of rescue, the nights you waited without response, without a call, without presence. Not even for the hesitation or delays. Not for the wavering between compassion and distance. No. That’s not what he regrets. It’s something else. Deeper. More insidious.

He apologizes for what he didn’t see. For everything right in front of him that he ignored. For all the times he looked at you without really seeing you. For all the moments he should’ve understood, read between the silences, the tight gestures, the small changes in your voice, the blankness in your eyes. He’s sorry because he should’ve been the one to know. The one who reached out without being asked. He didn’t. And he knows it. You never told him. Not clearly. Not with words. But he doesn’t blame you. He blames himself. His inattention. His blindness. His comfort. Because he should have known. He should’ve seen past the surface, not settled for what you showed. He’s a genius, after all. He cracked codes, AI, government secrets. But he didn’t read you. You.

And now he sees you. Really sees you. You're here, lying down, broken, beaten, emptied to the bone. You carry the recent scars — but also all the old ones. The ones that tell something else. Another story. A life that didn’t begin tonight. Pain accumulated like strata in rock pressed too long. Blows someone made you believe were normal. Silences you were taught to keep. Constant adaptation, until survival became a reflex. Each scar is a sentence. Each bruise, a word from the story you carried alone, your throat tight, your body tense. And Tony is only just beginning to understand. Not everything. Never everything. But enough for the void to open beneath his feet. Enough for something to snap. For guilt to root itself where it will never leave. It’s not just Matthew. It’s not just this night. It’s everything that came before. This whole life you lived in the shadows, moving through with false smiles and stiff gestures. And he didn’t see. He didn’t know. He didn’t reach out.

He feels that truth in his fingers, in his tight throat, in the strange way his vision blurs without fully knowing why. And the anger returns. Deeper. Colder. But this time, aimed only at himself. Because he should’ve been there. But now that he is — now that he sees you — he swears, without even needing to say it, that it will never be too late again. Not a second time. Never. Stark doesn’t turn his head. Not right away. He stays still, locked in a perfectly controlled posture, his chest still bent over you, his body still tensed above yours like a shield of steel. But his eyes narrow, just slightly. An imperceptible detail to anyone else. An almost microscopic change, but revealing. He saw it. Or rather, he sensed it. Not a clear movement. Not a sharp sound. Just a shift. A faint vibration in the air. A thermal fluctuation, too precise to be natural. A flicker in the visual field, where there was nothing seconds ago.

The suit confirms it silently. A variation in air pressure. A subtle thermal footprint. A disturbance in the suspended particles. Something moved. Someone. In the shadows. He already knows. He doesn’t need confirmation. No detailed analysis. His instinct and the machine speak with the same voice. Matthew is here. He never left. He never fled. He waited. Coiled in the darkness like a knot of hate, hidden behind the ruined structures of the warehouse. A corner too dark for ordinary eyes. But Stark isn’t ordinary. His gaze adjusts. The armor’s sensors recalibrate instantly. Every shadow pixel becomes a map, a data set analyzed in real time. Shapes emerge, unfold, reveal themselves under thermal filters. He sees the silhouette. Humanoid. Crouched. Twisted in animal tension. Almost glued to the damp wall. Motionless — but falsely so. Ready. Ready to strike.

A predator. Or so he thinks. But to Tony, he’s not a beast. Not an opponent. He’s a parasite. A pest. A residue of misdirected hate. A mass of cowardice wrapped in a semblance of human flesh. Nothing more. And he waits. Stark sees it. He waits for the right moment. The right angle. He still hopes. One wrong step. One lapse. One second of distraction. He still thinks he can win. He thinks he can strike from behind. Finish what he started. Reduce further. Humiliate again. He believes this stage is his, that the dark protects him, that fear is on his side. But it’s not the same game anymore. And Stark is no longer the same man.

His fists clench. Slowly. Not in rage. In certainty. A cold pulse runs through the armor, from his shoulders to the thrusters in his forearms. Internal systems activate in silence. Energy builds. Not for show. Not to intimidate. But to strike. Coldly. Deliberately. And yet, he still doesn’t move. He doesn’t break the silence. He remains there, by your side, his body lowered like a barrier. You're still beneath him, fragile, barely breathing. And he stands, in that false calm, as the last thing between you and the one who still thinks he can reach you. But this time, there will be no negotiation. No ultimatum. No speech. This won’t be a warning. A chuckle. At first almost imperceptible. Just a scrape, a discordant note in the tense silence of the warehouse. Then it swells. Gains volume. Becomes a clearer sound — thick, mocking, like a bubble of bile rising to the surface. It comes from the shadows. From that cursed corner of the room that even the light avoids, as if refusing to reveal the truth. A place too dark for nothing to be there.

Stark doesn’t move. He doesn’t look up. Not yet. He stays crouched beside you, his body interposed between you and the thing that finally creeps out of its lair. A sentinel. A wall. A blade ready to cut. But his shoulders stiffen. His breath halts. His fingers stop trembling. He listens.

— “You really came in the suit, huh…”

The voice pierces the darkness like a carefully distilled poison. It has that dragging tone, unbearable, dripping with sarcastic self-confidence. It oozes obscene pleasure, filthy arrogance, sick amusement. The kind of voice that wounds before it strikes. It seeps into the air, hungry to exist, to dominate, to stain.

Matthew steps out of hiding—or what’s left of it. A shadow barely separated from the dark. Just enough for part of his face to appear under the sickly glow of a dangling bulb. Half a face. Half a smile. Wide. Frozen. Too tight. And his eyes… wild. Shining. Flickering with an unstable light, unable to fix on a single point for more than a few seconds.

— “For him? Seriously?”

He gestures vaguely toward your body on the floor, careless, almost lazy. As if pointing at a gutted trash bag. A carcass of no worth. His grimy fingers tremble slightly, but not from fear. From excitement.

— “The little favorite. The loser. The kid who can’t even breathe without collapsing.”

He takes a step. Slow. Pretentious. Nonchalant. His chest slightly puffed, arms wide, almost cruciform. A show-off stance. A provocation. As if offering himself for judgment, convinced he’ll walk away untouched. As if he’s challenging God himself amid the ruins of a world he helped destroy.

— “You sure brought a lot of gadgets to save a half-broken body, Stark.”

A higher, more nervous laugh escapes him. He doesn’t have full control. He thinks he does, but his words are speeding up. His breath quickens just a bit. A trace of madness laces every syllable.

— “You think all that’ll be enough? The thrusters, the scanners, the AI?”

