#and how they are the scaffolding for the next generation

[superbat-lmao]

The landscape of vigilantism and superheroism is forever shifting and changing. People die, get resurrected, betray their ideals, change their morals, go from hero to criminal to anti-hero, redeem themselves before death, it is impossible to keep track of everyone’s allegiances and fluctuating morals.

The only person able to keep all of that information straight, is Batman. He’s the only one who bothers to try. Everyone else relies on his files, the details and connections he makes sure to document, to leaf through. New people join every day and Batman learns as much about them as he possibly can.

There’s a day in the future when Bruce looks around at all the new faces in the Justice League, all of the new teams that feed into its recruitment, The Titans, Young Justice, The Outlaws, ect and realizes that his world has changed. His children are the structure of the vigilante/hero scene. He was a scaffold, allowing them to reach their potential where they would settle into place and become the structural supports for the rest of the community.

But there will always be a piece of Bruce that misses the beginning. When things were simpler and he was just settling into the League he was creating. When the faces went from new to familiar and hadn’t yet reached complicated. Some people called them the golden years or the good ol’ days, but Bruce couldn’t name them. He just missed the beginning when he hadn’t known the end.

And before anyone knows it, even Batman is gone. Finally passed on. And no one is able to recreate what he did, who he was. The way he held things together.

Instead, his children share the role. They serve as the points of contact between so many interrelated and unconnected teams. They are the bridges of communication, of sharing intel, of laying inroads. No one man keeps track of what Batman was able to, but together, his children carry on his legacy.

[o-craven-canto]

Rough timeline of the discovery of genes and DNA

(mostly condensed from the first half of S. Mukherjee, The Gene: An Intimate History, 2016, and this 1974 paper)

1857-1864: Gregor Mendel experiments with breeding peas at the monastery of Brno. The results show that information about flower color, pod shape etc. is transmitted in discrete blocks that do not mix, and can persist unexpressed in a generation to manifest again in the next.

1865-1866: Mendel's results are published in a minor journal and effectively forgotten for 35 years. He corresponds with physiologist Carl von Nägeli, who dismisses them as "only empirical" (???).

1868: Unaware of Mendel's work, Darwin proposes pangenesis as mechanism of heredity: every body part produces "gemmules" that carry hereditary information and merge to form gametes. This does not explain how new traits aren't immediately diluted out of existence, or why acquired changes aren't inheritable.

1869: Friedrich Miescher extracts a mysterious substance from pus on used bandages and salmon sperm. He calls it nuclein (later: chromatin), as it seems to be concentrated in cell nuclei.

1878: Albrecht Kossel separates nuclein into protein and a non-protein component, which he calls nucleic acid, and breaks it down in five nucleotides.

1882: Darwin dies, bothered -- among other things -- by the lack of a plausible mechanism to transmit new variation. Legend has it that Mendel's paper lay on a bookshelf of his study, unread.

1883: August Weissmann, noting that mice with cut tails always give birth to fully-tailed mice, theorizes that hereditary information is contained in a "germplasm" fully isolated from the rest of the body, contra pangenesis. At each generation, only germplasm is transmitted, and gives separate rise to a somatic line, i.e. the body, which isn't.

ca. 1890: Studying sea urchin embryos in Naples, Theodor Boveri and Wilhelm von Waldeyer-Hartz notice large coiled masses of nuclein inside cell nuclei which can be dyed blue with aniline. They call them chromosomes, literally "colorful bodies". Simultaneously, Walter Sutton discovers chromosomes in grasshopper sperm.

1897: Hugo de Vries, after collecting hundreds of "monstrous" plant varieties near Amsterdam, realizes (also unaware of Mendel's work) that each trait is due to a single discrete particle of information, never mixing with the others, which he calls pangene in homage to Darwin. He also notices the appearance of completely new variants, which he calls mutants. In the same year, Carl Correns -- a former student of Nägeli, who had completely neglected to mention Mendel's work -- reproduces it exactly in Tubingen with pea and maize plants.

1900: Having finally found out about Mendel's publication, De Vries rushes to publish his model before he can be accused of plagiarism, which happens anyway. Correns does the same. Erich von Tschermak-Seysenegg also independently recreates Mendel's results with pea plants in Vienna. Come on, guys, this is embarassing.

