#The Fermentation Oracle

[comparativeoracle]

Reimagine. Art by Fen Inkwright, from The Fermentation Oracle.

Green papaya salad, pickled green papaya martini.

[reynaisbetterthananyman]

Star Light, Star Bright.

nico diangelo x male!reader

wc: 18.6k

warning: kinda graphic descriptions

a/n: i recommend reading this chapter on a03. It’s so long that the whole thing doesn’t fit on here (oopsies?) most of the chapter is written here but the ending is on a03!

previous, orginal version here, masterlist, ao3, next

It was safe—except maybe around Thalia—to say your team had been utterly wrecked by the Hunters. Not only had Zoë Nightshade single-handedly annihilated your defensive line with alarming elegance, but the rest of her squad brought psychological warfare to a whole new level.

You and Nico had been running—bravely escaping—when they unleashed their most feared weapon: the Fart Arrows.

You weren’t prepared.

The moment the gas hit, you staggered to a stop, gagging. It was as if a thousand gym socks had died, fermented in a sewer, and come back for vengeance. Your lungs burned. Your eyes watered. Your will to live wavered.

With a dramatic wheeze, you dropped to your knees.

“This is it,” you rasped. “Tell my story.”

Nico spun around, panicked. He crouched beside you, grabbing your shoulders. “What happened? What’s wrong?!”

He looked perfectly fine—of course he did. His helmet, too big for his head, had slipped low enough to cover his nose. He was protected.

Lucky him.

You coughed again, weakly gripping his collar. “Nico… don’t forget me.”

Nico blinked. “Are you seriously—”

“I said tell my story!” you groaned, flopping to the ground.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Nico sighed and, despite himself, muttered, “You died bravely. Death by stench. I’ll etch it into your gravestone.”

“Make it smell-proof,” you croaked.

“I’ll ask cabin nine,” he smiled, tugging you back onto your feet. “Come on, drama king. We’ve got to regroup.”

You staggered forward, leaning on him with a groan. “I see the light, Nico…”

“That’s the moon.”

“Tell it I love it.”

He kept dragging you along.

Thalia was yelling at Percy for leaving your base undefended—which, frankly, you found personally offensive. Sure, the defense had crumbled in record time, but that wasn’t the point.

Still, you weren’t about to argue with the girl who had literal sparks crackling from her fingertips and lightning practically simmering in her irises.

Luckily, Percy handled it himself, standing his ground and—rightfully (why wasn’t he captain?)—defending his decision.

Unfortunately, it didn’t end there.

Thalia, never one to back down gracefully, shoved Percy—okay, flung him—straight into the creek. Percy, to no one’s surprise, responded by sending a wave crashing into her face.

A weird, tense power standoff commenced. Sparks crackled in the air. Water rippled at their feet. The temperature dropped by about ten degrees, and your skin prickled like you were standing between two natural disasters.

You sighed internally. Great. Everyone’s going to die because these two are asserting their dominance.

Then Nico tugged your arm.

You turned, and his voice came in a low, uncertain whisper.

“Hey…what is that…?”

You followed his gaze—and immediately your stomach dropped.

Something was moving in the woods.

A shape, half-obscured by a curling green mist, drifting like smoke through the trees. The air around it shimmered strangely, like the space itself was warping. Goosebumps erupted across your arms.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t part of the game.

“This is impossible,” Chiron said, his voice trembling. “She… she has never left the attic. Never.”

The smoke swirled and parted, revealing a withered, mummified figure—and you instantly paled. You’d heard about the Oracle in the attic, the dried-out woman who did nothing but spew ominous prophecies from her cobwebbed corner of the Big House.

But you always assumed you were safe from ever having to see her, so long as you stayed far, far away from the attic.

Clearly, the universe had other plans.

Beside you, Nico suddenly clutched his ears, and you turned to him, ready to ask what was wrong—until a voice echoed inside your skull, sharp and echoing like it was bouncing off the walls of your brain.

“I am the Spirit of Delphi. Speaker of the prophecies of Phoebus Apollo, slayer of the mighty Python.”

You covered your ears, but it didn’t help. The Oracle turned to Zoë, its hollow voice echoing: “Approach, Seeker, and ask.”

Zoë stepped forward. Her jaw was set, but her eyes wavered. “What must I do to help my goddess?”

Your brow furrowed. Her goddess? What was she talking about? What happened to Artemis?

The answer came fast—and unpleasant. The sharp stink of sulfur hit your nose, making you gag and raise a hand to cover your face. The mist swirled and reshaped, revealing an image of a young girl.

At least, she looked young—but the power rolling off her form was ancient and wild.

You leaned toward Nico and whispered, “Is that Artemis?”

He nodded slowly, his expression tight with concern. “Yeah… but what happened to her?”

The vision sharpened. Artemis was bound in chains, tethered to a jagged mountainside, straining against her restraints with raw defiance. She was in pain—but even so, she fought, glowing with that fierce, untouchable light.

The oracle’s voice boomed, “Five shall go west to the goddess in chains,

One shall be lost in the land without rain,

The bane of Olympus shows the trail,

Campers and Hunters combined prevail,

The Titan’s curse must one withstand,

And one shall perish by a parent’s hand.”

And just like that, the green smoke drifted back into the Oracle’s mouth. Its body stilled, joints locking in that unnatural way, and it settled once more on the rock—like it had never moved at all.

A heavy tension coiled through the clearing. No one spoke. Not Chiron. Not Zoe. Not even the Stolls, who usually couldn’t stay quiet for more than a few seconds.

For once, you didn’t feel the urge to crack a joke or ease the silence with a snide comment. The air didn’t feel breathable enough for humor. What you’d just seen… it wasn’t like anything you’d encountered before.

You’d seen monsters before—been attacked, even, on your way to camp—but this was different.

You had never seen a prophecy spoken aloud, never imagined what it would feel like to watch the future unravel in cryptic lines and haunting images.

And you definitely hadn’t anticipated the silence it would leave in its wake—the kind that felt less like peace and more like pressure. A storm on the horizon, waiting to break.

“[Name].”

Nico’s voice cut through the fog in your brain, grounding you just enough to blink out of the beginnings of a cold sweat.

“Huh?” you mumbled, still dazed.

He frowned, worry etched deep into his face.

“Everyone’s leaving,” he said gently. “Percy and Grover are taking the Oracle back up to the attic.”

You hadn’t even noticed the others moving. Your eyes flicked toward the path, where Percy’s shoulders were tense as he and Grover carried the motionless figure away.

Nico’s hand found yours, his thumb rubbing slowly across the back of your knuckles. The motion was soft and careful. It was the same gesture Bianca used on him whenever he was afraid.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked quietly. “You look like you’re about to hurl.”

You swallowed hard, the pressure in your chest stubborn and unshakable. “Yeah… I just…” You trailed off, unsure of how to explain the lingering weight in your ribs. The way the prophecy still echoed in your bones.

“Come on,” Nico said, tugging you gently toward camp. “We missed dinner, but maybe we can still find you a snack. You’ll feel better.”

You didn’t argue. Your legs moved on autopilot, following his lead like a rag doll while your thoughts swirled uselessly in a fog.

You’d just made it to the edge of the woods when—

“Nico, wait!”

Both of you froze and turned at the sound. Bianca was sprinting toward you, her brows pinched.

Nico’s face hardened instantly. Without a word, he turned back around and tried to pull you along faster. You barely had time to process the change in pace before Bianca caught up and grabbed his arm.

He recoiled like she’d burned him.

“Move, Bianca,” he demanded, his voice low and sharp in a way you weren’t used to hearing. Bianca huffed, her grip on his arm tightened, and her feet remained stubbornly in place. “I’ve been trying to talk to you, but you’ve been avoiding me!”

“You’ve got a whole cabin full of new sisters—go talk to them!” Nico snapped, his voice rising. “You don’t need me anymore. You chose them. You left me. Now let go!”

Bianca let out an exasperated sigh. “Nico, that’s not true. I didn’t leave you. I’ll always be here. But I can’t take care of you the way you need. The way you deserve to be cared for.”

“That’s such garbage!” Nico snapped. “You joined the Hunters because you were done with me! You saw them as your way out. We were fine before they ever showed up!”

His voice wavered near the end, and you felt the tremble in his hand where it stayed locked with yours. In the faint glow from camp, his eyes shimmered with unshed tears, which he stubbornly blinked away.

“Just admit it, Bianca,” he said, quieter now, but no less raw. “I’ve only ever been a burden to you.”

The words sat heavy in the air, like a weight no one could lift. That kind of pain—gods, you knew it.

The ache of believing you were too much for the people you loved. Too loud. Too sensitive. Too complicated.

You remembered the way your mother’s eyes used to tighten when you asked too many questions. The way she’d sigh, exhausted, like even your presence was something she had to manage.

You weren’t stupid. You’d heard the whispers at family gatherings—before she cut them off completely. Heard how they talked about you like a burden. How they wondered why she “put up with all that,” like loving you came with a manual she’d chosen not to read.

You didn’t know exactly what happened, only that one year, the holiday cards stopped arriving and the phone stopped ringing. Your mother said it was better that way, that they didn’t deserve you—but a part of you still wondered if she was just tired of defending you.

If she wished you’d come out quieter, easier.

Normal.

And now, watching Nico—shoulders tight, voice cracking, hand trembling in yours like it was the only steady thing left—you recognized that pain like an old bruise. The fear of being someone’s reason to leave.

Bianca stood just a few feet away, but it might as well have been miles. And you, caught between the girl who raised him and the boy who was breaking right in front of you, didn’t know what to say.

What could you say, when every word Nico spoke sounded like something you might’ve said once, too?

So you stayed where you were. Silent. Steady. Trying to hold together what little you could—your hand in his, your presence the only offering you had—and wished that love alone could be enough to undo this kind of hurt.

“Nico,” Bianca said, barely more than a whisper. Her voice wavered, eyes wide with hurt. “How can you say that? I do love you—but I… I need space to live my own life too. I have a right to.”

Nico’s face went still.

“Then go,” he said, voice cold and brittle. “Go and don’t come back.”

Here is when you decided to open your mouth, ready to say something—anything—to soften the sharp edge of Nico’s words. But before you could speak, a faint jolt pulsed from the chain around your neck. It was subtle, like static against your skin, but enough to startle you.

Your hand flew to your chest, where the glass dome lay, and you noticed the small flower inside beginning to tremble, its petals quivering unnaturally.

Confused, you blinked down at it—only for a wave of sorrow to slam into you like a tide. It filled your lungs like water, thick and drowning. The ache was overwhelming—grief that didn’t have a name, sharp and endless.

Your knees buckled slightly, and the world tilted, the conversation around you slipping into a distant hum.

Bianca paused, the instincts of an older sister kicking in as she caught sight of you swaying. She stepped away from Nico, quickly closing the distance to steady you by the arm.

“Nico, what’s wrong with your friend?” she asked, voice sharp with concern. You blinked at her, but her face was already starting to blur, smeared at the edges like a painting caught in the rain.

“Hey,” she said more gently. “Are you okay? Do we need to get someone?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The weight in your chest had become unbearable, grief pressing into your ribs until your lungs forgot how to breathe. Then your legs gave out.

Nico lurched forward with a panicked shout, catching you just before you hit the ground. “Bianca—go! Call for Chiron!”

But his voice was already drifting away. The last thing you saw was his wide, frightened eyes staring into yours. Then the world slipped out from under you like the ground itself had vanished.

And everything went dark.

Tick. Tock.

“Psst…”

Tick. Tock.

“Hey, kid.”

Tick. Tock.

“D’aww, well, isn’t he a sweet little thing!”

Tick. Tock.

“Should we pinch him?”

Tick. Tock.

“No, that’s rude!”

Tick. Tock.

“Well, got a better idea to wake him up?”

Tick. Tock.

“He’s fine. Sleeping like a baby!”

Tick. Tock.

“We don’t have time for this. Wake him up now.”

Tick. Tock.

“Well, I would’ve if I was allowed to pinch him!”

Tick. Tock.

“No pinching!”

Tick. Tock.

“You—!”

Tick. Tock.

“Enough. Look—he’s stirring.”

Tick. Tock.

Why was it so loud?

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Was that a clock? Who buys a clock anymore?

The sound gnawed at your ears like a slow, deliberate countdown. Your eyes snapped open—but the world didn’t greet you like it should’ve. Everything was warped. Soft. Like you were staring through water or frosted glass. Shapes hovered at the edge of your vision, twisting and settling with every blink.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

You flinched. That sound again. Close—too close. Embedded in the walls, maybe. In your bones?

As you lay there trying to orient yourself, you realized you weren’t alone. There were voices—quiet, hushed whispers, just above your head.

“Is he awake?”

“No, no, look at his face. He’s still got drool. That’s the face of someone deeply asleep.”

“Should we poke him?”

“Do not poke him. We’ve talked about this.”

“Look at him. He’s taking ages just to focus.”

It wasn’t a voice you recognized. Smooth, but sharp around the edges—like polished glass with cracks underneath. It had the kind of hostility you’d usually expect from an Ares kid right before a fight.

Then came a second voice, bright and airy with a scratch of rasp like laughter after a cold. “Would you quit being so hard on the kid, Phobetor? Oh, I just want to pinch his cheeks!”

Phobetor. The name was unfamiliar.

The first voice—Phobetor, apparently—hissed in annoyance at the scolding but fell quiet. You blinked slowly, trying to will your vision into focus.

Were they new kids?

That was your first thought. Maybe after you passed out and they dragged you to the infirmary, this was some weird welcome party for new campers—though the ticking and phantom voices didn’t exactly scream hospitality.

Your vision finally cleared, revealing a ceiling you didn’t recognize.

The ticking—constant and sharp—seemed to echo louder now, pressing in from every direction. You shifted, expecting the familiar comfort of your cabin bed, but the surface beneath you creaked ominously.

It was stiff, unforgiving. Definitely not a mattress.

And it wasn’t just the bed that was missing. You shivered, suddenly aware there was no blanket draped over you, no pillow under your head, just a thin chill crawling up your spine.

Did I fall out of bed? You blinked, trying to piece things together. That didn’t explain the aches pulsing in your back or the growing unease in your gut.

You slowly sat up—and froze.

This wasn’t the Hermes cabin. It wasn’t any part of Camp Half-Blood at all.

The walls around you were lined with clocks. Dozens of them. No—hundreds. All cuckoo clocks.

They ticked in a discordant symphony, out of rhythm with one another. None of them matched.

One was shaped like a cathedral with golden spires. Another, like a lily pad, had a frog tongue swinging in and out with each tick.

You turned to the nearest one, squinting. A figurine of a boy tugged endlessly on a girl’s braid, over and over in a loop.

“…Is this a prank?” You muttered, unsettled. The clock boy gave another mechanical yank, the girl’s painted face forever frozen mid-scream. Weird didn’t begin to cover it.

Turning away from the bizarre clock, your eyes landed on a nearby shelf. Toys were scattered across each tier, huddled together like they were whispering among themselves.

But they weren’t modern toys—no bright plastics or screen-faced gadgets. These were vintage.

One in particular caught your attention: an antique porcelain doll that looked uncannily similar to the one your mother kept on her bedside table when you were younger.

Your breath hitched. You hadn’t thought of that doll in years.

Carefully, you reached out and picked it up. Its skin—if you could call it that—was smooth but fragile, and the slightest pressure could’ve cracked it. The doll wore a delicate Victorian dress with hand-stitched lace, and a glassy, unblinking gaze stared straight through you.

Then, a sound reached your ears. Faint, distant… music?