He stops a few meters away. Far, but visible. Too visible. Grime clings to his clothes, his skin, his hyena grin. His face is gaunt, cheeks sunken, hands filthy. He looks like someone who lives in filth. And carries the arrogance of someone who thinks he’s untouchable. He believes he’s won. That he still holds the cards. That he has the upper hand.

— “You showed up like a superhero. Big savior. Like you actually care whether he’s still breathing.”

He tilts his head. A tiny movement. Almost childlike. Almost mocking. The gesture of a brat waiting for the adult to raise a hand just so he can laugh louder afterward.

Then, in a whisper, lower, crueler, slid in like a needle through skin:

— “Sad. To see you stoop to this.”

That’s when Stark moves. Not a sharp gesture. Not a threat. Just… he rises. Slowly. Very slowly. Each vertebra seems to align with inhuman precision. His back straightens. His shoulders lift. His gloved hands open slightly, fingers spreading, joints clicking faintly. A stance. A charge. But he doesn’t speak. Not yet.

Because Matthew goes on. Because he doesn’t understand. Because he still believes words protect. That taunts disarm. He still thinks Stark is here to play. That this restrained rage is only for show.

— “I mean, come on… look at him.”

He points again. His filthy index finger extended, trembling slightly. Not from fear. From ecstasy.

— “Take a good look at what he’s become. What I made him. And ask yourself what you were doing all that time.”

And that silence after — that void between two breaths… it’s the most dangerous moment. Because right now, Stark doesn’t see a man in front of him. He sees the outcome. The cause. The shadow behind the screams. And this time, he won’t look away. Matthew moves. It’s not hesitation. It’s a reflex. A sharp jolt of intention, of venom, of premeditation. His arm snaps in a motion too quick, too precise to be theatrical. He’s not trying to intimidate. He’s trying to end it. His hand plunges into his jacket with mechanical brutality, the rustle of fabric too sharp, a sound that splits the silence like a silent detonation. A glint of metal slides between his fingers. The black barrel of a gun emerges like a verdict. Cold. Final. He lifts his arm. But not toward Stark. Not at the looming figure of steel, red-lit, poised to strike. Not at the obvious threat, the armored man, the living weapon who could incinerate him with a single gesture.

No. He points it at you. You, still on the floor. You, vulnerable. Shattered. Barely breathing. You’re lying there, more ghost than flesh, your chest struggling to rise, your face drenched in blood—and that’s exactly why he aims at you. Because you can’t fight back. Because you can’t even look away.

The barrel aligns with clinical slowness. A descending trajectory, methodical, unbearable. A deliberate motion, thick with silence, cracking the air like an invisible slap. There’s no tremble of doubt, no hesitation. The quiver in his wrist isn’t fear—it’s anticipation. A sick pulse shooting through his arm, twitching his fingers on the trigger. Obscene pleasure in this total domination. His breath quickens. His eyes gleam. He savors. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Where he’s aiming. How he wants this to end. It’s no longer a threat. It’s an execution. A scene he’s imagined, rehearsed, craved. A twisted revenge. A show where he’s both executioner and audience. And in this suspended second, this instant where everything can tip, he becomes something worse than an attacker.

He becomes a man convinced he’s about to kill. Because he wants to. Because he can.

— “You got the money, then?”

The words fall like a dull-edged blade. No hesitation. No dramatic delivery. Just a string of words spat low, almost casual. Like a logistical question. His voice is dry, flat, stripped of emotion. Verbal mechanics, a routine, a question tossed out like checking an order. But the poison—it's in the posture. The gaze. The barely-contained tension in his outstretched arm.

The gun’s barrel stays still. Perfectly aligned. No longer shaking. Calm. Cold. A disturbing steadiness, almost clinical, like a surgeon ready to cut — except he’s not seeking to heal. He’s aiming to rupture. To erase.

He’s not really talking to Stark. Not really to you either. He’s speaking to himself, to feed the illusion of control he’s desperate to maintain even as he feels the ground slipping. He keeps playing, just long enough to delay the inevitable. To fabricate a role. The one who asks. The one who decides. The one who ends things. But there’s that barrel. Black. Smooth. A heavy promise stretched from his arm. He doesn’t move. He waits for an answer he knows is pointless. He knows there’ll be no deal. No negotiation. But he asks anyway. As if asking is enough to pretend he still owns the scene. As if it can mask the obvious rising in the air like an imminent detonation.

He’s ready to shoot. And it’s not the money he wants. It’s what comes next.

taglist🥂 @9thmystery @defronix @lailac13 @the-ultimate-librarian @ihatepaperwork if you want to be part of it here

[thecrowskitten]

Watchful Eyes

Pairing: Sylus/OC (Ameris)

Summary:

Sylus watches Ameris through the eyes of Mephisto, wanting nothing more than for her to be back at his side.

Masterlist

Word count: 798

A/N: Originally a chaptered fic, I adjusted this so that it's a oneshot series with a plot through-line. LOOSELY based on the Hades and Persephone myth!!

Ruby red eyes, set into the sleek, angular face of a mechanical crow, observed her with an unsettling stillness. The crow perched on a rusted beam, just beyond the reach of the narrow window latch clinging to the ceiling, its glossy feathers blending with the shadows. Its gaze didn’t waver as it watched Ameris, sharp and calculating. Mephisto, an extension of its master’s will, silently kept tabs on the girl as she moved about the lab like a living, breathing puzzle piece.

Mephisto was an ever-present fixture in the dim-lit room, an almost ethereal sentinel whose existence blurred into the edges of Ameris' world. From his lofty perch, he tracked her every motion, every movement, with a precision only a machine could wield. Beneath the flicker of fluorescent lights and the quiet hum of outdated equipment, he stood still—an unmoving watcher, bound by programming yet driven by something darker.

Somewhere within the confines of the Onychinus base, Sylus Qin sat in the comfort of his favourite armchair. A drink, untouched and cold, rested in his hand as he stared into the holographic interface, his eyes narrowing. His mind didn’t linger on the surface—the technicalities or the machine itself—but on the woman who unknowingly danced in his orbit. Ameris Kosta, her brow furrowed in quiet concentration, face lit by the sterile glow of the lab. She had always had that look about her—a combination of relentless determination and the fleeting shadow of frustration as if every answer she sought was always just out of reach.

The thin thread of connection between them, woven through Mephisto’s watchful gaze, lingered in the air, invisible but tangible. Sylus could feel it—the subtle vibration of their shared history, of a cycle he couldn’t escape, nor did he want to. She was close now, so close. 