1902: Boveri and Sutton independently propose that hereditary information is carried by chromosomes. Supporters of this hypothesis generally hold that information is carried by proteins, with the simpler nucleic acids (only 5 nucleotides vs. 20 aminoacids) serving as scaffold.

1905: William Bateson coins the word genetics to describe the field growing mostly from De Vries' work. He realizes it should be possible to deliberately select organisms for specific individual genes. Meanwhile, Boveri's student Nettie Stevens discovers in mealworms a strangely small chromosome that is found only in males -- chromosome Y. This is the first direct evidence that chromosomes do, in fact, carry genetic information.

1905-1908: Thomas Hunt Morgan and his students breed and cross thousands of fruit flies in a lab in New York. Contra Mendel, they notice that traits are not passed down in a completely independent way: for example, male sex and white eyes usually manifest together. This suggests that their information particles are attached to each other, so that the physically-closest traits are more likely (but not guaranteed!) to be transmitted together.

1909: Phoebus Levene and his coworkers break down nucleic acids by hydrolysis into sugars, phosphate, and nucleobases. They assume that nucleobases must repeat along a chain in a repetitive sequence. In a treatise on heredity, Wilhelm Johannsen shortens "pangene" to gene. It's a purely theoretical construct, with no known material basis.

1911: Using Morgan's data on trait linkage, his student Alfred Sturtevant draws the first genetic map, locating several genes along a fruit fly chromosome. Genetic information now has a physical basis, although not yet a mechanism of transmission.

1918: Statistician Ronald Fisher proposes that traits appearing in continuous gradients, such as height, can still be explained by discrete genes if multiple genes contribute to a single trait, resolving an apparent contradiction. (Six genes for height, for example, are enough to produce the smooth bell curve noticed half a century earlier by Francis Galton.)

ca. 1920: Bacteriologist Frederick Griffith is studying two forms of pneumococcus, a "smooth" strain that produces deadly pneumonia in mice (and people) and a "rough" strain that is easily dispatched by immunity. He finds out that if live "rough" pneumococci are mixed with "smooth" ones killed by heat, the "rough" can somehow acquire the deadly "smooth" coating from the dead.

1926: Hermann Muller, another student of Morgan, finds out he can produce arbitrary amounts of new mutant flies by exposing their parents to X-rays.

1928: Griffith describes the acquired "transformation" of bacteria in an extremely obscure journal.

1929: Levene identifies the sugars in "yeast nucleic acid" and "thymus nucleic acid" as ribose and deoxyribose, respectively. The two will henceforth be known as ribonucleic acid (RNA) and deoxyribonucleic acid (DNA).

ca. 1930: Theodosius Dobzhansky, who also had worked with Morgan, discovers in wild-caught fruit flies variations of wing size, eye structure etc. that are produced by genes arranged in different orders on the chromosome. This rearrangement is the first physical mechanism for mutation discovered.

1940: Oswald Avery repeats Griffith's experiments with pneumococci, looking for the "transforming principle". Filtering away the remains of the cell wall, dissolving lipids in alcohol, destroying proteins with heat and chloroform does not stop the transformation. A DNA-degrading enzyme, however, does. Therefore, it is DNA that carries genetic information.

1943: By mixing flies with different gene orders and raising the mixed populations at different temperatures, Dobzhansky shows that a particular gene order can respond to natural selection, increasing or decresing in frequency.

1944: Avery publishes his results on transforming DNA. Physicist Erwin Schrödinger writes a treatise (What Is Life?) in which he states, on purely theoretical ground, that genetic information must be carried by an "aperiodic crystal", stable enough to be transmitted, but with a sequence of sub-parts that never repeat.

1950: In Cambridge, Maurice Wilkins starts using X-ray diffraction to try and make a picture of the atomic structure of dried DNA (as Linus Pauling and Robert Corey had done earlier with proteins). He is later joined by Rosalind Franklin, who finds a way to make higher-quality pictures by keeping DNA in its hydrated state. By hydrolyzing DNA, Erwin Chargaff notes that the nucleobases A and T are always present in exactly the same amount, as if they were paired, and so are C and G -- but A/T and C/G can be different amounts.

1951: Pauling publishes a paper on the alpha-helix structure of proteins. Having attended talks by Wilkins and Franklin, James Watson and Francis Crick attempt to build a physical model of DNA, a triple helix with internal phosphate, but Franklin notes it's too unstable to survive.