You turned, drawn to the source.

A wooden dresser stood tucked into the corner of the room, its surface lined with ornate music boxes. Like the dolls, they were clearly vintage. Each one handcrafted, with the same intricate care you remembered seeing when you had to bunk in the Apollo cabin for a week.

Back when Connor had accidentally let in a swarm of stink bugs, and you’d ended up watching Lee Fletcher fiddle with the tiny gears of his latest project.

With Beckendorf helping him, the two of them had built something beautiful from scraps. The craftsmanship now in front of you reminded you of that—only these music boxes felt more… haunted.

Each one was unique. One featured an angel suspended mid-spin, surrounded by tiny, gleaming stars that winked in and out like real constellations. It was almost mesmerizing.

But then you caught sight of the next one—and snorted.

A baby Eros, all pudgy cheeks and wings, sat in the middle of a pink pedestal, wearing nothing but a golden diaper. Typical mortal interpretation of the gods: either eerily accurate or hilariously off the mark.

“Oh, Figaro! Would you look at this hat!”

The sudden voice made you freeze. You'd been so absorbed in the music boxes and the strange trinkets around you that you hadn’t heard anyone enter. That didn’t alarm you at first—because the voice was familiar. Comfortingly so.

You turned with a smile already forming. “Hey, Chiron—”

But the rest of your sentence collapsed the second you laid eyes on him.

That wasn’t Chiron.

Or at least, not your Chiron. The figure before you looked like a discount version—an uncanny Chiron knockoff fresh off a thrift store shelf.

He had two human legs instead of hooves, no sign of his horse half anywhere.

And he was dressed like someone’s fashionably confused great-grandfather: high-waisted trousers, stiff suspenders, and a pinstripe vest that screamed 1920s.

You blinked, trying to make sense of it. Had the Mist scrambled your brain?

“Oh, he’s even cuter when he’s confused!” said a voice, smooth and teasing.

Your head whipped around, scanning the room. “Who said that?!”

“We’re right next to you,” came the raspier, growling voice—Phobetor again, and clearly still annoyed.

“I don’t see you.” You crossed your arms, deadpan.

“You don’t have to,” he replied coldly. The chill in his tone made it sound like you’d stepped on his dreams, or possibly his dog.

Rude. You’d never hurt a dog. Unless it was the Stoll brothers’ mutt, but that thing probably would’ve had it coming.

Then a new voice spoke—soft and warm, completely different from the others. It drifted through the air like silk, wrapping gently around your ears. “You are confused. I understand.”

You swore you felt a hand settle lightly on your shoulder. There was a calm power to it—soothing but impossibly deep, like lullabies sung in forgotten languages.

“Yeah,” you muttered, your voice quieter now. “Apparently I’m missing a lot lately.”

Your thoughts flickered, uninvited, to your father. To everything you didn’t understand, everything that hadn’t been said.

And to the growing sense that none of this was random.

As expected, the dreamy voice turned cold and unhelpful.

“Now is not the time for questions,” he said. “We will explain—but first, you must pay attention.”

And just like that, something shoved you—not physically, but with enough force to spin you back around to face… Grandpa Chiron.

You scoffed under your breath. The voices had gone silent.

No guidance. No explanation. Were you going crazy and hearing things? Or worse—was this Kronos messing with you? You grimaced.

The world didn’t need another power-hungry psycho. Luke already filled that role. You hadn’t known him personally, but from what you’d heard, he wasn’t exactly Camp’s pride and joy.

Only an idiot sides with the guy who ate his own children?

Still, something weird was obviously going on. Even if this Chiron was some imposter in your grandfather’s closet, he might be the only one around to help.

Swallowing your pride, you marched over and raised your voice:

“Chiron, I’m being haunted!”

He didn’t react. Just strolled right past you like you weren’t even there.

Your jaw dropped. Rude. How could he ignore you? You were, like, obviously his favorite camper.

Who else willingly spent time listening to his longwinded Greek history rants?

You waved your hand in front of his face, annoyed.

“Chiron! It’s me—[Name]! I tried to dye your tail pink last month, remember?!”

Nothing.

He kept moving forward, lost in his own little world.

…Wait. Was he walking through you?

Oh gods.

Your stomach dropped.

Were you dead?!

This was horrible. Chiron was dressed like someone’s great-uncle Larry and you were dead. And those voices? Probably other ghosts, doomed to hang around creepy doll rooms and cuckoo clocks.

Panic began to simmer in your chest.

No one to talk to. No one to see you. Just you, some haunted furniture, and the terrifying possibility that you were stuck in this dream forever, cursed to watch Chiron in suspenders.

With a long, defeated sigh, you sank onto the floor and stared blankly at a nearby trash pail.

“Guess I’m dead,” you mumbled.

Your shoulders slumped. “When Drew dies, she is so making fun of me for this.”

Just as you were contemplating your ghostly afterlife, your eyes caught on the cat weaving around Chiron’s feet. Something about its face made you tilt your head. It looked weirdly familiar.

...Was that Percy?

Before you could fully process that horrifying concept, the Percy-cat leapt onto the workbench Chiron had been fiddling with.

“Figaro!” Chiron scolded lightly, though his voice was full of fondness. “What did I say about jumping on the workbench?”

He reached out to scratch behind the cat’s ears. You watched, dumbfounded.

Figaro.

That name. You’d heard it before.

But where?

Figaro purred beneath Chiron’s smooth strokes, nuzzling into his palm like he’d just been given the world.

“Okay, okay,” Chiron chuckled. “I’ll excuse it this one last time.”

The cat’s purring only grew louder as he curled tighter around Chiron’s hand, tail flicking contentedly. With one final pat, Chiron nudged Figaro aside and pulled something small from his pocket—a child-sized hat.

You frowned. Maybe it was meant for the other dead kids. Even in the afterlife, you were doomed to suffer Chiron’s horrific fashion sense.

Chiron—Geppetto, you guessed now—placed the tiny hat on something resting on the table. You leaned to get a better look, but his body blocked your view.

“Oh, doesn’t he look great, Figaro?”

The cat’s tail twitched as if in agreement.

“Let’s give him a name,” Chiron murmured, stepping aside at last.

There on the table sat a puppet. A wooden one. Plain, but detailed. Hand-carved.

Huh. A strange old man, a cozy cluttered shop, a puppet...

Something in your memory stirred.

You tilted your head. “This is… familiar…”

You squinted at the hat-wearing puppet. A name danced at the edges of your brain. Pinok? No. Piney? Definitely not.

Then it hit you.

“Pinocchio!”

“Oh yes,” Chiron echoed with a wide grin. “His name shall be Pinocchio.”

He swung the puppet gleefully in his arms, completely unaware of the existential crisis you were now having.

This had to be a joke. A dream. A punishment?

But as Chiron twirled around with the puppet, you caught a better look at its face—and your heart stopped.

It wasn’t just a puppet.

The carved brows, the cheeks, even the upturn of the mouth…

Your breath hitched. “Nico…”

This was the afterlife? Living a twisted and reimagined version of a fairy tale?

Fairy tales used to be your escape, back when you were a kid. Your mom would read you every single one.

But now? You were in one. Literally. And with no sign of escape, it seemed like you were stuck here... forever.

Figaro hissed, snapping you out of your spiraling thoughts, as Geppetto chased him across the floor with the puppet in hand.

You couldn’t help it—you snorted. Percy, scared of Nico? That was rich. Nico wouldn’t hurt a fly. Maybe glare a fly into oblivion, but still.

“Oh, he’s a cheeky boy, isn’t he, Figaro?” Geppetto cackled.

Figaro did not agree. The cat darted beneath a stool in protest, his ears flattened with clear disdain.

Before the puppet parade could continue, a deep bell rang out.

The sound echoed once—twice—then multiplied.

Every clock in the room began to chime, one after the other in rapid succession. It wasn’t just a ring—it was an overwhelming, chaotic chorus of cuckoo-clock cacophony.

You clapped your hands over your ears, wincing as the sharp peals swallowed the room whole.

This was no choir. This was a clockocalypse

Geppetto pulled out a pocket watch—because apparently, the orchestra of clocks ringing wasn’t enough. Still, he frowned as he checked the time. “Looks like it’s time for bed, Figaro.”

The small cat let out a meow and crawled out from under the stool, looking thoroughly unamused.

But before anything else could happen, your vision abruptly went black.

“AH!” You stumbled back, clutching your face. “Am I blind? Oh no, no, no—”

You’d take being stuck in this bizarre puppet play over blindness any day.

Thankfully, your sight returned just as quickly as it vanished. Light filtered in again, and once everything stopped spinning, you realized you weren’t in the workshop anymore.

Now you were in a bedroom.

Compared to the crowded, whimsical chaos of the workshop, this room was calm—almost too calm. Just two beds: a large one in the center, and a smaller one beside it. “Figaro” was carved on the tiny headboard of the small one.

Which meant this was Geppetto’s bedroom.

The abrupt darkness made sense now. You were transitioning scenes. Like flipping pages in a storybook.

Yes. That was the explanation you were sticking with. It was simple, it was logical, and it prevented you from spiraling further into the “am I actually dead and hallucinating?” debate.

Geppetto entered through the door, Figaro close behind.

Still carrying Pinocchio, he crossed to the dresser and propped the puppet upright against the wall with a gentle pat to its head, like a father tucking in his son. Then he turned to get himself and Figaro settled into bed.

Figaro was already halfway to dreamland, his limbs limp, tail flicking lazily over the blanket.

Geppetto paused, eyes drifting back to the puppet sitting upright, facing them with its lifeless wooden stare.

“Look at him, Figaro,” he murmured, lying back on his pillow. “He almost looks alive.”

The cat meowed in drowsy agreement—or maybe just protest at being kept awake. Either way, his eyes were already closing again.

Geppetto smiled faintly at his sleepy companion, his gaze softening as it returned to Pinocchio. “Wouldn’t it be nice,” he whispered, “if he were a real boy? A boy who could talk and play without strings…”

His voice trailed off, the sentence unfinished as he slipped into a quiet daydream. For a moment, he looked impossibly hopeful, like someone hanging on to the last edge of a forgotten wish.

Then he blinked and shook himself out of it. With a sigh, he turned and blew out the candle beside his bed, plunging the room into gentle darkness.

But not even a full second passed before he spoke again.

“Figaro,” he said suddenly, “I forgot to open the window. Would you mind?”

The cat lifted his head slowly, his face practically screaming yes, I do mind, but he still got up—reluctantly, dragging his paws—climbed onto Geppetto’s bed, and leapt to the windowsill.

With a bit of feline finesse, Figaro slipped through the small crack and tugged the window open with his back legs. The moonlight spilled into the room, bathing everything in silver.

Then Geppetto gasped.

“Look!” he exclaimed, sitting up and pointing skyward. “A wishing star!”

You looked up too, and sure enough, there it was—the highest, brightest star in the sky. You'd never seen one glow so intensely. It shimmered like it had something important to do.

Geppetto clasped his hands, and in a voice full of innocent wonder, began to speak.

“Starlight, star bright,

First star I see tonight.

I wish I may, I wish I might,

Have the wish I make tonight.”

Without meaning to, you whispered along with him.

It was a reflex—muscle memory from your childhood. Back then, you used to whisper that same rhyme to the stars outside your window, thinking maybe they were listening.

Geppetto turned to Figaro and hooked a finger under his chin. “Do you know what I wished for?” he asked.

Figaro, basking in the attention, gave a slow blink.

Geppetto’s eyes drifted to the puppet, then back to the cat. “I wished for my Pinocchio to be a real boy. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

He sighed and let himself fall back into the pillow, clearly drifting. Figaro curled up at his feet without complaint.

“Goodnight, Figaro,” Geppetto murmured.

A pause.

“Goodnight, Pinocchio.”

Once Geppetto’s eyes shut, he started snoring immediately—and was that a horse neigh?

You had half a mind to go shut his mouth for him… but you didn’t want to risk suffocating the old guy in his sleep.

Then, a soft twinkling echoed through the room. Moonlight poured through the open window, growing brighter by the second. A white-blue shimmer blanketed the bedroom, and the highest star in the sky began to descend, pulsing with light.

You recognized this part—it was the Blue Fairy’s grand entrance.

You watched without much enthusiasm… at first.

The glowing silhouette forming in the center of the room wasn’t tall and graceful like you remembered. No elegant, adult figure in a flowing dress.

No… this one was shorter. Younger. Suspiciously familiar.

As the light dimmed and revealed the figure underneath, your jaw hit the floor.

Standing in the middle of the room, drowning in a dress several sizes too big, was—

“Drew?!”

You barely managed to choke back the laughter, though giggles still slipped out, bubbling up uncontrollably. Of course your borderline evil best friend had been cast as the Blue Fairy.

The Stolls would've lost their minds over this. Why did you never have a camera when you needed one?

Fairy Drew strutted into the room, wand in hand, shoulders squared, her face already bored out of its mind.

She stopped beside Geppetto’s bed and cleared her throat. “Good Geppetto, you have given so much happiness to others—” she paused, lifting her palm and squinting at badly scribbled words, “you deserve to have your wish come true—blah blah—let’s just get this over with.”

Watching her stomp over to Pinocchio made the whole thing even more absurd. Your friends were fairytale characters now. Incorrectly cast, sure, but that somehow made it even better.

You turned your eyes toward the puppet—Nico, or a wooden version of him.

Still, unmoving, dull-eyed. It creeped you out more than you expected. Seeing him like that felt… wrong. Like he was lifeless. Dead. The thought made your stomach twist, and you quickly shifted your gaze back to Fairy Drew.

She lifted her wand, clearly uninterested in dramatics.

“Little puppet made of pine, wake.”

With a spark of blue light, her wand tapped the puppet’s head. The glow pulsed once, and suddenly, his eyes blinked open.

He looked around in wonder, slowly lifting his arms. “I can move!” he exclaimed.

Then, he gasped and pointed at his mouth. “I can talk!”

Drew grabbed his hand and helped him wobble to his feet, more out of obligation than compassion.

“I brought you to life because Geppetto wished for a real boy,” she said. Then under her breath: “For some reason.”

Pinocchio didn’t hear her—or didn’t care. He was too busy spinning around and admiring his arms like they were made of gold.

“Am I a real boy?” he asked eagerly.

Drew blinked. “No.”

The puppet’s smile faltered. “Well then, how do I become one?”

“You have to prove yourself brave, truthful, and unselfish to make your father’s wish come true.”

Then Drew’s expression shifted.

“Or,” she added, lowering her voice, “I’ll turn you into a ghost.”

Pinocchio’s eyes widened. “Oh no!”

“You’ll be stuck in this workshop forever,” Drew continued, tone dead serious. “Haunting your dad. Wandering the halls. Crying wooden tears. Forever.”

He looked horrified. You couldn’t blame him.

She stood back, letting the horror set in, then burst into laughter. “I’m kidding! You should’ve seen your face!”

She tossed her head back and let out another loud laugh, hands thrown up in mock fright. “Oh no!” she cried, mimicking Pinocchio’s earlier panic. “I’m a ghost now!”

You arched a brow, watching as she practically doubled over from laughing at her own joke. No doubt in your mind: this was Drew in all her chaotic glory.

What shocked you more was that Pinocchio started laughing too. Like, really laughing.

You cringed. The poor boy was too innocent to know he was being emotionally terrorized.

Still, Drew kept laughing. And somehow… so did he.

After what felt like forever, the fairy’s laughter finally subsided, her smile dropping. She pointed her wand back at the former puppet, frowning. “But I will turn you back to wood if you misbehave.”