Her hands moved with practiced precision, though he had noticed something. A stiffness. A subtle tremor rippled through her fingers, the slight dip of her shoulders as the weight of her work pressed into her. It wasn’t just fatigue. No, something else was at play. Something he didn’t fully understand yet, but he would.

For years, he had watched her, unseen, unfelt, and all the while, he had learned her. Every gesture. Every inflection. The tilt of her head when she was about to speak. The way her eyes darted when a thought danced just beyond her reach. Sylus knew the shape of her hands before they even reached for the familiar instruments on the desk. He knew her better than she could ever imagine—better than even she knew herself.

In another time, another life, she would slip through his fingers like sand—too elusive, too quick for him to grasp. He could never reach her first. Could never walk alongside her until she chose to walk his way. It was a rule, etched deep into his bones, an unspoken law of the universe that bound them, stretched them, only to tear them apart again and again.

And yet, in every lifetime, she always came to him in the end.

That was the cruel part. The unbearable part.

Because when she did, when she was within his reach when her world overlapped with his—just close enough that he could feel her presence like a living, breathing pulse—something would always come to steal her away. Fate. Circumstance. Enemies. And though he had the power to keep her, something always took her from him.

His fist clenched at his side.

Her hands were shaking.

It started small—just a tremor in the tips of her fingers as she typed away, absorbed in her work. At first, it seemed like nothing. But when Sylus noticed, when his eyes narrowed in on the subtle shift, he saw it all—the stiffening of her back, the way she rolled her wrist when she thought no one was watching. She was in pain, and it was more than just the weight of exhaustion he had seen building in her for weeks. It was different.

A knot of dread twisted in his gut, cold and sharp. Something new was creeping into her, not just the usual wear and tear of her mind and body.

This wasn’t just another temporary setback. This felt worse.

Sylus had seen her fall apart before, seen her slip through his fingers again and again—life after life, each one more fragmented than the last. She had been torn from him by forces beyond their control, by enemies who saw her as a prize, a tool, or a threat. But this... this wasn’t like those times.

This was something insidious. Something slow, creeping at the edges of her existence, hollowing her out little by little.

And Sylus didn’t know how to stop it.

[informedconsenter]

I really enjoy your work here (and with your previous project) when it comes to how you talk about masculinity and transition. I got into forcemasc originally through your older posts and I really enjoyed the way they were curated. I have some posters I like in the scene still but I agree with the previous anon. Sometimes I feel like by going "this too can be a man", personally I feel a bit limited. What if what excites is outside the boundaries of what a man needs to be? What if I need the friction, the otherness, the potential not yet (and maybe not ever, as one grows and changes, the potential is forever changing as well) achieved...

I like when forcemasc is born from the idea we are capable of change, in many ways. Before I got into transmasc I didn't realise how I had internalised a lot of toxic logic regarding gender. At the time I always told people "I'm trans but I haven't transitioned yet". It was only when I was talking to people and reflecting on my fears regarding "not passing" (I no longer think in these terms) that I realised there's no beginning to transition. It's not necessarily when you start hrt or get top surgery or get a new document. For me, there's also no end to transition. There is no man I'm looking to achieve, because I am that now and here. Then when I get on T I will be a different sort of man, but the same one, too. I understand for a lot of people this sounds maybe distressing, like a Sisyphean gender transition maze, even maybe #coping, but it's how I have found myself. I like the idea of transformation taking me to an unexpected place, foreign, open to possibilities. Why limit myself to all these men I see online, why have a narrow idea in mind? What I am now is me, before being a man or anything else. In the future, it will still be me. But maybe unrecognisable, too, and that's very exciting, to me.

Anyway. Enjoying the hashtags and the current posts a lot. I find humour in them sometimes too, in a good way I mean. They feel very personal, even with the detached nature of online posting. Also, I got into Against All Logic a while back due to your rec post, so thanks for that too.

Interesting points, I'd agree, and thank you.

If Deleuze suggested the brain is the screen, then it stands to reason that the body is the theater. It's been oft-repeated that gender is a performance, but the metaphor loses its potency when we forget that effective acting comes not from one expressive individual, but of how they interface with everything around them. Both tangible and immaterial. When you are so excruciatingly aware that the world expects you to play your assigned role, the body becomes one of your most basic but transgressive tools to defy expectations. It does not mean that the body must become capable of anything and everything to transcend norms. So at the same time, things like passing, gaining muscle, short haircuts, training oneself into more conventionally masculine mannerisms—they don't excite me these days. Personal taste. A natural result of having once been too invested in them. It is the mere act of change that I find deeply erotic. A vague yet expansive concept, requiring its continual existence as proof it ever happened. Hot.

The wanting and the self are entangled, and therefore by doing things with the body, the self is satiated. I think that's where the irony comes into play, and what's so enticing about forced transformation in general. We have a subject who is too scared to interface with their self, which is why a dominating force becomes necessary to actualize the self. A strenuous exercise in autonomy, guided by another.

If you're into collaged music a la ALA, you might enjoy the album this track is from.

[linuxreinstall]

KDE 6.1 Review!

When immersing oneself in the sonic landscape of KDE 6.1, one is instantly enveloped by a symphony of precision and elegance. This latest release from the venerable KDE community is nothing short of an opus, each element finely tuned to harmonize in a resplendent orchestration of functionality and aesthetic.

Visual Fidelity:

From the very first glance, KDE 6.1 presents an interface that is both visually stunning and meticulously crafted. The new Plasma desktop environment resonates with the clarity of a high-end DAC, delivering crisp, vibrant visuals that seem almost tangible. The attention to detail in the design is akin to the craftsmanship of a bespoke amplifier, where every pixel is placed with purpose, resulting in an interface that is both beautiful and intuitive.

Performance Dynamics:

KDE 6.1's gaming performance is akin to the dynamic range of a top-tier audiophile system. It handles intensive tasks with the effortless grace of a well-balanced turntable, spinning with unwavering precision. The responsiveness of the system is immediate, akin to the attack and decay of a perfectly tuned electrostatic headphone, providing an experience that is both powerful and nuanced.

Feature Set:

The suite of features in KDE 6.1 is reminiscent of an all-encompassing, high-fidelity audio setup, with HDR and Adaptive Sync that cater to the needs of both casual users and power users alike. The integration of new technologies and enhancements feels as seamless as the signal path in a purist audio chain, ensuring that each component works in perfect synergy to enhance the overall experience.