1952: Alfred Hershey and Martha Chase mark the protein envelope of phage viruses with radioactive sulfur, and their DNA with radioactive phosphorus. The phosphorus, but not the sulfur, is transmitted to host bacteria and to the new generation of phages. This indicates that DNA is not just exchanged as "transforming principle", but passed down through generations.

1953: Pauling and Corey also propose a structure of DNA, but they make the same mistake as Watson and Crick. These receive from Wilkins an especially high-quality photo (taken in 1952 by either Franklin or her student Ray Gosling). Combining this picture with Chargaff's measurements, they conclude that DNA must be a double helix, with a sugar-phosphate chain outside, and nucleobases meeting in pairs on the inside (A with T, C with G). The complementary sequences of bases give a clear mechanism for the storage and replication of genetic information.

1950s: Jacques Monod and François Jacob grow the bacterium Escherichia coli alternately on glucose and lactose. While its DNA never changes, the RNA produced changes in step with the production of glucose-digesting and lactose-digesting enzymes. So DNA is not directly affected, but different sequences are copied onto RNA depending on need.

1958: Arthur Kornberg isolates DNA polymerase, the enzyme that builds new DNA strands in the correct sequence. By inserting into DNA a heavier isotope of nitrogen, Matthew Meselson and Franklin Stahl show that each strand remains intact, separating during replication and then serving as template for a new one.

1960: Sydney Brenner and Jacob purify messenger RNA from bacterial cells. This seems to copy the sequence of a single gene and carry it to ribosomes, where proteins are built. RNA must encode the sequence of aminoacids of a protein, presumably in sets of 3 nucleotides (the smallest that can specify 20 aminoacids).

1961-1966: Multiple labs working in parallel (Marshall Nirenberg-Heinrich Matthaei-Philip Leder, Har Khorana, Severo Ochoa) map every possible triplet of nucleotides to a corresponding aminoacid. Synthetic RNA is inserted into isolated bacterial ribosomes, and aminoacids are marked one at a time with radioactive carbon to check the sequence of the resulting proteins.

1970: Paul Berg and David Jackson manage to fuse DNA from two viruses into a single sequence ("recombinant DNA") using DNA-cutting enzymes extracted from bacteria.

1972-1973: Janet Mertz joins Berg and Jackson, and proposes inserting the recombinant DNA into the genome of E. coli, exploiting the bacterium for mass production. Herb Boyer and Stanley Cohen perform a similar experiment merging bacterial DNA, and linking it to an antibiotic-resistance gene so that the recombinant bacteria can be easily isolated.

1975-1977: Frederick Sanger isolates template strands of DNA to build new ones with DNA polymerase, but uses altered and marked nucleobases that stop polymerization. By doing so, then segregating the shortened sequences by length and recognizing their final base with fluorescence, it's possible to read the exact sequence of bases on a DNA strand.

[the-algebra-thing]

so again, I'm rereading howl's moving castle LMFAO and truly diana wynne jones' disdain for in depth sensory description is sooo cool. I think I've arrived at one of the most basic things that fascinates me about this book and that drew me in and it's something about how descriptive language and tone intersect. there's a lot of two-step visual description, but very little of the specific descriptive language I'm accustomed to. I can know that something looks lightweight because of the way that michael is carrying it, or that the slime is green and has a weird reaction when you dump ash on it, or that michael obviously wished he had not spoken, or that from the way howls feet are braced it's clear he is exerting great force, but it's almost rare that there's a plain description of what's going on. even if there is a proper one, there's always an opinion or extrapolation at the end of it: the wind tore at sophie's face so savagely that she thought she'd end up with half her face behind each ear. generally what I find is that instead of inferring how a character must feel based on how they are acting, you get to make up the specifics about a character's actions or experience based on how the narrator tells you they feel about it. the writing isn't broken down into small pieces for you to put together; it's made of big ones. a single description hits about three different ideas, and there's another similar one in the next paragraph, and you have to keep up. it drives the story along at a committed pace as well as makes the magic system feel very unique, and then that uniquely maintained system becomes scaffolding for the story's themes to grow off of

[pixeplanets]

Unstable Ground

( Zayne x Mc one shot )

They hadn’t said anything since that night. But something had changed. Or at least… she felt it.