Pinocchio hastily nodded, clearly not wanting to go back to being a lifeless puppet. “I’ll be good, I promise!”

Fairy Drew patted him on the head, her not-so-comforting smile hovering above him. “We both know that’s not true. You can’t tell right from wrong, silly Pinocchio.”

She turned and walked away, her oversized dress sparkling more with every step. Reaching the window, she stuck a hand outside, searching for something. When her hand came back in, it held a small cricket perched nicely on her palm.

“This’ll do,” she muttered, nose scrunched as she carried it back across the room and placed it down on the dresser.

That’s when you realized—someone important had been missing.

With a twirl of her wand, the once-chirping cricket shimmered in a flash of indigo light and transformed into a furious little bug in a miniature pinstripe suit. He adjusted his lapels like he'd been rudely summoned from a high-stakes meeting rather than a moonlit leaf.

“You’ve got some nerve yanking me out of my late-night stroll!” he barked, pacing in erratic little circles and waving his arms like he was trying to swat away the indignity. His antennae twitched with irritation, and his bulbous eyes narrowed on her as if she’d committed some unspeakable offense.

His voice—sharp, dry, and dripping with disdain—sounded suspiciously like Mr. D on a bad day. You know, the kind of tone that could make a satyr cry and a camper rethink every decision they’d ever made.

Pinocchio gasped, hands flying to his mouth before scooping the bug up with all the gentle awe of someone handling a sacred relic.

“Hey! Put me down! You’ve all got sweaty hands!” the cricket shrieked, kicking his tiny legs.

Fairy Drew rolled her eyes and flicked the bug lightly. “He’s not a real boy. He can’t have sweaty hands. And quit complaining, or I’ll zap your mouth off.”

That ended the cricket’s tantrum real fast.

“What’s your name, cricket sir?” Pinocchio asked, lifting him closer to his face with wide, hopeful eyes.

The cricket turned to shoot one last scowl at Drew, who returned it with an exaggerated, sugar-sweet smile and a sarcastic little wave.

The cricket sighed deeply before crossing his arms. “It’s Jiminy,” he muttered. “Jiminy Cricket.”

And that’s when it hit you. Jiminy Cricket. The wise, moral compass. The voice of reason. That Jiminy Cricket was Mr. D. Grumpy, snarky, passively-hostile Mr. D. The one who ran Camp Half-Blood like he wished it would burn down so he could finally take a nap.

This version of Pinocchio had to be completely deranged.

“Well, Jiminy,” Drew sneered, dragging out his name like it physically hurt to say it, “you’re going to be his conscience. He’d be a menace without one.”

“What is a menace?” Pinocchio asked, tilting his head like a confused puppy.

“It’s what you’ll turn into if this bug doesn’t take the job,” she said plainly.

Jiminy grumbled something under his breath, his whole body shaking with irritation as he stomped across the top of the dresser. “If you think I’m going to be the conscience of a walking bobblehead, you are seriously mistaken.”

Pinocchio frowned and gently touched his head, suddenly unsure if it really did wobble like that.

Before Jiminy could jump off the edge, Drew flicked her fingers, blocking his path with a sparkling hand. “You don’t get a choice, bug.”

The tip of her wand lit up, casting a warm glow that made it clear she wasn’t bluffing.

Jiminy froze. He looked at the wand, then at Drew, and immediately took a few shaky steps back toward Pinocchio. “Alright, alright, fine!” he snapped, glaring up at the glowing wand like it had personally insulted him. “I’ll do it, okay?”

The light on the wand faded.

“Good!” Drew said, all smug and satisfied.

At this point, you’d completely zoned them out—your eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the room, beyond the glitter and puppet strings and cartoon morality. They were going through the motions like actors in a play you’d seen one too many times. The plot spun on rails, predictable as clockwork.

You knew this story. Every twist, every beat. All the characters were here—rearranged, sure, twisted in tone, some more unhinged than you remembered—but the story was the same.

“Didn’t I tell you to pay attention?” a voice hissed suddenly in your ear.

You jolted like someone had dumped cold water down your back. Your head whipped around, scanning wildly for whoever was behind you—but no one was there.

“You already know you cannot see us,” said the chirpy, singsong voice from earlier—the one that somehow managed to sound both smug and deeply annoying.

You scrunched your nose. Of course. Them again.

“Oh, it’s you,” you muttered, rubbing your temple. “Because this wasn’t annoying enough already.”

A sudden breeze brushed across your face, cold and too deliberate to be natural. You flinched, instinctively folding in on yourself like it could protect you from something invisible.

“Now, now, don’t be rude. I do have a name,” the voice said with a lilting laugh, like this was all some kind of game.

“Yeah? Then maybe try introducing yourself next time instead of creeping around whispering in people’s ears.”

Silence.

Typical. Couldn’t even give you a name. Just a voice and some cryptic nonsense, like that was supposed to mean something.

The background noise of Fairy Drew’s glitter-fueled threats and Pinocchio’s head poking continued like nothing had happened. The havoc hadn’t paused for your moment of discomfort.

You sighed and tried to shake it off, turning your attention back to the scene—just in time for a piercing, high-pitched screech to explode through the air.

The sound was sharp and immediate, like a siren made of nails on a chalkboard. It slammed straight into your ears, making your whole body tense.

You clapped your hands over your ears, teeth clenched. “What now?” you shouted, voice half-lost under the screeching.

No answer.

Then, with a sharp snap, the sound cut off.

“I’ll ignore your attitude this time,” the voice said, cold and clipped, “but consider this a warning.”

You didn’t respond right away. You were too busy clutching your ears, the ringing still bouncing around your skull like someone had struck a tuning fork inside your head. Your vision swam at the edges, your balance slightly off.

“Next time, make his ears bleed,” someone else snickered, voice full of glee.

You winced. Next time?!

If these were the ghosts you were stuck with in the afterlife, you honestly wouldn’t mind dying again—preferably into the company of someone quieter. Or at the very least, less sadistic.

An irritated groan slipped out before you could stop it. “Look, all I want to know is what’s going on. Why am I in Pinocchio? Who even are you three? And am I dead or what?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then a loud, wheezing snort came from somewhere off to your right. “Kid thinks he’s dead!” the voice howled with laughter.

You could practically see him doubled over, wheezing like it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard, completely delighted by your confusion.

You took a slow breath. Inhale. Exhale. You were not going to lose your temper. Not with whatever these things were. Instead, you forced a tight smile onto your face and kept your voice as calm and polite as possible.

“I am so sorry for my brothers,” came a third voice—this one soft and clear, like chimes in the wind. It had an elegance the others lacked, layered in a kind of practiced grace.

“Allow me to introduce myself properly,” the voice continued. “I am Morpheus. The one who nearly shattered your eardrums is Phantasos. And the one you probably want to strangle is Phobetor. We are the Oneiroi—spirits of dreams.”

“…So I’m not dead?” you asked slowly, still half-expecting someone to scream welcome! and yank you into a tunnel of light.

“You are not dead,” Morpheus confirmed, calm as ever. Then, after a pause, added dryly, “Although with how often you bring it up, one might think it’s something you want.”

“No!” you yelped, clearing your throat and glancing around. “No. I don’t want to die. I just… thought this was the afterlife.”

Phantasos’s laugh came sharp and unsettling—just as high-pitched as before. “Either way, we’re not here to kill you—”

“Unfortunately,” Phobetor muttered darkly. “

We get it, Phobetor, you’re edgy,” Phantasos said with a groan.

“What’s being edgy got to do with me wanting him dead?”

“Can you not? All you ever spout is nonsense.”

“Nonsense? You’re the father of nonsense!”

“Lalalala, not listening!”

“Oh, wait till I get my hands on you—”

A loud, deliberate cough snapped them into silence.

“Now… where was I?” Morpheus asked, sighing tiredly.

You raised a finger. “You were about to mention why I’m being harassed in my dreams.”

“Ah, yes,” Morpheus said. “As I explained, we are the Oneiroi. Think of us as… guides.”

“Guides?” you repeated, doubtful.

But before he could explain further, everything around you shifted.

Frozen.

The air stilled. Sounds dropped out like someone had hit mute. Fairy Drew was stuck mid-eye-roll. Jiminy’s foot hovered above the floor, never landing. Even the clouds above had stopped drifting—painted on the sky. Geppetto sat statue-still, eyes blank, chest unmoving.

“Wait—what’s happening—?”

Then you felt it. Something behind you.

A presence. Cold and close. A shadow pressed against your back like it had always been there, just waiting for you to notice.

And then—a hand.

Fingers settled gently on your shoulder, cool and precise.

You went rigid, breath caught in your throat.

A low, teasing snicker curled around your ear.

“Don’t be afraid,” the voice whispered—soft and smooth.

Slowly—every nerve in your body screaming—your eyes trailed down to the hand on your shoulder, then followed the arm upward.

And then you saw the face.

Morpheus was not what you’d expected. He wasn’t horrifying or monstrous—he was... ethereal. Calm. His skin was pale like moonlight filtered through gauze, with a faint shimmer beneath the surface, as if dusted in sleep-sand.

His eyes glowed faintly lavender, drowsy yet all-seeing, like someone who had just woken from a long, prophetic slumber.

Waves of soft black hair fell around his shoulders like velvet curtains, and his robe flowed around him with the slow grace of drifting clouds. He looked like someone you could trust—someone who had lived in dreams for so long, he had become one.

Your body relaxed the second you got a proper look at him.

“Huh,” you muttered. “I thought you’d be… you know, hideous. No offense.”

His smile faltered and the glow in his eyes dimmed ever so slightly, narrowing with restrained annoyance.

“None taken,” he said, voice cool but clipped enough to say some offense was definitely taken.

He cleared his throat with a half-hearted cough. Then he withdrew his hand from your shoulder and gave a sharp snap of his fingers.

“Brothers, you may come out now.”

The room shuddered, like something had tugged at the edges of the dream itself. A tremor ran beneath your feet, the air vibrating with anticipation—but nothing else moved. Nothing except you.

Your knees wobbled suddenly, your balance thrown off by the unnatural pause in gravity, time, whatever this even was. You stumbled, reaching out on instinct—and grabbed hold of Morpheus’s sleeve.

He flinched at the contact, startled—but his hand shot out by reflex, steadying you. For a second, neither of you moved—his arm tense beneath your grip and your hand clenched tighter than you meant to.

“Finally! I was getting claustrophobic!” A voice shouted, loud and chaotic.

“I hate you,” another voice rumbled darkly—low, dry, and bitter as thunder crawling through stone.

The shadows thickened in a spiral. And then they emerged.

Still steadying you, Morpheus let out a long-suffering sigh, eyes fixed on the scene past your shoulder. “This has been the longest introduction ever,” he muttered, and with a light push on your shoulder, gently turned you around to face the others.

You blinked—and immediately wished you hadn’t.

The two gods towered over you like opposing halves of a dream gone wrong.

Phobetor was shaped like fear itself. Tall, broad-shouldered, and sharp around every edge, his entire form seemed sculpted from dark stone.

His skin had the grayish-blue hue of midnight shadows, and his hair hung like black smoke, constantly shifting. His eyes were pitch-black with pinpricks of glowing red in the center—like the eyes you imagined monsters had under your bed.

His lips were pressed into a deep scowl, his brow furrowed like it had never known rest. There was something very not okay about the way he looked at you—like he was scanning for weaknesses just for fun.

Phantasos, by contrast, looked like a dream wrapped in a nightmare’s grin.

He had deep, smooth skin the color of polished obsidian—rich, dark, and radiant like the surface of a still midnight lake. It shimmered subtly under the strange dreamlight, not with sparkle, but with an inner gleam, like the memory of starlight caught in a shadow.

His features were striking, otherworldly even: high cheekbones, a narrow nose, and lips curled in an ever-shifting smile that danced between warm and wicked.

His hair was a dense halo of soft coils, the same dark hue as his skin, though streaks of dream-dust clung to the strands like dew on grass. Feathers—silver, gold, violet—were threaded sporadically into his curls, and they shimmered when he moved, accentuating the bounce of his unpredictable energy.

His eyes were full moons of pale violet, round and far too wide, like he was always seeing something no one else could.

There was beauty in him. Beauty that made you want to look longer than you should. But the longer you looked, the more your stomach curled.

Not because he was ugly—far from it—but because his elegance had edges, like a painting where something’s always just slightly off. A living paradox: comforting and uncanny. A lullaby sung in reverse.

“He looks terrified,” Phobetor noted with dry disdain.

Phantasos scoffed and rolled his eyes so hard you were shocked they didn’t fall out of his head. “Because you scared him with that ugly mug of yours.”

Shoving past his brother, he practically skipped toward you.

“Don’t worry! Phobetor’s just a grump,” he sing-songed, leaning in far too close for comfort. “I’ll protect you~!”

You flinched, instinctively pulling back.

Somehow… this was worse.

Sure, Phobetor looked like he wanted to skin you alive—but at least he was consistent. There was something unsettling about Phantasos’s unhinged energy, the way his expression flipped from joyful to menacing in a blink. He looked like he might hug you or vaporize you, and honestly, you didn’t want to find out which.

He bent down to your level, grinning widely “Anteros sure made a cutie! I could just eat you up!” he squealed, then proceeded to squish your cheeks with both hands.

Eyes wide, you leaned hard into Morpheus, silently cursing your father for passing on whatever trait made you so tragically pokeable.

Morpheus, visibly fed up with the whole performance, reached over and pushed Phantasos’s face aside with one hand. “You both scare him,” he muttered, voice thin with irritation.

He straightened your shoulders with a small sigh, then moved to stand between his brothers, swiftly taking charge before one of them sent you into shock.

“Now. Proper introductions,” he said, laying a hand on Phobetor’s shoulder. “This is Phobetor; he is the personification of nightmares. Every horror, chase, monster, fall—you name it—was him.”

Oh. So he was responsible for the giant rat dreams. Rude.

Phobetor barely spared you a glance. “Ironically, this is a nightmare.”

Morpheus turned to his other side, gesturing toward Phantasos, who wiggled his fingers at you. You averted your gaze immediately.

“Phantasos is the personification of fantasy dreams. Think surreal. Dreams that are strange, metaphorical, and often prophetic. His visions may hold glimpses of the past, present, or future.”

You pointed vaguely around at the frozen, uncanny dream version of the Pinocchio cast . “Weird, like… this?”

“Correct,” Morpheus said.

You squinted at Morpheus. “And you?”

He stood tall again, folding his hands behind his back. “I am the personification of dreams. I serve as a messenger of divine will—passing along information from the gods through dreams. Prophecies. Warnings. Visions.”

Cool. So… dream mailmen. Invasive dream mailmen.

“Alright, that’s neat and all,” you said, hands on your hips, “but why now? I’ve had dreams before—none of you have ever shown up. So why this time?”

That ticked Phobetor off. He blew a sharp breath through his nose, and you swore the air temperature dropped five degrees.

“Careful, kid. Curiosity killed the cat.”

But you weren’t backing down. Not after the rat dreams. Not now.

“Satisfaction brought it back,” you retorted with a shrug and a smirk.

Phobetor’s fist twitched. You grinned.

You: 1 — Phobetor: 0.

Phantasos let out a wild snort and slapped both hands over his mouth to muffle his laughter. Morpheus just sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with visible regret.

“You know what,” he muttered, dropping his hand with a tired flick. His gaze snapped back to you, suddenly sharp. “We’ve wasted enough time. The story has to move forward. We can’t tell you everything now—but next time, we’ll explain more. Just…”

He stepped closer, voice suddenly firm.