Customization and Control:

Much like a tube amplifier with endless possibilities for tube rolling, KDE 6.1 offers an unparalleled level of customization. Users can tweak and tailor every aspect of their environment, creating a bespoke desktop experience that mirrors the audiophile's pursuit of the perfect sound. The control KDE 6.1 affords is both deep and intuitive, allowing for fine-tuning that would satisfy even the most discerning connoisseur.

Stability and Reliability:

In terms of stability, KDE 6.1 stands as a rock-solid experimental preamp, delivering a consistent and reliable performance that might crash once in a while. The robustness of the system is evident in its ability to handle a multitude of applications and processes without faltering, akin to the unwavering steadiness of a high-end, belt-driven turntable.

Conclusion:

In conclusion, KDE 6.1 is a masterpiece that embodies the same passion, dedication, and meticulous attention to detail found in the finest audiophile equipment. It offers a rich, immersive experience that is as satisfying to the user as a meticulously curated audio setup is to the listener. For those who seek a desktop environment that delivers both form and function with unparalleled finesse, KDE 6.1 is the definitive choice—a true testament to the art of computing.

Reinstall tonight to experience this unparalleled blend of beauty and performance firsthand.

[skaldish]

Functionally speaking I actually don't think magic is in any way mystical. No more mystical than, say, the workings of the internet.

Let's say I wanted to manifest pizza. The way I'd typically do this is I'd log on to [preferred pizza place website], place an order, and wait until the delivery guy arrives at my door. Bam. Pizza.

Now, the way casting spells work—at least in the way that I understand it—is that you send a command through the interface of the Astral, prompting the relationship of cause and effect to orchestrate the outcome of "pizza=true."

Technically speaking, these two actions are identical in function. You're submitting a query through an intangible, occluded dimension which produces the tangible outcome of pizza. The difference merely lies in the interface: The internet or the Wyrd.

The reason why we don't consider the first thing "magic" is because it doesn't match the aesthetics we associate with magic, despite being mechanically identical.

Additionally, there's cognitive dissonance involved: White Western society aknowledges the existence of the internet exists, but not the Astral.* This behavior is why we don't have technology and methodology pertaining to the Astral like we do with the internet, even though a non-insignificant number of people experience the Astral and its effects in ways that suggest consistency.

"Technology" is what we produce when we notice certain patterns in life and figure out how to engineer them. It doesn't really matter whether the medium is tangible or conceptual in nature.

Naturally, we aren't going to understand patterns we choose to ignore, and once we stop doing that, things such as the Astral and the Wyrd will become clear to us the same way reading books and ordering pizza online is.

*As a fun aside: Like the astral, we cannot tangibly prove that the internet actually exists. We can look at server boxes, sure, but that's no different than looking at a book to prove the existence of the story it contains. Deriving information from these constructs requires knowing how to interface with them, which can't be learned from examining the physical structure of the book or machine. This is why "reading" and "using digital technology" is occult knowledge. We just don't think of these that way because, again, we're confusing function with aesthetics, and confusing the word "occult" with the concept of "the unknown."

[majorasnightmare]

also because im still thinking of it

like they arent FULLY people, are they? being a person is incidental to what they are, because what they ARE is a tool

people come into the world, and maybe have a destiny, maybe fate has something in store, but above all else they are free actors able to determine their lives for themselves, caught in a web of circumstances and social inertia but not beholden to it

dirge though? aylin? they have PURPOSE. built into them from the beginning, divine will etched deeper than dna, potent and compelling and powerful and utterly magnetic. theyre tools meant to interface with people, to be beholden and worshipped, to enact divine will where the gods cannot walk, to interpret the voices of the gods and communicate that vision to the masses

selune doesnt MIND that aylins a person, but it isnt a built in functionality, and isobel even points out theres times aylin isnt even particularly good at it! she doesnt understand time the same way mortals do and leaves on walks that last over a month. she copes with trauma by falling back into her role as selunes sword of retribution. the difference therein is just that aylin isnt punished for trying. when she reacts to lorroakan the same way she reacts to ketheric, it isnt satisfying, it isnt emboldening or empowering, shes traumatized, like a person would be, and not only does selunes retribution have no place punishing an upstart wizard whos main crime at that time is being an asshole, theres no place in that healing process to just. fall back on old habits. aylin was hurt like a person and can only heal like a person, but it isnt intuitive, less so than for other traumatized people, because aylin is a person by choice rather than by intrinsic nature

dirges trauma ive already dedicated a lot of word space to but essentially just. like hes a knife meant to bloodlet the world. hes a dagger shaped like a tiefling. if he has thoughts or schemes, its because a tool meant to kill people has to understand them to be able to competently execute its function. a Thing meant to mimic personhood to get close enough to maul and slaughter, clever enough to slink away unnoticed to go about it all again. divinity cloaked in flesh, limited in scope but narrow and focused in purpose and intent, like the narrowing sights of a railgun about to fire

and divinity is fueled by, tethered by, faith and worship and recognition, so it must be that, when cloaked in flesh and sensation, this amorphous conceptual power develops a tangible detectable presence, the way a snake can taste temperature. a core deep hunger for something that cant be swallowed, but a need that can be fed nonetheless. a spark that needs kindling, and every fervrent prayer and binding oath sets the embers to blazing.

theres the slayer form, of course, murder incarnate, but its a gift crafted by bhaals hands and bestowed upon whomsoever he finds worthy. its bhaals power, bhaals will, it doesnt reflect you or what you are in any capacity. but i think that each fragmented spark housed in godflesh warps and adapts to its casing, becoming something like but unlike its creator, something personal and intimate. a godspawn is not theyre creator, after all, a crafted tool but distinct unto themselves

tapping into that wellspring of divinity, shedding the shell meant to Talk and Evangelize and Guide, disconnecting that innate spark from the barriers that shield and shroud and smother it, to stop playacting at personhood and just Be, oh it must feel absolutely delicious. no doubts, no restraints, just Purpose and Doing, a sword unsheathed from its scabbard at last, all glorious Zeal and Horror and Beauty, nothing between you and the fire now, just Being and what you are is a tool, a weapon, and there is nothing but the faith and the certainty of it, and that being the proof more than anything just how much you are Not Like Them

a person loses their Self and its a nightmare, its horror and violation, because a person is Autonomy and Will and Choice and Desire, and to lose that is to lose the core of you, to become Something Else. but for them, for dirge and aylin and godspawn, its a bone deep satisfaction and rightness, its shedding everything unnecessary and irrelevant and existing fully, completely, nothing but Divine Aspect, haloed like the saints of olde, a holy messenger of Sacred Will incapable of being understood by mortals, for what mortal could understand having such a purpose etched into their very being? what mortal could truly understand the pleasure in being nothing more than what you are, a perfectly crafted tool that desires above all else to be used? a chisel craves a keen edge and a surface to bite into, to do its job and know it has done it well, to know without any shred of doubt (for what tool was ever crafted that could doubt itself?) what it was made for.