“Good job, both of you,” the commander said. “Next outing will be a bit more complex. Kira will be joining you.”

Kira.

Tall, sharp as a blade, and with a professional smile that seemed AI-generated. Zayne nodded. No change in his expression. But as he spoke with Kira about the mission details, she saw him do something he never did with her.

He smiled.

Just a small corner of his mouth. But still — it was there. Her chest tightened. Without thinking, she dropped her tablet in a spectacular clang.

Zayne turned instantly. “You okay?”

“Sure! Just… hostile gravity. You know how it is.”

Kira chuckled softly. “Does this happen often?”

“Only when someone smiles too much.” Silence. Then she bit her tongue. Too direct.

Zayne looked at her. But said nothing.

The next day, they were on the field. The trio. She in the back, Zayne and Kira up front.

Kira moved with confidence. Zayne spoke to her in a low voice. She tried not to care. But every glance, every little moment between them, hit like a slow-motion slap.

During a check in some ruins, Zayne turned.

“Stay with me. Kira’s covering the east entrance.”

She nodded. As they crouched behind a barrier, she finally asked:

“Kira’s good. Have you worked with her before?”

Zayne looked at her. The answer was ready. But he didn’t say it immediately.

“A few times. She’s reliable. Why?”

She shrugged. “No reason. Just… academic curiosity.”

Silence.

Zayne stared at her. Then said: “If you have something to say, just say it.”

“No, really. I also work well with other people. Like… the vending machine in the break room. It gets me.”

Zayne sighed. “I thought after last night—”

“What?”

“…nothing.” He turned back. But his jaw was clenched. It always was — but now more than ever.

And she sat there, in his blind spot, wondering if she had imagined it all. Or if, for once, he didn’t know what to say.

It was like Kira had a magnet tuned straight to Zayne. Always beside him. Always ready to finish a sentence, a move, a decision.

And he let her.

She watched from behind, trying not to grind her teeth. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t get jealous. She was failing.

During a short break, they sat under a scaffold. Zayne was studying the map. Kira cleaned a scratch with surgical precision. She stared at her energy bar like it owed her an apology.

“Do you need something?” Zayne asked without looking up.

“Coffee. Maybe a straight answer. Or a paper bag for emotional regulation.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just talking to my latent jealousy. You can go back to team-building with Tactical Barbie.”

Zayne finally looked up. Slightly raised eyebrow. Kira chuckled. “Do you two always have this dynamic?”

She smiled too wide. “Only when I’m sleep-deprived. Or when I feel like the background character.”

Zayne cut in, calm but with that clipped tone he used when something stung:

“No one’s background. There’s three of us, and everyone has a role.”

“Oh sure. I’m the one who trips, you’re the cold genius, and she’s the perfect partner.”

Silence.

Kira stood up gracefully. “I’ll check the perimeter. You two… work out your dynamic.”

Once she was gone, Zayne turned.

Slowly.

Eyes on her.

“ It bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“What? That she gets you? That she walks straight? That her cheekbones are tactical-grade? Nooo.”

Zayne didn’t flinch. “I thought you… knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That there’s no comparison. No competition.”

She forgot how to breathe for a second. Zayne ran a hand through his hair like he was trying to untangle a system malfunction. But the glitch was clearly in his chest.

“I don’t hold back with you. Not when you hit your head on pipes. Not when you say the wrong thing at the wrong time. You… break my system. And I don’t know how to handle that.”

She looked at him. Her heart was hammering, but her voice was calm.

“So I’m real. But she’s easier.”

Zayne held her gaze. “Maybe. But it’s not real.”

Then… he stood. Conversation: over. Or almost.

As he walked away, he added:

“If you’ve felt invisible… I’m sorry. But that’s the last thing you are to me.”

[hymnsandhauntings]

The Trouble With Power: Sabrina Carpenter

Let me begin with a confession: I was charmed by Espresso. The flirtation, the boldness, the winking lines that toed the edge between self-possession and seduction: Sabrina Carpenter was in her pop star bag, and I was rooting for her.

Espresso was sticky with self-awareness. Fun without being frivolous. A femme-pop high that made space for cheeky sexuality without leaning on the predictable scaffolding of male fantasy.

It was clever.
She was clever.