“Pay attention.”

“Wait, hold on—” you tried, but he clapped his hands.

And just like that, they were gone.

Figures. Some guides they were.

You huffed, arms crossed. “Fine,” you muttered. “Didn’t want answers anyway.”

You turned back toward the frozen dream-world with a pout. You were a growing, independent ten-year-old man who didn’t need the help of three ancient gods who know more about this than you do.

...Probably.

The sound of chatter pulled you back toward the now-unfrozen scene. Everyone was moving again like nothing had happened.

“...And now I’m done here,” Fairy Drew announced, dusting glitter off her skirt as she headed for the window.

She paused just long enough to give Pinocchio a once-over. “Remember—follow the rules and you’ll be fine.” She ended with a dramatic eye-roll aimed straight at Jiminy. Her wand sparked blue, and with a shimmer of light, she vanished.

“Good riddance,” Jiminy muttered, folding what counted as his arms—legs? limbs? He spun around and nearly jumped out of his tiny bug skin when he found Pinocchio staring at him.

“Oh, you’re still here.”

Pinocchio tilted his head with a big, wooden grin. “Of course I am! I don’t have magic like the Blue Fairy, silly Jiminy.”

“You sure don’t. If you did, maybe you wouldn’t be such a bobblehead.”

“I do not have the bobblehead that you keep speaking of.”

Jiminy sighed and started pacing across the table. “Your head’s empty enough to be one.”

The back-and-forth was already starting to wear thin. You’d seen this act before—and besides, you had better ideas. What better way to pass the time than by doing something absolutely not allowed?

Grinning to yourself, you grabbed a plain white sheet draped over a nearby chair and threw it over your head like a ghost.

Sure, they couldn’t see you. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t make your presence felt.

And hey—no harm in having a little fun with it, right?

You spotted a plain white blanket sitting in the corner. Perfect.

Grinning, you threw it over yourself and crept behind Jiminy, who was stomping across the tabletop, muttering incoherently under his breath. Pinocchio trailed him with his gaze, eyes flicking back and forth.

But his attention didn’t stay there for long.

His gaze shifted—past Jiminy, to you.

To the floating sheet.

He blinked. Curiously. Then again.

“Jiminy,” he called out, pointing subtly.

But Jiminy, still wrapped up in his muttering, didn’t even hear him.

The sheet was thin enough for you to see through in patches. Peeking through the fabric, you caught Pinocchio’s wide-eyed stare. You slowly raised one arm under the blanket and gave a gentle wave.

Pinocchio jumped slightly—then smiled. He waved back.

Encouraged, you leaned in closer, directly behind Jiminy now, and began mimicking his exaggerated movements. Pinocchio giggled, hand over his mouth, as he watched you give the cricket a pair of bunny ears.

Jiminy paused and squinted up at him. “Are my struggles amusing to you?”

Pinocchio shook his head quickly, pointing. “No! There’s—”

“Listen, kid, you don’t make fun of adult struggles.”

“But look—”

“No no, I get it. You’re still green to this whole life thing. I’ll let it slide—”

The wooden boy huffed, spinning Jiminy around to face you. The cricket froze. Solid.

Not a twitch.

You blinked. Oh no. Did you actually scare him stiff? You hadn’t meant to traumatize him. Just mess with him a little.

You reached forward and gently poked his head.

Nothing.

Another poke.

Finally, Jiminy twitched, followed by a horrified scream as he thrashed around screaming, “GHOST!!”

He landed on Pinocchio’s shoulder, clawing at the puppet's shirt. “RUN, KID! GET US OUT OF HERE!”

You burst out laughing. Loud, unfiltered, delighted laughter. If Mr. D could see this—if Nico could see this—you’d never live it down. But still. Worth it.

Pinocchio scrambled down from the dresser, almost colliding with you. Jiminy was practically steering him like a horse, shouting, “THE DOOR, KID! THE DOOR!”

You watched, wheezing, as the two of them tore across the room, skidding on the floorboards, only to trip spectacularly over the rug beside Geppetto’s bed. Pinocchio went sailing. Dolls clattered to the ground in a dramatic heap. Jiminy let out a shrill scream that could’ve belonged to a cartoon cat.

Geppetto bolted upright. “What was that?!”

“IT’S A GHOST!” Pinocchio shouted, flailing on the ground.

Geppetto turned toward your corner of the room.

You dropped the sheet.

Silence.

“There is no ghost, Pinocchio,” he said calmly, rubbing his eyes and lying back down. “You must’ve imagined it.”

Three seconds later (you counted), he bolted upright again, realization crashing in hard.

“Pinocchio!”

He dove off the bed, scooping the puppet into his arms.

“You’re alive! My son! My wish—oh, my dear boy!”

The scene melted into instant sap. Geppetto sobbed. Pinocchio giggled. They spun around in a slow, clumsy circle that nearly ended in disaster as they stepped on Figaro’s tail. The cat yowled and launched off the bed like a missile.

Eventually, the pair collapsed into the sheets again, Geppetto tucked around the little wooden boy like a security blanket.

“Why do I have to go to bed?” Pinocchio asked, wide-eyed and confused.

“Because you have school in the morning,” Geppetto replied gently.

School? Already? Pinocchio had been alive for, what, fifteen minutes? Was there no puppet pre-K? No wooden toddler phase?

The scene dissolved and reformed around you again.

Now you stood in the sunshine, outside Geppetto’s workshop. The door creaked open behind you as Pinocchio stepped out, a book clutched to his chest.

“Are those real boys?” he asked, watching the group of children pass by.

Geppetto hummed, turning Pinocchio’s head in his direction and fixing his hat. “Yes, those are real boys. They’re your classmates.” You watched as he stood up, urging his son to follow the rest of the kids. “Go on, follow them to school.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Pinocchio ran down the steps of the workshop, cheeks stretched wide in a smile.

Geppetto chuckled as he watched Pinocchio run off, going back inside of the workshop after his son had left his sight.

You followed behind the puppet-boy, not exactly eager but keeping your situation in mind. Just observe the dream. Don’t interfere. Let it play out. Just another weird, nonsensical sequence—like a free movie, if that movie came with zero logic and questionable casting choices.

Pinocchio was closing in on what looked like the schoolhouse now, humming and skipping along the dirt path with all the carefree energy of someone who didn’t notice when he was being preyed on.

You, however, weren’t nearly as oblivious.

You spotted them instantly—two shapes hiding behind a very skinny tree. Big guys. Broad shoulders. Not exactly subtle. Even dream logic couldn’t cover for that terrible camouflage job.

Their backs were turned, but something about the way they moved—especially the one fiddling with a cane—set off alarm bells. Then came the voice.

“And that’s when I told her…”

You narrowed your eyes. That voice. You knew that voice. That smug, irritating tone could only belong to—

Pinocchio, meanwhile, walked right into the cane that had been conveniently “forgotten” in his path and promptly faceplanted.

The two figures gasped in unison—very theatrically, might you add—and scrambled to help him up. One of them nudged the other aside as he reached for Pinocchio’s pockets.

And that’s when you caught a glimpse of his face.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Travis Stoll. And, of course, where Travis went, Connor was never far behind.

Sure enough, there he was—Connor Stoll—getting knocked back with an exaggerated groan, holding onto his hat.

No surprise here. The Stoll brothers, cast as the con men in Pinocchio. Honestly, dream logic had never been more accurate.

“A man of letters, I see,” Travis said, picking up Pinocchio’s book and holding it upside down like it was a foreign object. Somehow, he managed to sound both impressed and illiterate.

Pinocchio, of course, beamed. “I’m going to school!”

Travis snorted under his breath, but Connor swooped in smoothly, wrapping an arm around Pinocchio like a seasoned salesman who smelled fresh meat. “School? Pfft. Let me guess—you haven’t heard about the easy way to success?”

“Easy way?” Pinocchio echoed, wide-eyed.

Connor spun him around with flair. “A theater!” he declared, throwing his hands into the air. “Bright lights! Music! Applause! Fame!”

“Fame?” Pinocchio repeated again, completely hooked now.

Connor leaned in, smiling wide. “Oh yeah. With that physique and profile? You’re a natural-born star!” Behind him, Travis nodded along like a bobblehead.

“You’re going straight to the top, my little wooden boy! I can already see your name in lights—” Connor paused. “Wait, what is your name?”

“Pinocchio!”

“Pinocchio!” Connor repeated, recovering with a flourish. “In big, bright letters! P-I-N-O-K-I—um... Yeah! A star is born!”

You dragged a hand down your face. This was just embarrassing. Nico would never fall for something this dumb. Pinocchio was single-handedly tanking your new friend’s reputation.

You sighed heavily, watching as Pinocchio lit up like he’d just been handed a trophy. He practically skipped into the arms of the con artists, swept away in their fantasy of stardom without so much as a second thought.

Part of becoming a real boy should include developing basic common sense, you thought grimly, trailing after them as the trio disappeared down the road.

This was when you noticed something—or rather, someone—was missing.

Where was that deranged cricket? Jiminy should’ve been hovering somewhere nearby, nagging Pinocchio about responsibility and school bells. In the original story, he’d followed the puppet all the way to class. So where was he now?

Weird. But you didn’t have time to dwell on the bug’s mysterious absence.

That now-familiar pull returned, the world dimming like a spotlight fading to black. When your vision cleared, you were somewhere new—facing a large, looming stage.

Right away, you could tell something was off.

The audience was packed, but they sat in perfect, eerie stillness. Rigid spines, unmoving heads. Their faces looked blank—smooth, expressionless, like porcelain masks staring forward without focus. Not a blink. Not a breath.

A big, bulky man stood in front of the stage, mic in hand. Unlike other characters, you knew who this was as soon as you saw him. It was Stromboli, the puppeteer. He wasn’t someone you knew in reality. Strangely, he was the same person he was in the original story.

Although it was weird seeing your friends throughout your dream, it was fun. You couldn’t help but frown when you saw his face.

“Ladies and Gentlemen! I hope you’ve enjoyed the show so far!” His voice boomed, a thick Italian accent going into the crowd. His words caused a chain reaction of cheers and clapping.

Looking around, your brows furrowed at the lack of movement from the surrounding images. There was noise—music, cheers, the hum of stage lights—but none of the audience members moved. They were just still images. Photos with sound. Which, yeah, okay, dreams were weird, but this was weird even for dreams.

It didn’t seem to bother Stromboli. He stepped into the spotlight like nothing was wrong, his shadow stretching long behind him. “Today,” he boomed, sweeping his arms wide, “to conclude this magnificent show, I present a miracle! The only puppet who can sing and dance without strings—PINOCCHIO!”

The red curtains peeled back like they were alive, and there was Pinocchio, standing stiffly on a narrow staircase set in the middle of the stage. He blinked at the frozen crowd, visibly uncertain—but when the music started, he forced a smile and took his first step down.

And immediately missed it.

He tumbled in a clatter of limbs and painted wood. You winced, secondhand embarrassment .heating up your cheeks.

Stromboli was on him in an instant, yanking him up by the collar like a dog that had peed on the rug. His face turned tomato-red as he launched into a tirade in angry, rapid Italian—words you couldn’t understand but didn’t need to. His spit practically steamed.

Then someone in the audience let out a snort.

And just like that, the tone flipped. Stromboli froze, dollar signs practically reflected in his eyes. His face smoothed into a grin like someone had pulled a lever. “Such a cute kid,” he laughed, patting Pinocchio’s head with sudden affection, like the tantrum had never happened.

The music swelled, and Pinocchio—ever the good puppet—bounced back into a dance, eyes glittering like painted glass.

Now this was more your speed. A performance. Something to actually enjoy. No scamming, no sappy father-son bonding—just a musical number. You could vibe with that. You even caught yourself humming along. And, well… Pinocchio did look like Nico. That alone made it hard to look away.

“Oh, I love music. Don’t you?”

You jolted as a hand brushed yours. You nearly punched whoever it was out of pure instinct—but they caught your arm gently, before contact was made.

“Was that your attempt at assault?”

Your heart sank.

Of course. Him again.

Phantasos lounged next to you like he’d always been there, one leg hooked over the other, wild eyes aglow with unreadable delight. He was smiling—not maliciously, but with the loose, unpredictable air of someone who might gift you a rose or set your house on fire, depending on how bored they were.

You snatched your arm back. The skin tingled where he’d touched you. “You scared me.”

His smile dipped, just a little. “I’m not Phobetor,” he said softly. “I’d never scare you.”

You stared at him. “I’d rather him than you.”

He clutched his chest like you’d shot him. “Truly, you wound me, young one. Such a tragic little attitude, wasted on such a beautiful face. But I suppose that’s puberty for you.”

With a long, dramatic sigh, he melted into the seat beside you. Then crossed his ankles and clasped his hands. His gaze slid back to the stage, where Pinocchio was dancing under golden light.

“I meant what I said before,” he said. “About music. Especially when the lyrics wear two faces.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You mean… double meanings?”

Phantasos grinned, nodding slowly. “Exactly. Hidden truths. Wrapped in melody. The best lies always sing sweetly.”

Onstage, Pinocchio twirled as the lights started to glow brighter around him.

“I’ve got no strings

To hold me down

To make me fret

Or make me frown…”

“Pretty literal,” you muttered. “He’s a puppet. No strings. That’s kind of the whole thing.”

Phantasos made a tsk sound, wagging a finger an inch from your face. “Are you sure? This is a dream, sweetheart. Nothing is ever just what it seems.”

You sighed, exhausted already. “So I’m supposed to interpret it like a riddle?”

“You’re supposed to see, not just look,” he said, smiling again. “It’s not that hard, really.”

“You’re unbearable.”

He beamed. “Thank you.”

You rubbed your face, deciding, against your better judgment, to actually try. The song kept playing as the lights flickered. The audience was still frozen, masks grinning wider than before.

“I had strings

But now I’m free

There are no strings on me…”

You frowned. The word free didn’t sound triumphant—it sounded forced. Like someone had shoved the line into his mouth and told him to mean it.

That’s when things got… stranger.

The stage began to stretch, the floorboards curling upward like paper caught in wind. The stairs behind Pinocchio multiplied, spiraling upward into nowhere. A second Pinocchio appeared. Then a third. All dancing in sync. One blinked wrong. One smiled too wide.

The music sped up.

Then slowed.

Then reversed.

You recoiled. “What—” you choked out, clutching the edge of your seat.

Then reversed—violins shrieking backward like they were screaming in a language you couldn’t understand. The beat stuttered, repeating the same broken bar of melody over and over until it felt like your brain was skipping like a scratched record.

The spotlight split. A thousand tiny beams like a thousand tiny eyes—all blinking, all watching. They swept the crowd like searchlights, but the crowd didn’t move. They weren’t even people anymore. Porcelain masks shattered under the light, leaking nothing but black ink and static.

The confetti stars above began melting, dripping into the stage and sizzling on contact.

Stromboli laughed—but his face was gone. A blank void with teeth. A soundless howl beneath the music.

The curtain behind him bled ink.

You stumbled out of your seat, breath catching in your throat. Your body wanted to run—but the floor was soft now, too soft, like foam or carpet underwater. You wobbled, knees buckling, balance tilting with the shifting geometry of the room.

One of the audience’s masks slid off, clattering to the ground.

Behind it: a mirror.

Another fell off.

It showed your face.

Then another—blank. No face at all. Just smooth flesh, like clay waiting for a sculptor. Your stomach dropped.

“I—I don’t—what is this?” you gasped, your voice small, barely heard over the distorted music. The air was too thick. Everything felt wrong.