to be a person is a luxuriating indulgence, one only made possibly by their function necessitating an understanding of, a mimicry of, people. its an indulgence the gods crave and one that selune will never deny her daughter, and one that bhaal seeks to destroy, and its an indulgence both of them gleefully participate in with varying amounts of success, but its so easy to forget that underneath the veneer of flesh is something that was sculpted and made, not truly born. but there is nothing quite like them in all the world, not until you peel the layers of history back and back until you arrive at the era of myth, and even then mortalkind did not walk the land like they did now so even those lofty figures do not quite understand the urge, the desire, to trade certain purpose for ambiguity and choice.

just. ugh. dame aylin fully letting loose and her face becoming a blank canvas of holy vengeance, haloed by the symbol of her mother thats always, always, illuminating her from behind no matter what angle you view her from, a disc of light defying sense and physics, eyes a flat gold lit by burning silver, an incarnation of holy fire manifest, justice made flesh. no rage or anguish, just perfect inhuman composure, a vessel of mind boggling power that exists upon this plane but for the briefest of cosmic moments.

no slayer form, no oath to bhaal, just dirge finally shedding those final obstacles between him and what he is, finally wholly in tune with his own nature now that it is no longer cast as chains to bind him to anothers will. murder and slaughter incarnated. a disinherited bhaalspawn is still one made of godflesh, a chisel cast aside still carves stone. a halo of red, cracked through, ringed by the tears of bhaal. face blank and utterly devoid of expression even as bloodied tears stream down his cheeks. a prince of gore in a world of red. death, death, death in droves, death in numbers, death dancing upon a knifes edge, no gleeful indulgence or maddened joy, just sweet holy perfection, satisfaction all the way through his core, delicious and certain, blessed bliss

these things are not people, save for love. for the love of being a person, for the love of love, for the love of partnership and comaraderie and romance, an indulgence of the highest caliber and endlessly rewarding even as it brings pain and suffering and indecision and confusion, because who else could appreciate the wonders of it than one for whom it IS a choice?

[thedenmdy]

Accessibilité, design, codage… : par où commencer pour le (re)design de mon forum ? (2/2)

Ceci est la suite de mon premier post disponible ici ! (je suis en galère sur la mise en page, bear with me KLJDHSD) -- Suite aux différents questionnements qui viennent nourrir ton processus de design, on passe à un peu plus tangible.

Conceptualisation : Comment ?

Comment est-ce que tu peux atteindre les objectifs que tu t’es fixé dans les questions précédentes ?

Ça peut passer par une liste des templates que tu veux revoir en priorité, ça peut passer par des checklist de fonctions à intégrer à ces templates pour ne rien oublier.

Personnellement, je recommande de passer par une étape de wireframe pour ne pas partir trop à l’aveuglette et garder le cap sur la quantité de travail à venir !

Qu’est-ce qu’un wireframe ? En gros, dessiner des grosses boîtes pour symboliser tes fonctions, et bricoler un squelette de page avec pour savoir comment structurer ton nouveau design sans rien oublier ! Un wireframe prend n’importe quelle forme, du gribouillis sur papier au Figma collaboratif en passant par des post-its, c’est toi qui décides ce qui te parle le plus !

Voici une liste de petits conseils en vrac à garder en tête lorsque tu t’approches de la construction tangible de ton nouveau design :

Concentre-toi sur les fonctions qui font vivre le forum en priorité 🔥

Tu veux donner l’espace à tes membres pour écrire et construire leurs histoires et leurs personnages, pour échanger entre joueur.se.s en paix ! Contrairement à ce qu’on a laissé s’installer comme standard, il vaut mieux parfois éviter de se disperser et de trop en faire au risque de non seulement rendre l’expérience trop complexe pour tes membres, mais aussi de te mettre une pression énorme en tant que staff.

Le coeur de nos forums, c’est le RP sans distraction (écriture comme lecture), mais aussi la création d’univers avec les médiums que chacun.e préfère ! Ça passe aussi par le confort que tu peux apporter en proposant une interface claire qui les mettra en confiance pour créer. Par exemple, passer 75% du temps d’écriture à débuguer un code de fiche n’est pas très motivant pour la créativité (sauf pour les bouffeurs de cartes graphiques de ce monde, je me compte dedans 🤡). De même, perdre du temps pour retrouver X ou Y information parce que la navigation est trop complexe ou les annexes peu lisibles dissuadent également de potentiels nouveaux arrivants !

N’aie pas peur de jeter tout ce qui est superflu - promis, ça va aller ! 🙆‍♀️

As-tu réellement besoin de ce champ “inventaire” dans le profil des membres ou est-ce que ça peut simplement être une liste dans un post dans la gestion des personnages ? Est-ce que toutes les informations affichées sur ma page d’accueil sont-elles utiles au quotidien et/ou très nécessaires ? On l’a tous.tes rencontré, ce problème…

Retirer ce qui n’est pas utile, c’est non seulement un gain de place et d’espace pour améliorer la lecture de ton forum, mais aussi un gain de temps et d’énergie pour toi, codeur.se, graphiste, admin qui doit maintenir ton forum, que de ne pas s’embêter avec 20 différents champs de profil dans un mouchoir de poche, ou des citations vagues pas toujours très claires ni très utiles dès qu’il y a un blanc à combler.

C’est un peu la technique Marie Kondo, mais pour les interfaces web, et peut-être en un poil plus radical. If it does not spark joy (ou si ça ne vous est pas utile au quotidien), alors tu peux jeter - ça ne te manquera probablement pas ! Et rien n’est définitif. Si finalement, ça s’avère important, tu le verras très vite !

L’accessibilité web, c’est tout d’abord pour les utilisateur.rices en situation de handicap, évidemment. C’est très important, c’est le but prioritaire de l’initiative. Mais si tu peux et veux aller plus loin, ça ne s’arrête pas là !