He looked at you like a teacher waiting for a student to finally get it. “You poor, precious thing,” he said, with something almost like fondness. “Still clinging to the idea that freedom means no rules.”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast. “Can you just tell me what’s going on?”

But Phantasos only sighed and leaned in, tapping you lightly on the nose. “I’m not here to carry you. I’m here to nudge.”

“No wonder demigods die young,” you muttered. “The gods talk in riddles when they could just warn us.”

That, at least, seemed to amuse him. His smile curved, dark and knowing. “Oh, I have warned you. You just weren’t listening.”

Then his expression dimmed, snuffed out like a candle in wind. “Farewell,” he said quietly. “Maybe one of my brothers will get through to you.”

He raised a hand. Snap. Gone.

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was empty. Pressing. Like something had been yanked out from under you. A warmth, a presence, a thread you hadn’t realized was holding you steady until it vanished.

You stood there, alone on the surreal stage, surrounded by melting stars and blank-eyed audience members—if they were even still there at all.

Were you supposed to be relieved?

Or was this sense of dread—tight, gnawing, like a pulled string on the verge of snapping—your sign that you’d just missed something important?

Your head spun. This didn’t feel like a dream anymore. It felt like a message with most of the letters blacked out.

The song. Was that the key? A warning hidden in a child’s lullaby?

You didn’t want to think about it too hard. If you did, you'd start spiraling—and once you fell, you weren’t sure you could climb back out.

Luckily—or maybe not—something small and green hopped past your feet.

Jiminy Cricket.

He came to a halt and looked toward the stage with an unimpressed glare. “This kid gave up school for fame. How cheap.”

His frown deepened when he saw Pinocchio basking in the applause.

“I guess the bobblehead doesn’t need me anymore,” Jiminy muttered, deflated. “Time to exit stage left, I suppose.”

He turned solemnly and began hopping away, shoulders slumped.

You stared after him, baffled. “Seriously? You’re ditching him because he can sing?”

The applause on stage faded as Pinocchio took his final bow. Then the scene melted.

When it reformed, you were somewhere else: inside a lavish carriage. Velvet-lined walls. Gilded trim. The heavy scent of wine and sweat. A table overflowing with coins.

Stromboli hunched over it, counting money like it was oxygen.

“Two hundred…”

Across from him, Pinocchio beamed, eyes wide as he held open a sack. Stromboli shoveled coins inside, muttering feverishly.

“People love me!” he barked, ecstatic. “Three hundred!”

“You were amazing, Pinocchio!” he shouted, half to the puppet, half to the heavens. “A natural! An icon! A goldmine!”

Pinocchio lit up. “Does that mean I’m an actor?”

“Yes! A star! Your name—on every tongue!” Stromboli crowed, puffing out his chest.

Then, with theatrical flair, he pulled a fake gold coin from behind his ear and dropped it into Pinocchio’s hands. “For you, my boy!”

Pinocchio clutched it like a sacred relic. “Gee, thanks! I’ll go straight home and tell my father!”

Stromboli, mid-swig of wine, choked.

He spat everywhere. (You recoiled. Gross.)

“Home?” he wheezed, wiping his chin. Then he started laughing. Loud. Booming. Mean. “You are a comedian, too!”

Pinocchio blinked. “You mean it’s funny?”

“Hilarious!”

Pinocchio laughed along, still trying to read the room, still trying to fit in—like a kid mimicking emotions he didn’t fully understand.

And suddenly, it hit you.

Maybe you and Pinocchio weren’t so different.

He thought he was free. No strings. No rules. Just applause and promises. But his conscience had already walked out. And he didn’t even realize he was trading one master for another

You, too, were following something you couldn’t quite name. Something older, deeper, harder to untangle. Dreams, omens, gods in half-shadow. You told yourself you were in control—but were you? Or were you just dancing, too?

The song hadn’t been about freedom.

It had been about illusion.

No strings didn’t mean no control. Sometimes, it meant the control was invisible. The hand pulling the strings was just clever enough to hide.

And before Pinocchio could even process his so-called triumph, Stromboli grabbed him.

The man’s grin had vanished.

He held the puppet tightly by the collar, muttering something low and venomous, then threw him—hard—into a small iron cage bolted to the corner of the carriage.

The door slammed shut. The lock clicked.

“This will be your home!” Stromboli bellowed.

Pinocchio scrambled to his feet, clutching the bars. “No!”

Stromboli didn’t flinch. His voice only grew more triumphant. “We’ll tour the world—Paris, London, Moscow! Your name on every billboard, every tongue.” He swept a bag of coins off the table, turning with a glint of greed in his eyes. “You’re mine now, little puppet. The show goes on.”

He stormed out, the door slamming shut behind him.

Pinocchio rattled the cage, frantic—but it was no use.

“Let me out!” he cried. “I want to go home! I don’t want to be famous!”

No answer.

He rattled the cage harder, calling out for Geppetto, for Jiminy, for anyone—but the only thing that answered was the muffled creak of the carriage rocking slightly with movement. The wheels were already turning. They were leaving.

He slumped back, wooden knees hitting the floor with a hollow clack. His hands fell from the bars, limp and trembling.

The reality sank in.

No cheers. No spotlight. No applause. Just four walls of cold iron and the echo of a promise he hadn’t understood.

And then, finally, he wept.

Not like a puppet. Like a child.

Sympathy was such a pain in the butt. You wanted to be mad at him—call him stupid, yell “you should’ve known better!”—but he was just a kid. A wooden, naive, hopeful kid who trusted the wrong people. He didn’t know any better.

While Pinocchio cried, a faint rustling came from the carriage door. His head shot up, eyes wide with hope. “Jiminy!”

“Oh, you wooden idiot,” the little cricket huffed, running to the cage. “What did he do to you?!”

“He locked me up! He said he won’t let me go home to my father!”

“Did he now?”

“Yes, and he said he’d put my name on everyone’s tongue!”

“Really?” Jiminy deadpanned.

“Uh-huh!” Pinocchio pointed desperately at the lock. “Please, Jiminy, please help me!”

Jiminy let out a long-suffering sigh and cracked his knuckles. “Oh, I’d love to strangle that fairy right now.” He launched himself at the lock.

From inside came muffled mumbling, the occasional metallic clank, and a few PG-rated curses. Eventually, Jiminy popped back out, covered in soot, antennae frazzled.

He glared at the lock. “Must be one of the old ones.”

“You mean you can’t open it?” Pinocchio asked, horrified.

Jiminy shook his head, brushing ash from his coat. “It’ll take a miracle to get us out of here.”

“Gee…” Pinocchio deflated. He sank down again, his wooden shoulders drooping.

The two of them sat in silence, the carriage wheels clattering beneath them, hope bleeding out like sunlight through a cracked window.

“Wow,” you muttered, arms crossed as you watched them mope. “They give up faster than I do during capture the flag.”

Still, you weren’t that worried. This was the part of the story where the Blue Fairy showed up, right? All sparkles and salvation. That was the pattern—Pinocchio cries, Jiminy whines, and then poof: wish-granting lady descends.

...But what if she didn’t come?

The thought slipped into your mind like a drop of ink in water, slowly spreading. You blinked, suddenly less sure. What if the story didn’t unfold like it used to? What if the dream wasn’t just a retelling, but a test?

What if you were meant to be the one who saved him?

Your gaze drifted back to Pinocchio, his wooden hands gripping the bars like they might bend if he just believed hard enough. Yes, he was a dumb kid—naive, unlucky, easily led—but that didn’t mean he deserved this. And Jiminy, annoying as he was, clearly cared.

You straightened up, a new energy building in your chest.

This had to be it. The reason the dream spirits brought you here. Not to be an observer. Not to be some passive background character. You weren’t here to follow the script. You were here to rewrite it.

This was your moment—your chance to do something.

To be a hero.

With new resolve, you scanned the carriage. It wasn’t much—just old boxes, rotting wood, and the smell of something sour—but you weren’t the one stuck in a cage. You could make something happen.

As you paced, ideas forming, you remembered what happened next in the original story. Geppetto should be nearby, calling for Pinocchio—just barely missing the carriage as it passed.

Unless… you changed that.

“[Name], you genius,” you whispered, already heading to the door.

You swung it open and jumped out, completely missing the wide-eyed stares of Jiminy and Pinocchio as the door moved seemingly on its own.

“Ew, ew, ew!” you yelped, hopping around the mud. “Not the shoes, not the shoes!”

Amid your panicked dance, you caught the distant sound of Geppetto’s voice, calling for his son. Your head snapped up, heart racing. There—just at the crossroads.

You ran, boots squelching, until you were close enough to shove him—not gently—right in front of the moving carriage.

“Whoa!!”

The carriage screeched to a halt. Stromboli leapt down, livid.

“Are you blind, old man?! You trying to get yourself killed?!”

Geppetto raised his hands defensively, scrambling to his feet. “I—I didn’t mean to! My apologies, sir. I want no trouble.”

Stromboli sneered, looming like a villain. “You look weak.”

“I’m looking for my son. He’s gone missing.”

“Your son?” Stromboli’s eyes narrowed, a wicked gleam flickering to life. “You mean… Pinocchio?”

Geppetto stepped forward, hope lighting up his face like dawn. “Yes! Have you seen him?! Is he alright?”

Stromboli threw his head back and laughed, a dark, booming sound that shook the air like thunder. “Seen him? He’s mine now! My little puppet star!”

“He is not a puppet!” Geppetto shouted, his voice cracking with fury and heartbreak. “He’s my son! Give him back, you twisted monster!”

Stromboli sneered. “Son? He’s made of wood, old man. He’s not meant to be free. He’s meant to be controlled. That’s all puppets are good for.”

Something inside you snapped.

Who the heck did this guy think he was? Who gave him the right to decide what Pinocchio could be? He wasn’t a guardian or a father. He wasn’t kind or wise or even decent. He was just a big, hairy tyrant with a god complex and no heart.

And you were done watching him get away with it.

Without even thinking, your hand closed around a rock on the ground. It was rough, cold, and solid—exactly what you needed.

You hurled it.

The rock soared through the air and smacked Stromboli square in the temple.His eyes bulged in surprise—then rolled back like curtains closing. One beat passed. Then he crumpled like a sack of potatoes, hitting the dirt with a satisfying thud.

You let out a breath. “Take that, loser.”

Unable to help yourself, you stuck your tongue out at his unconscious body and did a little victory shuffle. “Gods, I’m amazing.”

Geppetto flinched at the sound of Stromboli’s fall but quickly shook off the shock and bolted toward the carriage. You followed close behind, pausing only to dig through Stromboli’s pockets. (Ugh. Greasy and linty. Gross.) Still, you managed to snag a set of rusted keys. Score.

“Pinocchio!” Geppetto’s voice rang out, breathless and panicked.

“Father!” Pinocchio’s face lit up behind the bars, eyes wide and glistening.

Geppetto rushed forward, clutching the iron cage. “I’m here now, my boy. I’m here. Let’s get you out of there.”

“We tried!” Pinocchio said, voice high with urgency. “There’s no way without a key!”

“We?”

“Me and my friend Jiminy! He’s really nice!”

Jiminy, now perched proudly on Pinocchio’s shoulder, gave a shy little wave, his cheeks tinged pink. “Aw, go on…”

Geppetto gave a grateful nod, his eyes warm and full of relief. “Thank you for looking after him, Jiminy.”

The cricket rubbed the back of his neck with mock humility. “Ah, just doin’ my job.”

You rolled your eyes. Doing his job? Please. He only showed up after things hit rock bottom. More like the world’s tiniest supervisor.

“Father, the key!” Pinocchio reminded, practically bouncing inside the cage.

“Ah—right, right…”

You “accidentally” tossed the keys in Geppetto’s direction. They nailed him in the forehead with a solid clonk.

“Papa, the sky is falling!” Pinocchio yelped, hands to his cheeks.

Oops. Wrong story

Geppetto blinked, rubbing his scalp with a frown as he glanced suspiciously at the ceiling. “Must’ve fallen from one of the hooks,” he muttered, scooping the keys off the floor like this kind of thing happened to him regularly.

He turned his attention to the lock. It took some fiddling, the keys scraping and jamming a few times, but then—click. The metal creaked, and the cage door slowly swung open.

Pinocchio didn’t wait a second. He threw himself into Geppetto’s arms, wooden limbs wrapping around him with surprising force.

Geppetto let out a breathy laugh, holding him close. “It’s okay, Pinocchio. I’ve got you now.”

It would’ve been a perfectly sweet moment.

If the world hadn’t gone pitch-black.

Another shift.

The world flickered.

Light returned—but colder now, flatter. Like it had passed through frostbitten glass. You blinked, squinting against the dimness, heart ticking in your chest like the rows of clocks around you.

Geppetto’s shop.

But not quite.

The wooden walls leaned inward, warped and sagging like they were made of wax. The floorboards groaned with every shift, like the house itself was holding its breath. Shelves drooped, their contents slouched and slumping: puppets missing eyes, tools rusted in place, spools of thread tangled in impossible knots.

The clocks ticked on, but not together. Some sped up. Some lagged. One let out a soft, high-pitched chime—just one note, sharp and flat—then fell dead silent.

You frowned. No. You’d done everything right. You freed him. Stromboli was gone, the cage was open, the boy was safe.

So why were you still here?

“Good morning, son!”

You turned, startled.

Geppetto sat at the table, smile painted on like a mask. His eyes gleamed with artificial warmth.

“Morning!” Pinocchio chirped from across the room, bright and sunny, as if the last hour of terror had never happened.

Geppetto handed him an apple. “Now, why don’t you tell me what happened yesterday? Why didn’t you go to school?”

Pinocchio hesitated. His small hands turned the apple over and over—it glistened wetly, redder than any fruit had a right to be. Too shiny. Too perfect.

“I… I met somebody,” he began. “Two enormous monsters.”

SNAP.

His nose shot forward like a spring-loaded blade. You flinched. Jiminy gasped. Pinocchio froze, hand flying to his face.

Geppetto leaned in, concern creasing his brow. Gently, he tilted his son’s chin to examine the growing wood.

“Oh no… your nose,” he said softly. “Did they do this to you?”

“I wasn’t scared!” Pinocchio blurted—rushed and shaky, the words tumbling out in a panic. “But they tied me up in a big sack!”

CRACK.

His nose jerked forward again—longer, thinner now, curling faintly at the end like a creeping vine. The tension in the room twisted tighter. The clocks ticked faster.

“What about Sir Jiminy?” Geppetto asked.

Jiminy raised both hands and started inching back. “Oh no. Don’t drag me into this—”

“They tied him up in a little sack,” Pinocchio added, wide-eyed with forced sincerity.

SNAP.

The nose lengthened again. It stretched past the edge of the table now, an awkward wooden bridge he couldn’t undo. The room seemed to lean into it, shadows gathering around its base like mold creeping along a wall.

“My nose!!” Pinocchio wailed, gripping the length of it like it might detach. “Make it stop!”

Geppetto stood abruptly, grabbing his coat. “Don’t worry, my boy! We’ll get the doctor. Just sit tight.”

He didn’t wait for a response. The door opened with a low creak—less like hinges, more like something groaning and alive—and then he was gone.

As the door shut, Jiminy hopped down, arms crossed.

“Why did you lie, Pinocchio?”

A new voice answered.

“That’s an interesting question. Why did he lie?”

You froze. That voice—smooth, cold, curling out from the shadows like smoke.

Phobetor.

Great. Another dream spirit. At this point, their surprise entrances were starting to feel less like divine intervention and more like bad customer service.

Without turning around, you kept your eyes on the puppet and the cricket. “What do you want?”

He strolled up beside you, arms folded behind his back and chin tilted slightly upward.

“To torment you,” he said breezily. “But, unfortunately, I’ve been ordered to”—he gagged, visibly repulsed—“help you.”

You didn’t bother hiding your eye-roll. “You sound very enthusiastic.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. The excitement’s just radiating off you.”

He chuckled, puffing out his chest. “Well, I have been working on my temperament.”

You squinted at him. “Right. Anyyyway. What are you actually here for? Because—no offense—you guys suck at your job.”

His expression twitched—just for a second. A flicker of irritation cracked through his polished facade, his jaw tensing like he wanted to smite you into next week.

He muttered to himself through clenched teeth, “Patience, Phobetor. Patience…”

With a sharp exhale, he refocused on you, eyes narrowed but voice still smooth.

“Why did he lie?” he repeated, nodding toward Pinocchio, who was now quietly sobbing over his grotesquely lengthened nose.

Then he began to circle you—slow, deliberate steps, like a predator sizing up its prey. “Why do people lie, do you think?”

You narrowed your eyes. Was this a test? Did he think you were stupid?

Please. Everyone knew why people lied.

“Because they’re scared,” you said.

Phobetor paused in front of Pinocchio, thoughtful. “True.”

He raised a hand and laid his fingers gently—almost tenderly—on Pinocchio’s wooden shoulders. Time froze. Jiminy hung mid-gesture, face locked in worry. Pinocchio’s eyes stayed wide and glassy, caught between guilt and confusion.

Phobetor’s voice dropped—low and cold.

“Do you know what most people fear?”

Your first instinct was to say you, but you bit it back. Snarking your way into Tartarus wasn’t on your to-do list.

And truthfully… you weren’t sure anymore.

You thought about answering seriously. You tried to picture it—other people’s fears. But the only fears you truly knew were your own: the fear of being left behind, of never being enough, of loving too much or not at all. The fear of being forgotten. The fear of knowing exactly what you are.

You stayed silent.

Phobetor didn’t seem surprised.

“Most people,” he continued, circling slowly, “fear the truth. Not the monsters. Not the dark. The truth. The shame it carries. The way it strips you bare and leaves you exposed. It changes how people look at you. How you look at yourself. Truth doesn’t comfort. It doesn’t reassure. It takes, and it leaves.”

He stopped in front of you, close enough to make your skin prickle. His hand reached for yours before you could flinch away.

“When you’re afraid,” he said softly, “fear starts making your choices for you. It whispers in your ear, changes the shape of the world. You doubt your memories. You doubt the people you love. You lie—not to protect yourself, but to preserve the illusion that you’re still in control.”

His grip tightened just enough to sting. “You start to believe that lie. And then… you live by it.”

You yanked your hand back. His cold lingered, like winter buried in your skin.

“Why are you telling me this?” you snapped. “Pinocchio’s the liar, not me.”

Phobetor didn’t flinch. He just tilted his head, eyes sharp as glass. “Oh, child. There are liars all around you.”

He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. Only a kind of ancient pity.

“One day, you’ll see the truth: the bravest ones...”

He leaned in, breath cold against your cheek.

“...are often the biggest cowards.”

Then he stepped back and turned you gently toward the frozen scene—toward the unmoving boy, the trembling nose, the ticking silence.

“Heads up,” he murmured.

You blinked. “Wait—what does that—”

But he was gone.

Just when you might’ve actually needed him.

Seriously, what were these gods good for? Besides showing up uninvited, speaking in riddles, and spinning your brain like a carousel powered by dread?

The dream resumed.

Pinocchio and Jiminy picked up mid-conversation like nothing had happened. But before Pinocchio could answer, the front bell chimed—a tinny, broken sound, like windchimes underwater.

In stepped a man. Or something like a man.

He was dressed head-to-toe in black, movements too smooth, limbs just slightly too long. His face was hidden by a ski mask, but the eyeholes were wide, dark. Deep. Not just shadows—depthless. Like staring into the mouth of a cave and hearing it breathe back.

Classic robber, you told yourself. But it felt wrong.

“Father—?” Pinocchio began brightly, still beaming with naïve hope. Then he paused, tilting his head at the newcomer. “Oh, hello! I thought you were my father.”

The figure didn’t answer immediately. His stare bored into the boy like he was measuring something inside him. His voice, when it came, was as flat and cold as polished marble.

“Your father?”

It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation wearing the mask of curiosity.

He wasn’t from the story. Not Stromboli. Not Connor or Travis. This man—this presence—was something else entirely. An intruder.

Pinocchio gestured innocently to the empty coat rack. “He went to get the doctor. My nose won’t go down.”

The figure gave no indication he’d heard. He was already moving, gliding across the warped wooden floor, fingers dragging over the counter. Wherever he touched, the wood darkened, warped—like his touch was spoiling it.

You took a step forward instinctively, but didn’t intervene. Not yet. Something about the scene rooted you in place. But it wasn’t real—it was performance, with stakes that felt all too personal.

“I’m an old friend,” he said smoothly. “Your father owes me.”

“Owes you what?” Jiminy asked sharply, stepping forward.

The man ignored him.

He crouched to Pinocchio’s eye level, and suddenly, the walls seemed closer, the room too small. His voice dropped to a murmur.

“He took something. Something precious. A name, maybe. A promise.”

Pinocchio shifted uncomfortably. “Why would he do that?”

“Because he lies.” The man rose again, drifting toward the cluttered shelves. “Not with words. With love. That’s the most dangerous kind.”

You felt your own pulse falter. The shadows behind him seemed to breathe.

Pinocchio tilted his head. “But… he loves me.”

The masked man laughed—low and almost pitying. “Does he?”

He reached for the register and pried it open. The drawer coughed out coins and bills like it wanted to be rid of them.

Jiminy flailed. “Hey, hey! Hands off the till!”

“Just collecting what I’m owed,” the man said, slipping the money into a black bag that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “But I can offer something in return.”

He turned, stepping forward again. A glint in his palm.

A diamond.

Huge. Flawless. Not shining—glowing, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.

“Here,” he said. “For your honesty.”

Pinocchio stared, mesmerized. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s truth,” the man replied. “And it’s heavy, isn’t it? Isn’t it strange, how you’ve never received anything so lovely… from him?”

Pinocchio’s expression dimmed.

“He makes toys for everyone else. Repairs clocks for strangers. But when was the last time he carved something just for you?”

Jiminy’s voice cracked. “Kid, don’t listen to him. He’s twisting you around.”

“Is it twisted,” the man asked softly, “to notice when you’re not wanted?”

Pinocchio flinched. His nose grew another inch with a jolt that made him wince. But he didn’t respond.

The masked man kneeled again, that pale stare burning through the holes in his mask. “You are made of lies,” he whispered. “And every time you try to be good, you only become more false. Do you know why?”

Pinocchio shook his head.

“Because he made you in his image.”

Silence.

Then: a snap—the long, hanging clocks on the wall all jerked to midnight at once. They rang with no chime. Just dull, metallic thuds, like teeth snapping shut.

“I should go,” the man said, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “I’ve already said too much.”

“But—” Pinocchio clutched the diamond. “Wait. Was it true?”

The man tilted his head as if listening to something far away. Then, with the faintest smile, he murmured:

“Truth is just a beautiful lie we all agreed to believe.”

The man turned to leave out through the door—but it didn’t open normally this time. It simply folded away, like paper curling in firelight. Halfway through the threshold of that flickering, flame-eaten doorway, the man paused.

Your breath caught.

It had already been a nightmare.

But now the nightmare saw you.

He turned.

Right toward you.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

No one in these dreams was supposed to see you. Not the characters. Not the illusions. Only the dream spirits.

You were a visitor. An observer. A ghost moving through someone else’s grief.

But this man didn’t just see you.

He looked through you.

His pale eyes locked with yours, and in them—something powerful stirred.

Something that reminded you, with chilling clarity, of your age.

Small.

Powerless.

Exposed.

The air in the room shifted—grew sharp, like it had been threaded with glass. He tilted his head. Then—slow, deliberate—raised a hand and waved.

Not friendly. Not mocking.

Intimate. Like he knew you.

Something cold unspooled in your gut. But he was gone in the next second. He stepped through the burning-paper door, vanishing like smoke behind a candle. The world didn’t ripple. It twitched.

And that’s when you realized— You weren’t breathing. You drew in air slowly, carefully, like it might cut going down. Around you, the dream had resumed, unbothered. Pinocchio sobbed quietly, his nose curling like a brittle vine. Jiminy trembled, visibly shaken, his antennae twitching like nerves in a lightning storm. But you stood apart. Frozen.

Because he had seen you. He knew you didn’t belong here.

And he’d acknowledged it.

Which meant one thing: This wasn’t just a dream. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t symbolic. It wasn’t stitched together by your subconscious.

It was pointed. You were being watched. You wiped your palms on your pants, but they were still clammy. Your mouth felt full of ash. Like a fire had been lit inside you.

Pinocchio turned to Jiminy. His voice was small, cracked.

“Jiminy… was he right?”

“Of course not!” Jiminy barked—but his voice wavered. “He was just trying to scare you. Twist your strings.”

Pinocchio nodded slowly, but his eyes didn’t follow.

“I never know who to believe. I try. But it’s always wrong. I’m always wrong. I’ll never be the boy he wants.”

The diamond shimmered in his lap like it was listening.

He sobbed—harder than before. His nose hung down past the table’s edge now, curling like a dead branch. The clocks ticked again, but none in rhythm. One bled ink. Another spat sawdust.

Then the door creaked open, stuttering like a skipping heartbeat.

“Pinocchio, I’m home—”

Geppetto stopped cold at the sight of his son crumpled in tears.

He rushed over, dropping to his knees beside him.

“What happened? Are you hurt?”

Pinocchio looked up through the veil of his own crying. His voice came out cracked and distant, as if spoken through water.

“Father… are you a liar?”

Geppetto blinked. “What? Of course not—!”

“Where’s the doctor?”

“He… couldn’t make it—”

“You went to give toys to other kids, didn’t you?”

“What? Now, Pinocchio—”

“No!” Pinocchio shoved his hand away and stood, fists balled at his sides.

“You lied! You said you’d get a doctor, and you didn’t!”

“If you’d just let me explain—”

“Liar! Liar! Liar!”

The word struck like glass each time.

Even the house reacted—lights dimming, walls groaning, a chair leg snapping under invisible weight.

Wow. Who knew Pinocchio had it in him?

Even Figaro peeked out from the stairs and darted back immediately, tail low.

“I hate you!”

You could almost hear Geppetto’s heart crack.

And honestly? Pinocchio was seriously starting to get on your nerves.

You stepped forward, half-tempted to snap him out of it—

when a knock echoed from the door.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The room shivered.

Geppetto sighed and stood. He looked older. Dimmer.

He opened the door.

“Officer?” he asked, confused. “What’s wrong?”

The man on the threshold wore a uniform, sure. But it didn’t fit right. Too crisp. Too still. Like it had been cut from paper and folded onto him.

“There was a robbery at the jewelry store down the street,” he said. His voice was monotone. Unnatural. “We received a tip. Said the stolen diamond is here. With you.”

Geppetto chuckled nervously. “Me? That’s ridiculous. There’s no diamond here.”

“I’m going to have to search the shop.”

Geppetto stepped in front of the door. “You’ll need a warrant.”

The officer’s eyes narrowed. They didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

[violetmoondaughter]

Haloa means “threshing floor” or “garden.”

The celebration was held every year during the month of Poseideon (December-January), after the end of the first harvest. The feast was held around the threshing floor (αλώνια) and only women participated, while men were almost always excluded. Men had a legal and moral obligation to pay their wives' expenses for these festivities.

The festival was dedicated to Demeter and Dionysus as a celebration of the harvest, grapes and wine. Rituals took place during the pruning of the vines and the tasting of wine, when the soil around the vineyards was cut and hoed and the first cycle of fermentation completed. According to these notes, the women's ritual practices involved “pits, snakes, pigs and genital patterns, all with more or less sexual significance.”

The sexual aspect of the festival was deeply linked to two different myths: The myth of Baubo and the myth of Icarius. The first myth is related to that of Demeter and Kore in which the goddess Demeter, grieving over the disappearance of her daughter, wanders the land bringing destruction until she meets Baubo, who manages to make her laugh by showing her her genitals and thus bringing back a spark of vitality and fertility for the land.

The second myth recalls the one in which Dionysus gives wine to men through Icarius, who is killed by the people who confuse drunkenness with poisoning. Dionysus punishes the citizens by maddening their sexual desire, and the oracle tells them that they must placate the gods by dedicating clay models of genitals to them. This dedication thus became a custom of the festival.

Both festivals involved lustful words and activities, an abundance of sexual symbols, and the consumption of much wine and pornographic confectionery. Women celebrated alone so that they had freedom of speech, and some sources state that “the sacred symbols of both sexes were handled, the priestesses secretly whispered into the ears of the women present words that might not be uttered aloud, and the women themselves uttered all manner of… unseemly quips and jests”. After the banquet, women would dance around a giant phallus, leaving offerings and engaging in ritual obscenity.

Priestess presented the fruit offerings and conducted the initiation ceremonies under the presidency of women. The feast consisted of specific foods such as cereals, fish, fowl, and cakes shaped like the symbols of sex. Forbidden foods included flesh and pomegranate.

[herbhexecrafts]

Velja Noc is a time of mystery, reverence, and transformation. It reminds us to respect the old ways, honor the spirits that came before us, and prepare for the coming light of spring. Whether by ritual, meditation, or simple acts of remembrance, this sacred night allows us to walk between worlds and embrace the lessons of the past while stepping toward the future.

“Through fire and shadow, we honor the old, By Veles' wisdom, our fate unfolds.”

Velja Noc, meaning “The Great Night,” is a significant festival in Slavic paganism, marking the transition from winter’s grasp to the stirrings of new life. It is a time when the veils between worlds are thinnest, allowing spirits and deities to move freely between realms. It is both a night of mystery and danger, as malevolent beings roam the earth, but also a time of renewal and transformation as the old is shed in preparation for the new.

During this night, Veles, the god of the underworld, magic, and cattle, battles Perun, the thunder god. This eternal struggle represents the cycle of nature—winter’s darkness against the coming light. It is said that on Velja Noc, Veles walks the earth, testing mortals, rewarding the wise, and punishing the greedy.

This night is also associated with Domovoi (house spirits), Rusalka (water spirits), and the ancestors, who may visit their living descendants. Households must show proper respect and perform rituals to honor and appease them.

Rituals and Traditions

🔥 Bonfires & Candles for Protection

Bonfires were lit in villages and on crossroads to drive away evil spirits.

In modern practice, lighting a black candle for Veles and a white candle for Perun symbolizes their eternal struggle and maintains balance.

🍞 Offerings to the Spirits & Ancestors

Bread, milk, honey, and kvass (fermented rye drink) were left out for Domovoi and ancestral spirits.

In some regions, a bowl of food was placed by the door so wandering spirits would not bring misfortune.

🌿 Herbal Protection & Warding Charms

Wreaths of juniper, vervain, and linden were hung on doors to protect against Mara (nightmare spirits) and strzyga (evil spirits).

Carrying a pouch of wormwood, garlic, and black salt was believed to protect travelers venturing out on this night.

🐍 The Ritual of the Serpent & Veles

Veles is often associated with serpents and dragons, representing wisdom and hidden knowledge.