C’est aussi rendre ton forum utilisable et inclusif pour des membres qui n’ont pas forcément les moyens de posséder du matériel dernier cri, c’est le rendre accessible aux potentiels membres qui ne vivent pas dans une grande ville et/ou avec une connexion internet datée…

L’accessibilité web au sens large englobe tout profil d’utilisateur pouvant être défavorisé.e d’une manière ou d’une autre (par des troubles physiques, neurologiques, par leur milieu social, par leur localisation géographique…) qui l’empêcherait de pouvoir venir s’amuser avec d’autres joueur.se.s…

À titre d’opinion plus personnelle, j’aime aussi penser que l’accessibilité web dans sa mission la plus large devrait également englober l’inclusivité ; parce qu’un espace, une communauté ou un produit qui discrimine d’une quelconque manière n’est à mon sens, tout simplement pas accessible par définition.

Commence ton nouveau design avec les best practices courantes en tête, et tiens-toi y au maximum !

C’est peut-être plus facile de commencer de quasi-zéro, plutôt que de repasser balise par balise sur un code déjà créé (peut-être par d’autres personnes, peut-être ayant vu passer de nombreuses modifications au fil du temps… un casse-tête en perspective).

La base du Blank Theme de Geniuspanda propose une bonne base propre si tu es découragé.e par les thèmes de base de Forumactif (as you should, c’est un joli bazar).

Parmi les conseils et best practices plus techniques à garder en tête lorsque tu construis ton design d’interface, en voici quelques-un (mais mes collègues créateur.rices ont déjà beaucoup écrit à ce sujet, quelques liens sont dispo en fin de post !)

➡️ Tu connais le laïus des tailles de typo… on reste à 14px minimum pour le texte courant, et des interlignes de 150% de la taille du texte !

Le choix des typographies également est important - garde les zigouigoui fancy pour des gros titres seulement, et fais dans la simple sans-serif/sans empâtements (de type Helvetica/Arial) pour le corps de votre texte !

Les typographies serif/à empâtements (de type Times) sont faites pour l’imprimerie, pas le web… si tu y tiens, elles peuvent cependant faire de très bons titres, si la taille de caractère est suffisamment grande !

➡️ Le gras, l’italique, les couleurs, les paragraphes clairement définis… sont des éléments indispensables à la lecture de ton contenu, surtout s’il devient long.

Ils ancrent l’oeil lorsqu’on parcourt la page et nous aide à lire plus rapidement et sans s’épuiser, et attirent notre attention pour mieux se concentrer !

Attention aux choix de couleurs : outre le contraste et les potentiels membres atteint.e.s de daltonisme, n’oublie pas non plus le changement entre light et dark mode, par exemple ! Cette teinte de rouge bordeaux sera très bien sur fond clair, mais si la moitié de tes membres utilisent le dark mode, c’est foutu…

➡️ VIRE MOI CE TEXTE JUSTIFIÉ DE LÀ ! (je rigole zéro I will die on this hill .) (vas-y, je regarde .) (👁️ 👁️)

Trève de clowneries, pour le web en particulier, même si beaucoup trouvent ça visuellement “satisfaisant”, la justification est un désastre de lisibilité. Les espaces entre les mots d’une police de caractères sont précisément calculés pour faciliter la lecture et le mouvement de l’oeil ; par défaut, la justification dérègle et déséquilibre ce travail.

C’est un mode d’alignement qui est fait pour des paragraphes de texte aux largeurs précisément calculées (du genre : colonnes dans un journal) et donc fait pour l’imprimerie, et pas pour des écrans et des interfaces responsive à largeur variable !

➡️ Le scroll interne, c’est (pour la majorité des cas) démodé : dit comme ça, c’est un peu sensationnel, mais c’est réel.

Autrefois, on voulait tout caler dans une seule page au maximum, avoir toutes nos informations dès le premier chargement. Certes, avoir les informations importantes en haut de page et même above the fold (avant de commencer à descendre dans la page au-dessus de la bordure du bas de la page) est bien, mais ce n’est plus aussi important qu’avant. Dites merci aux smartphones et aux réseaux sociaux aux scroll infinis, qui nous ont clairement fait accepter le geste comme partie intégrante de notre expérience web !

N’aie pas peur d’avoir des longues pages : si le contenu est clairement lisible et structuré, ce n’est plus un problème. Il vaut mieux être transparent.e sur la vraie longueur de tes pages d’emblée et la montrer à tes membres dès le chargement de la page, plutôt que de tout planquer dans des petites pochettes-surprise au scroll interminable et souvent très étriquées.

➡️ Optimise tes images dès que possible : une image devrait idéalement peser moins de 500Kb, 1MB peut-être maximum si il s’agit d’une image importante (par exemple, un header ou un fond). Limite l’utilisation de gifs animés au minimum, et veille à ce qu’ils ne soient également pas trop lourds. Pour optimiser tes JPEG ou tes PNG, compresse-les sur Photoshop ou similaire à l’export d’abord, puis tu peux également les passer à la moulinette Tinypng pour diminuer encore leur poids !

➡️ Less is more : laisse respirer ton forum !

C’est important pour la hiérarchie des informations, et pour pouvoir lire le contenu sans se fatiguer. Un espace vide n’est pas une mauvaise chose !

Alternativement et débat peut-être parallèle, j’aimerais pouvoir déconstruire cette idée reçue qui s’est établie au fil du temps que plus il y a de choses, mieux c’est. Les forums rpg sont victimes d’une course au toujours plus pour se démarquer, qui est très “naturelle” d’un point de vue social, concurrentiel et au fil de l’évolution des modes. Ça a aussi toujours été au détriment de l’accessibilité - ce n’est pas nouveau (fallait voir la gueule des trucs en 2005 je vous jure, on se rend vraiment pas compte du chemin parcouru KDJSHD).

Mais en 2024, non seulement on a des voix pour se rendre compte qu’on peut et doit mieux faire, mais aussi les outils pour ! C’est difficile à intégrer et ce sera une idée pré-concue qui risque de durer encore longtemps, mais un forum simple et épuré n’est pas un mauvais forum ! Il y a d’autres moyens de construire un univers original, créatif et visuel que par l’accumulation et le maximalisme ambiant qui s’est installé au fil des années, au détriment de beaucoup d’autres choses importantes (perte de temps de construction/maintenance, pression de la surenchère, diminution des performances techniques/augmentation des temps de chargement, et, évidemment, le manque de lisibilité et accessibilité).

Si nos parents (et même nous encore) étions capables de nous projeter dans des jeux de rôle sur table sans rien d’autre qu’un MJ et une fiche de personnage gribouillée sur un bout de papier, je suis persuadée qu’on n’a pas besoin de tout ça pour créer et écrire sur Internet !

Disclaimer de fin

Celleux qui connaissent mes projets pourraient me jeter la pierre du “faites ce que je dis et pas ce que je fais” là dessus, je plaide coupable. Personne n’est parfait, aucun forum n’est parfait !

Le mien comme tout autre a son lot de problèmes et de points à améliorer dont le staff est conscient, pour diverses raisons pour la plupart historiques, et est victime d’une tendance très personnelle à vouloir être toujours trop exhaustive (mais je me soigne… un peu… vous pouvez constater la longueur de ce post, c’est compliqué LOL). Et pour chaque problème réglé, peut-être que de nouveaux apparaîtront ailleurs.

Mais avec le temps, ça se corrige ! Tous ces points sont des choses que l’on peut améliorer petit à petit, en remettant nos choix en question régulièrement après un peu de recul.

À titre d’exemple, on travaille (lentement) en ce moment sur une grosse refonte du code et du design (le gros de la version actuelle datant de l’été 2022), avec une nouvelle revue de la typographie et de l’utilisation de l’espace qui se fait évidemment toujours trop tarder, mais aussi avec une emphase particulière sur l’optimisation des scripts additionnels du forum. Ajoutés récemment dans une phase initiale de test pour juger de leur accueil dans la communauté, ils sont cependant mal optimisés (tournent à vide sur des pages sur lesquelles ils ne sont pas utiles, demandent trop de ressources…). Ils sont même aujourd’hui sont une très grosse cause de nos problèmes de performance actuellement, et posent souci à plusieurs membres dont le matériel a du mal à suivre, ce qui n'est franchement pas viable. Avec cette refonte, on essaie de nous recentrer sur le “où”, “quand” et “comment” : sur quelles pages et à quel moment de mon utilisation du forum ces gros scripts sont-ils nécessaires ? Comment puis-je les réorganiser avec les outils que Forumactif me propose ?

En conclusion…

Si le débat ou la démarche de refaire toute ton interface te fait peur, c’est normal !

Déjà, Forumactif n’aide pas (trop - pour mettre le nez dans du vrai webdev quotidiennement, ça pourrait être bien pire, honnêtement. Le service proposé a un potentiel immense pour quelque chose de 100% gratuit !), notre matériel de base n’est pas optimisé ni facile à comprendre pour les plus novices. Et bordel, un forum, c’est pas juste une page statique, c’est une interface super complexe, quand on y pense !

Mais aussi, il s’agit d’un hobby, et il n’y a pas vraiment de “bon” moyen universel pour essayer d’améliorer l’accessibilité et l’usabilité de son forum. On fait avec notre temps libre et nos connaissances, et si vous n’avez pas le temps et les capacités de pousser plus loin que des tailles de police ou d’interligne, eh bien, au risque de me répéter, j’ai envie de dire que c’est déjà mieux que rien.

Toute initiative peut être une bonne initiative, tant que tu la prends ! La première étape est d’être conscient.e des améliorations possibles et d’accepter qu’on devrait mieux faire quand on le peut.

Je ne saurais que vous encourager à entamer la démarche, le reste viendra en temps et en heure - que ce soit en termes de temps libre, d’énergie ou de connaissances !

Et surtout : demande-toi toujours “pourquoi” 🫶 Merci d'avoir lu jusque là et : courage, tu peux le faire !!

Quelques ressources utiles

Pour se renseigner

Le manifeste du W3C sur l’accessibilité web

The ultimate UX Design Thinking par Annie Dai (en Anglais)

Overlay Fact Sheet partagée par @brunswicked

Tutoriels et conseils

La section tutoriels du forum du Blank Theme par @code-lab

Rendre vos forums plus accessibles par @noxeternam

Conseils d’accessibilité graphique par @andthesunrisesagain

Tips d’optimisation de votre design par @aeroplvne (la bise !)

Installer un dark/light mode par @decrescxndo

Mon petit plaisir du lot pour l’inspiration…

Je vous conseille de lire la série de posts de @code-lab sur le développement du design de What Remains (1 - 2 - 3 - 4)

Même si ça peut paraître être une dose de travail et de recherche assez énorme pour quelque chose que vous faites dans votre temps libre, c’est simplement très intéressant pour observer la démarche de design dans ses phases de construction et avec des visuels à l’appui !

[wolfliving]

It starts with him

What was once a promise of technology to allow us to automate and analyze the environments in our physical spaces is now a heap of broken ideas and broken products. Technology products have been deployed en masse, our personal data collected and sold without our consent, and then abandoned as soon as companies strip mined all the profit they thought they could wring out. And why not? They already have our money.

The Philips Hue, poster child of the smart home, used to work entirely on your local network. After all, do you really need to connect to the Internet to control the lights in your own house?  Well you do now!Philips has announced it will require cloud accounts for all users—including users who had already purchased the hardware thinking they wouldn’t need an account (and the inevitable security breaches that come with it) to use their lights.

Will you really trust any promises from a company that unilaterally forces a change like this on you? Does the user actually benefit from any of this?

Matter in its current version … doesn’t really help resolve the key issue of the smart home, namely that most companies view smart homes as a way to sell more individual devices and generate recurring revenue.

It keeps happening. Stuff you bought isn’t yours because the company you bought it from can take away features and force you to do things you don’t want or need to do—ultimately because they want to make more money off of you. It’s frustrating, it’s exhausting, and it’s discouraging.

And it has stopped IoT for the rest of us in its tracks. Industrial IoT is doing great—data collection is the point for the customer. But the consumer electronics business model does not mesh with the expected lifespan of home products, and so enshittification began as soon as those first warranties ran out.

How can we reset the expectations we have of connected devices, so that they are again worthy of our trust and money? Before we can bring the promise back, we must deweaponize the technology.

Guidelines for the hardware producer

What we can do as engineers and business owners is make sure the stuff we’re building can’t be wielded as a lever against our own customers, and to show consumers how things could be. These are things we want consumers to expect and demand of manufacturers.

Control

Think local

Decouple

Open interfaces

Be a good citizen

1) Control over firmware updates.

You scream, “What about security updates!” But a company taking away a feature you use or requiring personal data for no reason is arguably a security flaw. 

We were once outraged when intangible software products went from something that remained unchanging on your computer, to a cloud service, with all the ephemerality that term promises. Now they’re coming for our tangible possessions.

No one should be able to do this with hardware that you own. Breaking functionality is entirely what security updates are supposed to prevent! A better checklist for firmware updates:

Allow users to control when and what updates they want to apply. 

Be thorough and clear as to what the update does and provide the ability to downgrade if needed. 

Separate security updates from feature additions or changes. 

Never force an update unless you are sure you want to accept (financial) responsibility for whatever you inadvertently break. 