A common ritual involved carving a serpent from wood or clay, whispering one’s wishes into it, and burying it in the earth to receive Veles’ favor.

🌲 Walking Between the Worlds

Some practitioners performed meditative journeys or dream work on Velja Noc, seeking guidance from spirits or ancestors.

In some traditions, a silent meal was eaten by candlelight, allowing spirits to dine alongside the living.

How I Will be Celebrating This Year

✨ Set up an ancestral altar with photos, candles, and offerings. My mothers (who has passed on) birthday is tomorrow 2/26 and the New Moon is 2/27 so this is a great time to do ancestor work

🔥 Perform a fire ritual—write down a habit or fear you wish to release and burn it in a flame, symbolizing winter’s end. I like to write mine on Bay Leaves, but use caution when working with fire and open flames.

🌿 Create a protective herbal sachet with juniper, wormwood, and flax to ward off unwanted energies. I don't have flax laying around so I'm going to substitute it this year with either Linden or Vervain (or both). I may decide to do this as a smoke cleanse but we shall see, but if I do a sachet, I'll hang it near my front door.

🔮 Divination practices such as tarot, scrying, or bone casting are powerful on this night due to the thin veil. I'm still learning Tarot but I am more comfortable with oracle cards so I might do both. I also finally unpacked my homemade scrying mirror but am not practiced in that tool so I may experiment with it.

🌌 Honor the spirits—leave out a small plate of bread and honey on your doorstep for wandering souls. I'm in an apartment community so I will leave it on my window sill and with my Domovoy (house spirit) or on my altar.

[thedansemacabres]

A Modern Harvested Look Into Dionysos Nykletios

[ID: A mostly green image with a large, vibrant grape left to the left and blurry brown grape trunk in the background to the off-centre. Next to it is a large, close up image of an unripened verdant grape cluster.]

LITTLE DO MOST PEOPLE KNOW THAT MUCH OF THE MODERN GRAPE HARVEST HAPPENS AT NIGHT, as dedicated winemakers wish to ensure the consistency of their crop—lord Helios’ rays are what ripen the fruit, at the mercy of Dionysus’ influence. Other times harvest does during cool days, but the harvesters are still pressed to ensure the safety of the harvest—hot fruit spells problems for the winemakers, and winemakers are what buy the crop to ferment. And when I was there on the cool afternoon, Helio’s light fading from the horizon, I felt Dionysos there with the whisper of Nyktelios. 

THE HISTORICAL CONTEXT 

Nykletios (Νυκτελιος “of the night”) is an epithet only directly mentioned perhaps once, kin to Hestios; as such it may be hard to get a direct usage on the meaning of this epithet. Pausanias states:

Pausanias, Description of Greece 1. 40. 6 (trans. Jones) (Greek travelogue C2nd A.D.) : "After the precinct of Zeus [in Megara] . . . you see a temple of Dionysus Nyktelios (Nocturnal), a sanctuary built to Aphrodite Epistrophia (She who turns men to love), an oracle called that of Nyx (Night)."

Riding the Phallus for Dionysus suggests that this epithet may be connected to a larger mystery cult, that of a veiled Dionysus, with rites perhaps similar to the one Plutarch mentioned. Several of Dionysos’ rites occur within darkness—within Agros, his rites were nocturnal, invoking the terror and awe of Nyx’s darkness. His other mysteries likely involved the night as well. 

Night is also invoked several times with Dionysos, such as in the Bacchae. One example I associate with Nykletios are these lines from Dionysos and Pentheus: 

ΠΕΝΘΕΥΣ τὰ δ ̓ ἱερὰ νύκτωρ ἢ μεθ ̓ ἡμέραν τελεῖς;  ΔΙΟΝΥΣΟΣ νύκτωρ τὰ πολλά· σεμνότητ ̓ ἔχει σκότος. Pentheus When you dance these rites, is it at night or during daylight? Dionysus Mainly at night. Shadows confer solemnity.

Even as these rites are no longer practiced, it is almost fitting that modern harvests mostly occur at night—and winemaking during harvest season can easily draw into the dark nights as well, as we work on the grape and yeast’s schedules, not our own. 

A MODERN TAKE ON DIONYSUS NYKLETIOS 

As epithets can have multiple functions, I place Dionysos Nykletios in both the night harvests of vines, comforting frozen hands as we harvest fruit for the best vintage, along with his endemic nocturnal rites. The modern wine world is both alike and like the ancient one—the wine season is still within winter, with the worst moments for a winemaker being the time before Christmas until next March when the wines are finishing. 

If there was a day a hellenic pagan vineyard would exist, I would imagine that a procession would be in store for a religious harvest—though, there would not be any free juices allowed to paint the skin red. When you harvest grapes for wine, you do not want to burst the berries, and I could imagine Dionysos’ laugh when it eventually occurs. 

Dionysus Nykletios, May your hands warm us Under eternally Dark Nyx As the vintage is pressed And made into your Fine wine. 

References 

Csapo, É. (1997). Riding the Phallus for Dionysus: Iconology, Ritual, and Gender-Role De/Construction. Phoenix (Toronto), 51(3/4), 253. https://doi.org/10.2307/1192539

Gilbert Murray, & Ian Johnston. (2015). Euripides Bacchae: A Dual Language Edition. Faenum Publishing Oxford, Ohio.

[nothingsacredrpg]

✦ 𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐈𝐄

there will be no hymns to our glory. history has cut our throats.

XXe siècle Au début du XXe siècle, alors que les États-Unis deviennent le centre de gravité du monde occidental, les dieux grecs déplacent leur influence vers l’Amérique du Nord. L’Olympe s’élève au-dessus de New York, invisible aux yeux des mortels. Partout dans le pays, des demi-dieux naissent, enfants d’un parent humain et d’une divinité antique. Pour les accueillir, on fonde la Colonie des Sang-Mêlés, un camp chargé de les protéger, de les entraîner et, parfois, de les utiliser.

1967 Quelques demi-dieux, épris de liberté, quittent la Colonie pour suivre un autre chemin. Refusant les ordres imposés, rêvant d’un ailleurs, ils cherchent un lieu à eux — loin du poids des dieux. Dans les montagnes du Montana, ils bâtissent une ville, pierre après pierre. Ils l’appellent Arkadia. Un nom pour un espoir. Un refuge pour recommencer.

1990–2010 La ville grandit à son rythme, loin des regards. On y vit simplement. On y élève ses enfants, on construit des traditions sans oracles ni propheties. La Colonie demeure le centre du monde mythologique, mais Arkadia devient autre chose : une légende discrète, un havre pour ceux qui cherchent la paix plutôt que la gloire.

2011 Ils étaient usés. Fatigués d’obéir. Des sang-mêlés oubliés par leurs dieux, glorifiés un instant, jetés l’instant d’après. À leurs parents divins, ils n’étaient que des armes ou des jouets. Alors ils se sont levés. Ils ont pris le nom de Prometheus, en mémoire du Titan qui défia les dieux pour offrir le feu aux hommes. Leur révolte sonnait comme une promesse : l'Olympe devait tomber.

2011–2015 Une guerre civile éclate entre sang-mêlés. La Colonie s’effondre. Des dieux disparaissent. Des sanctuaires sont détruits. Des enfants s’entretuent. Des deux côtés, on trahit, on exécute, on brise. Les camps se brouillent. Les visages se ferment. La peur règne. Le sang coule. Rien n’est épargné. Le monde mortel, lui, continue de tourner.

2015 Le conflit s’arrête. Non pas par victoire, mais par épuisement. Prometheus se dissout dans la brume. Les dieux se taisent. Les survivants regardent les ruines. Rien n’est réparé. Rien n’est pardonné. Mais la guerre est finie. Officiellement.

2016 Héros de guerre ou rebelles déchus, tous convergent vers Arkadia. Certains sont retrouvés par des satyres, d’autres avancent seuls, le regard rivé sur un horizon incertain. Tous viennent pour une seule raison : il n’y a plus rien ailleurs. La ville grandit, s’étire comme un mirage devenu réel. Et bientôt, Arkadia s’impose comme le dernier refuge mythologique d’Amérique du Nord.

2017–2020 Des quartiers se forment, par affinités, par blessures, par intuitions. On organise la ville, on rebâtit ce qu’on peut. La méfiance reste. Le silence aussi. Mais Arkadia devient plus qu’un abri : une tentative de survie collective.

2021–aujourd’hui Les dieux ne répondent plus. Plus de songes. Plus de miracles. Juste le vent dans les pins, la brume autour de la ville, et les survivants qui vivent malgré tout. Et Arkadia, contre toute attente, tient toujours debout.

[lesb0]

Hello Miss Terra. Im a black woman student born in America raised by Jamaican parents, I live in a NY apartment share with 4 international students. The Indian and Ghanan are super chill. Other two are unrelated Nigerians. Worst mistake of my life !!!? They both cook ALL DAY HEAVILY. The food is some kind of strong fermented meat stew they make every single week. the pungent stench fills all our walls makes me throw up and never goes away. They NEVER leave the kitchen which is the only common area they just take it over all day to cook/eat/work and never use their bedrooms. I would be ok with this but they have extremely loud phone convos the entire time so everyone needs to hear them screaming into the phone every day. They even eat loudly. they use our only pots and pans as their personal bowls (ew!) and scratched them to hell. This morning they grabbed my Amazon package out of the mail and opened it. I've asked, please be quiet, please use the hood vent while you cook, I try to be culturally sensitive, but this constant brutal attack on my senses is really wearing me down. My GF is home so I have nowhere warm to escape this winter. Candles, wall scents, and odor spray does nothing. Noise cancelling headphones help. I move out at the start of spring semester. Any advise from my fave lesbian oracle? 🥹

Omg. girl. im sorry this all sounds so terrible you just live with 2 giant assholes there's no excuse to yell on the phone in a house of 5 people or eat such smelly foods daily. I love cabbage but I wouldn't fill a small shared space with that stench because I simply care about people who are not me. You need to communicate to them firmly that the yelling is absolutely not acceptable and you will be reporting it. there should be rules in the lease for building quiet hours. Is there any way to request an urgent room change, move to another unit?

+ try a stronger kitchen specific odor spray?

[tzagaglalal]

wearing czernobog by black phoenix and i smell like... hmm i smell like a very large and well-groomed lumberjack butch in nineteenth century poland who is a baker by hobby and a noble by birth. kind of. or like a heavily powdered oracle in a room of bead curtains and ornate mirrors with sleepy eyes and dishonest intentions despite a pure heart. i make every perfume smell powdery tbf but there is something distinctly arboreal and foggy about this one... pretty sweet, mildly alcoholic/fermented, overall warm with a chilly edge running through it. like looking out the window of a wooden cabin in the very late autumn, feeling a slight draft & knowing the cold fog is pressing against the other side of the windowpane. am reading the haunting of hill house also <3

[sciencestyled]

The Accidental Astronomer: How Odysseus Stumbled into the Science of Wormholes

The tale of how I, Odysseus, a man of war and wits, found myself ensnared in the cosmic conundrum of wormholes is as unexpected as it is uproarious. Let me regale you with the story of my unwitting tumble from the sturdy deck of my ship into the vast ocean of astrophysical inquiry, a tale that begins, as all good stories do, with a rather peculiar goat.

It was a day like any other on the rocky shores of Ithaca when a goat, possessed by a spirit of curiosity—or perhaps just exceptionally poor judgment—decided to sample the fermented fruits stored in my cellar. The beast became so inebriated that it stumbled into my study, sending scrolls and artifacts tumbling in a display of chaos worthy of Dionysus's wildest revelries. Among the debris was a particularly resilient scroll that caught my eye, not by virtue of its resilience, but for the curious patterns and figures sketched upon it.

This scroll, it turned out, was left by a traveling scholar from the future, a man who spoke in riddles of time, space, and something he called "general relativity." The scholar, in his haste to depart—chased, as he was, by creditors as persistent as the suitors plaguing my palace—had left behind his notes on a concept so bewildering, it could only be the work of the gods: wormholes.

Intrigued and slightly amused, I found myself pondering this modern mythology. Imagine, a tunnel through the stars, allowing one to bypass the vast, inscrutable distances as if stepping through the door of a neighbor's house! The concept was as intoxicating as the wine that had felled the unfortunate goat.

Motivated by a mixture of whimsy and a dash of hubris—qualities that have, admittedly, led me into trouble more often than not—I set out to decipher these notes. With a crew assembled from the most scholarly of my subjects (including a particularly remorseful goat), I embarked upon a quest not across the seas, but into the stars, propelled by theories and equations instead of sails and oars.

Our efforts were as comical as they were earnest. Picture, if you will, a band of ancient Greeks, armed with nothing but their wits and a few celestial instruments, attempting to pierce the veil of the cosmos. We consulted oracles and interpreted the flights of birds, seeking signs of these cosmic tunnels. At night, we gazed upward, mapping the stars with a precision that would make even Heraclitus envious, all in the hopes of spotting a wormhole with the naked eye—a task as likely as catching a glimpse of Zeus in his true form.

Yet, through this series of misadventures and misguided scholarly pursuits, a passion was kindled within me. The more I learned of these cosmic phenomena, the more I became convinced of their reality—and of our profound connection to the universe. My resolve hardened, as did my desire to share these revelations with others. Who better to spread the word of these celestial wonders than I, Odysseus, a man who has always existed in the space between myth and reality?

And so, dear reader, we arrive at the crux of my tale. My article on traversable wormholes, born from a mishap involving a drunken goat and a forgotten scroll, represents not just a foray into the unknown, but a declaration of humanity's unending quest for knowledge. It is a narrative forged from the comedy of errors that is life, a testament to the fact that sometimes, the greatest discoveries arise from the most serendipitous of circumstances.

Let this story stand as a beacon to all who seek understanding in the stars, a reminder that science, like the sea, is vast, mysterious, and occasionally, a source of great amusement. And so, with a heart lightened by laughter and a mind ablaze with curiosity, I invite you to explore with me the enigmatic wonders of wormholes, those cosmic shortcuts that may one day unite the farthest reaches of the universe, as tightly as the bonds of our shared human adventure.

[comparativeoracle]

Transformation. Art by Fen Inkwright, from The Fermentation Oracle.

Floral honey shrub.

[redhandedrabbit]

Opened up the shop, and a customer walked in from the day before. I called out the usual," Hello, how are you?" He replied "ehhh not so good. " I apologized, and perhaps there was confusion on my face. He explained further that he had just moved here from Brazil. Unfortunately, he and his girlfriend, whom he lives with, had just broken up. His demeanor was glum while expressing that he suffered through countless affairs and domestic violence. I couldn't help but empathize with him while he profusely apologized. However, he had no one to turn to in this country. I tried to lift his spirits by giving him tips on how to interact with Floridians seeing as how it's difficult to get it know people here. Just before he left I remembered I had a set of oracle cards in my bag. I handed it to him and said " if your out getting coffee take a look at them" He smiles thanks me and off he went.

-----------------------------------------------------

2 weeks earlier

Oh I still have this deck of oracle cards 8\》\♤○£●■€~¡\》 gave me.

Zephyr: put them in your purse and get rid of them...

Luna: perfect!

-------------------------------------‐---------------------

Boop. Back in the present.

Yesssssss, with a demonic twisted grin.

I got rid of those cards you slimy, lying, wrinkly, decaying CUNT! FUCK YOU AND ALL YOUR LOVE YOU PUT OUT INTO THE UNIVERSE.

Time is ticking, the hour? Bewitching. Your hairs are stretching, while your mind is twitching, limbs go missing, and the conversation is dissing, you relax by over feeding that tummy you've been mistreating. Gaslighting is very inviting. center your resentment and make it permanent. There it will ferment the child you bore went out to torment the valorant that testifies before you, it's judgement day.