Consider that you are sending software updates to other people’s hardware. Ask them for permission (which includes respecting “no”) before touching their stuff!

2) Do less on the Internet.

A large part of the security issues with IoT products stem from the Internet connectivity itself. Any server in the cloud has an attack surface, and now that means your physical devices do.

The solution here is “do less”. All functionality should be local-only unless it has a really good reason to use the Internet. Remotely controlling your lights while in your own house does not require the cloud and certainly does not require an account with your personal information attached to it. Limit the use of the cloud to only the functions that cannot work without it.

As a bonus, less networked functionality means fewer maintenance costs for you.

3) Decouple products and services.

It’s fine to need a cloud service. But making a product that requires a specific cloud service is a guarantee that it can be enshittified at any point later on, with no alternative for the user owner. 

Design products to be able to interact with other servers. You have sold someone hardware and now they own it, not you. They have a right to keep using it even if you shut down or break your servers. Allow them the ability to point their devices to another service. If you want them to use your service, make it worthwhile enough for them to choose you.

Finally, if your product has a heavy reliance on the cloud to work, consider enabling your users to self-host their own cloud tooling if they so desire. A lot of people are perfectly capable of doing this on their own and can help others do the same.

4) Use open and standard protocols and interfaces.

Most networked devices have no reason to use proprietary protocols, interfaces, and data formats. There are open standards with communities and software available for almost anything you could want to do. Re-inventing the wheel just wastes resources and makes it harder for users to keep using their stuff after you’re long gone. We did this with Twine, creating an encrypted protocol that minimized chatter, because we needed to squeeze battery life out of WiFi back when there weren’t good options.

If you do have a need for a proprietary protocol (and there are valid reasons to do so):

Document it. 

If possible, have a fallback option that uses an open standard. 

Provide tooling and software to interact with your custom protocols, at the very least enough for open source developers to be able to work with it. This goes for physical interfaces as much as it does for cloud protocols.

If the interface requires a custom-made, expensive, and/or hard-to-find tool to use, then consider using something else that is commonly available and off the shelf instead.

5) Be a good citizen.

Breaking paid-for functionality on other people’s stuff is inherently unethical. Consider not doing this! Enshittification is not a technical problem, it is a behavioral one. Offer better products that are designed to resist enshittification, and resist it yourself in everything you do.

Nothing forced Philips to do what they are doing: a human made a decision to do it. They could have just as easily chosen not to. With Twine’s server lock-in, at least we chose to keep it running, for 12 years now. Consider that you can still make a decent living by being honest and ethical towards the people who are, by purchasing your products, paying for your lifestyle. 

We didn’t get here by accident. Humans made choices that brought us to this point, and we can’t blame anyone for being turned off by it. But we can choose to do better. We can design better stuff. And we can choose not to mess things up after the fact.

We’re putting this into practice with Pickup. (We also think that part of an IoT reset is giving users the creative freedom of a general-purpose device.) If you’re looking for something better and our product can fill a need you have, consider backing us. We cannot claim to be perfect or have all of the answers, but we are absolutely going to try. The status quo sucks. Let’s do something about it.

Published October 15, 2023 By Jeremy Billheimer

[republicsecurity]

The Evolution of Conscript Protection: Mandatory Introduction of Armour Suits

Abstract:

In this paper, we examine the historical trajectory leading to the mandatory introduction of armour suits for conscripts serving in the Security Forces, Life Guards, and Paramedic Corps. The Conscripts Rights Organization (CRO) played a pivotal role in advocating for this measure, primarily to ensure the physical safety and well-being of conscripts during their service. While the introduction of armour suits offered enhanced protection, it also came with certain drawbacks, including increased training complexity, conditioning requirements, and the imposition of technological interfaces such as Heads-Up Displays (HUDs) and mandatory helmet usage. Furthermore, the influence of defense contractors in driving this development is explored, shedding light on the economic interests at play.

Introduction:

Conscript service has long been a hallmark of societal obligation in our dystopian reality, with individuals mandated to serve in various capacities for the betterment of the state. However, concerns regarding the safety and welfare of conscripts during their service have persisted, prompting calls for enhanced protective measures. The Conscripts Rights Organization emerged as a prominent advocate for conscript rights, pushing for reforms aimed at ensuring the physical integrity of those serving their mandatory terms. One significant outcome of their advocacy efforts was the mandatory introduction of armour suits for conscripts in key service branches.

Historical Context:

The roots of the mandatory introduction of armour suits can be traced back to a series of incidents highlighting the vulnerability of conscripts to physical harm during their service. Reports of conscripts sustaining injuries or even fatalities in the line of duty sparked public outrage and prompted demands for better protective measures. The Conscripts Rights Organization, galvanized by these events, began lobbying for comprehensive reforms to safeguard the well-being of conscripts.

Key Drivers:

The Conscripts Rights Organization identified several key drivers behind the push for mandatory armour suits. Foremost among these was the imperative to minimize physical harm and casualties among conscripts. Armour suits offered a tangible solution to this pressing concern, providing enhanced protection against various threats encountered during service, including ballistic, chemical, and biological hazards. Additionally, the CRO emphasized the principle of conscript rights, arguing that individuals compelled to serve should be afforded adequate protection as a basic entitlement.

Challenges and Drawbacks:

While the introduction of armour suits represented a significant step forward in conscript protection, it was not without its challenges and drawbacks. Training conscripts to effectively utilize and maintain armour suits posed logistical and resource challenges, requiring additional investment in training infrastructure and personnel. Moreover, the conditioning required to acclimate conscripts to the use of technology interfaces such as HUDs and helmet-mounted communication systems presented psychological and behavioral hurdles. The imposition of strict protocols regarding helmet usage, particularly during public interactions, also raised concerns about the erosion of individual autonomy and privacy.

Influence of Defense Contractors:

An often-overlooked aspect of the mandatory introduction of armour suits is the influence of defense contractors in shaping this development. As providers of advanced protective technologies and equipment, defense contractors stood to benefit economically from the widespread adoption of armour suits among conscripts. Their lobbying efforts and collaboration with governmental agencies played a significant role in driving the policy agenda towards mandatory implementation.

Conclusion:

The mandatory introduction of armour suits for conscripts represents a pivotal moment in the evolution of conscript protection and welfare. While aimed at enhancing the safety and security of individuals serving their mandatory terms, this development also underscores the complex interplay between societal obligations, technological advancements, and economic interests. Moving forward, it is imperative to strike a balance between ensuring conscript safety and preserving individual freedoms and rights in the context of mandatory service.