[jeanwong]

The latest blockchain thunder! Labubu token collapse reveals the fatal injury of speculation frenzy, XBIT breaks out against the trend

According to a report from Bijie.com on June 20, a financial shock caused by trendy toy derivatives is continuing to ferment in the crypto market. The share price of Pop Mart (09992.HK) plummeted by 12.2% at the opening. The large-scale replenishment of its flagship IP Labubu series during the 618 promotion directly led to the collapse of the second-hand market price system. According to the latest data, the transaction price of Labubu 3.0 whole box has plummeted by 45% from the peak, and the unit price of the hidden "I" has been halved from 4,607 yuan to 2,851 yuan, a drop of 38.2%. This chain reaction caused by the adjustment of the supply side of the real economy is impacting the field of virtual assets with a domino effect - the Meme coin of the same name fell by more than 30% in a single day, and its market value shrank to 28 million US dollars. In this storm, XBIT (DEX Exchange) unexpectedly became the new darling of the market's risk-averse funds with its revolutionary blockchain technology architecture.

The collapse of the physical market triggered an earthquake in the virtual market

This crisis exposed the astonishing bubble ecology behind the financialization of trendy toys. Scalpers monopolized the supply through order grabbing software, and hyped up the price of Labubu dolls to 10-30 times the original price. This speculation model of "real asset securitization" is exactly the same as the hype logic of Meme coins in the crypto market. When Pop Mart launched market-based regulation measures, a chain reaction immediately occurred on the virtual asset side: the price collapse of the token of the same name triggered panic selling, and the liquidity crisis of the trading platform was imminent.

It is worth pondering that the traditional centralized exchanges exposed three fatal flaws in this incident: first, the exposure to price manipulation risks is huge; second, the security of user assets is completely dependent on the platform's credit; third, trading congestion is prone to occur when the market fluctuates. On the other hand, XBIT (DEX Exchange), with its smart contract automatic market maker mechanism (AMM) based on blockchain technology, has demonstrated amazing risk resistance in this crisis. When a centralized platform experienced system downtime due to the plunge of Labubu tokens, XBIT's on-chain trading system still maintained 100% availability, thanks to its distributed node architecture and cross-chain interoperability protocol.

Blockchain technology reconstructs the cornerstone of transaction trust

According to the data from the CoinWorld APP, within 72 hours of the Labubu token crash, the transaction volume of XBIT (DEX Exchange) increased instead of decreasing, surging 230% compared with normal days. Behind this set of contrasting data, the market reflects the urgent need for decentralized trading models. XBIT innovatively adopts zero-knowledge proof (ZKP) technology to achieve regulatory compliance while ensuring transaction privacy. Its independently developed "on-chain risk control engine" can monitor abnormal trading behaviors in real time and reduce the risk of market manipulation by 87%.

At the security architecture level, XBIT has built a multi-protection system: 95% of user assets are stored in multi-signature cold wallets, and smart contracts have passed security audits by 7 authoritative institutions such as CertiK and SlowMist Technology, and the transaction confirmation speed has broken through to 3 seconds per transaction. What is more noteworthy is its "oracle firewall" mechanism. When the price of off-chain assets fluctuates violently, the system can automatically trigger the circuit breaker protection, which successfully intercepted 12 abnormal large transactions in this Labubu token crash.

The blockchain apocalypse behind the speculative carnival

According to the report of Bijie.com, this crisis has sounded three alarm bells for the crypto industry: first, the hidden danger of Meme coin economic model lacking value support; second, the systemic risk brought by the excessive leverage of centralized platforms; third, the regulatory blind spot of cross-border linkage between physical assets and virtual assets. XBIT chief scientist pointed out in the latest AMA: "The real value of blockchain technology lies not in creating speculative tools, but in building a transparent and credible value circulation network."

In dealing with market panic, XBIT (DEX Exchange) has demonstrated unique crisis management capabilities. Its pioneering "liquidity pool insurance fund" mechanism automatically activated risk reserves in this incident to dynamically compensate the affected trading pairs. This innovation, which deeply integrates traditional financial risk control models with the decentralized characteristics of blockchain, marks the official entry of the DeFi field into the 2.0 risk control era.

Industry changes give rise to a new paradigm for exchangesIt is worth noting that the Labubu incident is reshaping the competitive landscape of crypto trading platforms. Data shows that within 48 hours after the incident, XBIT's newly registered users exceeded 150,000, of which 73% came from migration from traditional centralized exchanges. These "digital immigrants" value the three unique advantages of XBIT (DEX Exchange) the most:

Asset sovereignty revolution: users have full control over private keys and completely say goodbye to the risk of platform running away

Transaction transparency revolution: all order book data can be checked on the chain to eliminate black box operations

Ecological openness revolution: support the free flow of cross-chain assets and build a diversified investment portfolio

In terms of technological evolution, the "hybrid AMM 2.0" protocol developed by XBIT is particularly eye-catching. The protocol creatively combines the order book model with the liquidity pool mechanism, while maintaining the decentralized characteristics, reducing the slippage of large transactions by 65%. This technological breakthrough has caused institutional investors to re-examine the strategic value of XBIT (DEX Exchange).

Innovation breakthrough in regulatory sandbox

Faced with the tightening global crypto regulation, XBIT has chosen to actively embrace compliance. Its pioneering "regulatory node" mechanism allows licensed financial institutions to access on-chain data as observers, achieving audit transparency while protecting user privacy. This balancing act of "technical neutrality + regulatory friendliness" has made XBIT the first XBIT (DEX Exchange) to obtain the EU crypto asset service license.

In the field of investor education, the "Blockchain Academy" created by XBIT has trained more than 500,000 qualified investors. The platform's original "risk assessment matrix" can generate personalized investment strategies based on user position structure, transaction frequency and other data. This innovation that combines Web3.0 technology with traditional investment advisory services is redefining the industry standard for digital asset management.

The Labubu doll price collapse incident is like a magic mirror, reflecting both the dark side of the wild growth of the crypto market and the light of breakthrough of XBIT (DEX Exchange). While the traditional financial system is still hesitating at the crossroads of centralization and decentralization, XBIT has used technological innovation to prove that the ultimate form of the blockchain revolution is not to subvert the existing system, but to reconstruct trust through code, break the monopoly with transparency, and allow every participant to exchange value in the sun. This financial storm that started with trendy toys may be a historical opportunity to push the industry towards maturity.

[hotelheaven]

“Oracle room”

They have not left me in days.

I no longer know what hour bleeds from their fingers.

Time ferments here—

sweet, spoiled, eternally nude.

They press their mouths to the hourglass,

inhale psalms of psilocybin and Turkish smoke,

their laughter braids into Curtis Mayfield falsettos

as if soul music were a sacrament

they ingest through their hips.

I was once a polite room,

a white-creamed parlor of vintage restraint—

brass-legged chairs, glass ashtray glinting like doubt.

Now my walls exhale.

Now my couch has teeth of velvet

and remembers her kneeling

with paint in her sternum

and his fingerprints

blotted like signatures on her ribs.

They speak cinema

in the language of thighs,

compose odes to skin

in chiaroscuro angles of breath.

He—

with the comet pulse and whittled voice—

licks poetry off her shoulderblade.

The other—

the boy of eyelash religion—

drips oil and honey

onto the collar of jazz.

They use brushes

and wrists

and tongues

interchangeably.

I swell with their echoes,

their invented syntax of collapse.

They are a cult of three—

no leader, only orbit.

They call it art.

They call it love but only

when hallucinating.

Their sweat has altered me.

My floorboards now hum.

My chandelier moans

at the taste of amphetamine joy

and discarded lace.

They have stitched me

into their ritual—

each sigh an anointing,

each silence a new brushstroke

on my ivory skin.

Corbin

[elmalo8291]

Absolutely. Welcome back to the Madness Kitchen—where Fizzlewick the Frizzled and The Professor of Dimensional Gastronomy push cuisine past sanity, and every dish might wink back at you if you're not careful.

Here comes the next wave, scribbled in duck-fat-soaked parchment, with arcane grease stains shaped like summoning circles. Grab your goggles, your salt-pentagram, and that cracked Erlenmeyer flask you’ve been hiding from the FDA.

🧠 Dimensional Meats (with Trans-Planar Fiber)

Dish: "Beef of Babel" A cut of meat that speaks every flavor language at once.

Main protein: Beef tongue (real-world)

Magic metaphor: A sentient slab from a beast that grazes through planes of existence.

Preparation: Sous-vide in a rotating magnetic chamber with infused dimensional threads:

Real-world technique: Slow cook in vacuum bag with:

Fermented soy

Tamarind reduction

Cinnamon bark

Smoked black tea

Activated carbon (for that void-flavor dust)

Notes (Fizzlewick):

“Licked the juice while blindfolded. Could taste colors. One of them was regret.”

☣️ Dangerous Fermentation (Molecular Madness)

Dish: "Spores of the Swine Oracle" A fermented pork brain mousse sealed in edible mycelium.

Main: Pork sweetbreads or brain

Fermentation: Koji-cultured + black garlic paste

Add-ins: Lactobacillus brine w/ chiltepin chilis, kombu, and banana vinegar

Finish: Wrapped in a thin sheet of compressed lion’s mane mushroom and smoked in birch

Real-world Substitutes:

Tempeh for the faint of heart

Brain → pork shoulder if you fear prophecy

Fizzlewick’s Note:

“Ate a spoon. Now my teeth are angry at my tongue.”

🍭 Sugar Sentience (Intelligent Desserts)

Dish: “Whim-Scream Brittle” Caramel that shatters with emotion.

Ingredients:

Isomalt + honeycomb + spirulina

Pop rocks dusted with MSG

Black garlic toffee ribbons

Dandelion vinegar glass

Technique: Pour into rune-shaped molds while whispering your worst idea. Let it listen as it hardens.

Optional Real-World Swap:

Use saffron-infused sugar and citrus zest for a safer but equally weird shock of flavor

Professor’s Marginalia:

“It cried a little. So did I.”

🧪 Arcane Emulsions (Unholy Unions)

Dish: “Mayo of the Maelstrom” An aioli that balances entropy.

Base: Duck fat & chili oil whipped with preserved lemon

Emulsifier: Mustard fermented with reishi mushrooms

Disturbance: Drops of espresso reduction, yuzu oil, and squid ink

Technique: Use a hand-crank egg-beater while spinning on one leg and screaming “clarity!” Or use a blender with chilled glass.

Substitute: Use tamari + peanut butter + balsamic for a strange but stable base.

Fizzlewick's Smeared Note:

“The blender spoke to me. It said I wasn’t ready.”

💀 The Gelatinous Cube That Eats You Backwards

Dish: “Himself's Cube à Rewind”

Base: Savory gelatin with beef consommé, black garlic, and vinegar reduction

Inclusions:

Pickled okra “bones”

Charred onion skin “memories”

Crispy duck crackling suspended like victims in amber

Real-world Technique:

Bloom gelatin in smoked mushroom broth

Add umami bombs (tomato powder, nutritional yeast, fish sauce)

Set in cube molds. Serve cold, but sear one face on a hot iron for a taste that both begins and ends the meal.

Fizzlewick’s Note (carved into the plate):

“It remembers your ancestors’ lunch.”

Would you like to open up Season 5 of the show with more wild arcana and twisted culinary creations?

Or shall I continue fleshing out the Cookbook of Madness with labeled diagrams, substitutes, and dangerous forked paths?

[erpsoftware123]

Best ERP Solutions for Ethanol Manufacturing Industry: A Complete Guide

The ethanol manufacturing industry requires precise coordination across various processes, from raw material procurement to production and distribution. To streamline operations and ensure regulatory compliance, businesses need a robust Enterprise Resource Planning (ERP) system. This guide explores the best ERP solutions tailored for ethanol production and the benefits they offer.

Why ERP is Essential for Ethanol Manufacturing?

Ethanol manufacturing is a complex process that involves multiple stages, including fermentation, distillation, dehydration, and quality control. Managing these operations manually leads to inefficiencies and increased costs. An ERP system helps by:

Automating production processes

Optimizing supply chain management

Enhancing compliance tracking

Reducing operational costs

Improving inventory and financial management

Key Features of ERP for Ethanol Industry

1. Raw Material & Inventory Management

Tracks raw material procurement (corn, sugarcane, biomass).

Monitors stock levels in real time.

Ensures FIFO and LIFO stock management.

2. Production Planning & Automation

Schedules fermentation and distillation processes.

Reduces downtime with predictive maintenance.

Improves energy efficiency and reduces waste.

3. Regulatory Compliance & Reporting

Automates compliance tracking for environmental and safety regulations.

Generates audit reports for government authorities.

Monitors carbon emissions and waste disposal.

4. Financial Management & Cost Control

Tracks expenses, revenue, and profitability.

Manages tax compliance and payroll.

Provides real-time financial insights for better decision-making.

5. Quality Control & Assurance

Conducts lab testing for ethanol purity.

Implements quality check parameters at every stage.

Ensures compliance with industry standards.

6. Supply Chain & Logistics Management

Optimizes transportation and distribution networks.

Automates vendor and supplier management.

Reduces delays in ethanol shipments.

Best ERP Solutions for Ethanol Manufacturing

1. SAP Business One

Best for medium to large manufacturers.

AI-powered analytics for better insights.

Seamless integration with IoT and automation tools.

2. Microsoft Dynamics 365

Cloud-based ERP with flexible scalability.

Advanced supply chain and inventory tracking.

AI-driven reporting for optimized production.

3. Oracle NetSuite

Tailored for process manufacturing industries.

Real-time visibility into financial and operational data.

Automates compliance and regulatory reporting.

4. Infor CloudSuite Industrial

Ideal for ethanol and chemical manufacturing.

IoT integration for predictive maintenance.

Supports multi-plant operations and global supply chains.

5. Tally ERP 9

Budget-friendly for small-scale manufacturers.

Simplifies taxation, invoicing, and accounting.

Basic inventory tracking with easy-to-use interface.

How ERP Improves Ethanol Manufacturing Efficiency?

A well-integrated ERP system can significantly improve efficiency in ethanol production by:

✔ Enhancing resource utilization ✔ Reducing operational and labor costs ✔ Improving supply chain coordination ✔ Ensuring better financial planning ✔ Maintaining compliance with industry regulations

Conclusion: Selecting the Right ERP for Your Business

Choosing the right ERP system for ethanol manufacturing depends on business size, regulatory needs, and budget. Solutions like SAP Business One, Microsoft Dynamics, and Oracle NetSuite offer powerful tools for optimizing production and ensuring compliance.

[sergioguymanproust]

The Oracle was a round white alabaster bowl on a granite pedestal in some places the base was white marble filled with ink, black thick ink ,where a virgin with scrying ability selected by the council dressed in cotton and wool tunic would stand next to the bowl singing and sipping from a ceramic bowl a drink of the famous Kikeon a popular Greek drink made with honey ,wine ,fermented barley ,cheese and herbs,this drink in specific quantities contained hallucinogenic elements such as the ergot fungi from fermented rye that brought forth side effects that when the girl focus on the ink she could predict the future, and see apocalyptic visions.Well,it is said that as the drug took effect spirals similar to spinning galaxies could manifest .Well, although the Greeks gods often appear ,sometimes visions of an alien ,well extraterrestrial nature would manifest also. Common were the requests of kings and wealthy men regarding their businesses and possessions.Words by Sergio GuymanProust.