But now, watching the rollout of her Man’s Best Friend era, I find myself pausing.

The kind of pause that catches in your throat.

The kind that says: "I hope this isn’t what it looks like."

‘Manchild’ and the Fantasy of the Dangerous Road

Let’s talk about the Manchild music video.

It opens with Sabrina hitchhiking in a pair of platform heels and cutoff denim shorts, somewhere in the sun-bleached desert. It’s a familiar pop trope: think Lana, Britney, Madonna, but one with deeply uncomfortable roots.

This isn’t just a fantasy of freedom.
It’s one of exposure. Of danger. Of woman-as-bait.

Hitchhiking is not a neutral image for women. It carries with it decades of danger narratives: from true crime stories to horror films to cautionary tales whispered between girls. The woman on the side of the road isn’t empowered, she’s vulnerable.

Yes, Sabrina flips the script in the final act of the video, turning the camera around on the men who pick her up. But does a bloody reversal erase what’s been stylised in the first place? Or does it re-perform it?

That’s the trouble: when you borrow the language of trauma to be edgy, and then don’t interrogate it, you risk reinforcing the very harm you say you’re undoing.

Man’s Best Friend and the Aesthetic of Submission

Then there’s the album cover.

Carpenter, on all fours. A man, faceless, anonymous, clutching her hair. The title: Man’s Best Friend.

It’s striking. But not in the way Espresso was. That was empowerment through wit. This feels like submission without satire.

Kink aesthetics have a place in the art world. There’s nothing inherently wrong with invoking power play. But the missing ingredient here is framing. Where’s the context? The metaphor? The invitation to look deeper?

Without it, this isn’t performance: it’s posturing.

And when the line between critique and replication is this thin, we have to ask:

Who is this for?

Pop Stardom, the Gaze, and What We Pass Down

Sabrina Carpenter is no longer an emerging artist. She���s the pop girl of the moment. Millions of young fans watch her every move, not just what she sings, but how she frames womanhood, agency, and sexuality.

That kind of visibility is power. And with power comes responsibility: not to sanitise or censor, but to consider the impact of the art we present on a global stage.

Because when you’re being watched by the next generation, your visuals don’t live in a vacuum. They echo. They teach. They land.

So What Are We Reclaiming, Exactly?

We talk a lot about “reclaiming” imagery: owning the gaze, choosing objectification as power. But if the image we’re reclaiming is still a woman on all fours with a man above her… what are we actually taking back?

Because if the answer is “everyone gets it,” but the execution is indistinguishable from patriarchy’s greatest hits: then we’re not reclaiming.
We’re reselling.

And at that point, are we even subverting?
Or are we just packaging old power in new glitter?

A Raised Eyebrow

Let me be clear: this is not a cancellation. This is a raised eyebrow.

A quiet “Are we sure?”

I’m not here to label Sabrina Carpenter as anti-feminist, nor demand that every pop star become an activist. What I’m asking is: if we’re going to play with fire, can we at least explain what we’re burning down?

Because if this is satire…let us in.


If it’s critique… frame it.


If it’s empowerment… tell us who is empowered.

Right now, it’s not clear. And in the silence, it’s easy for the male gaze to take over again.

This is not about outrage.
It’s about care.

If I didn’t respect Sabrina as a writer and performer, I wouldn’t be asking these questions. But I do. Which is why I am.

If this era is an experiment, then let’s ask: what are we testing?And who are we making space for in the results?

Hymns And Hauntings

[anythinggoesbutme]

Threads of Control

Chapter three of the White Gloves & Coal Dust series

Peacekeeper!Coriolanus Snow x Everdeen!Reader

Previous Chapters: Click Here

Warnings: emotional manipulation, stalking, invasion of privacy, mild physical intimidation, implied obsession, power imbalance, possessive behavior

Synopsis: Coriolanus begins weaving himself deeper into the Everdeen family’s life—first by charming Hazelle with unexpected favors, then by conducting unofficial “inspections” to learn everything he can about Y/N. But when he finds her alone in a field, he can no longer restrain the tension he feels—cornering her in a moment that blurs the line between attention and control.

Word Count: 2,640

It began with firewood.

Two nights after his unprompted delivery of rations, a small bundle of split pine logs appeared neatly stacked outside the Everdeen home. No note. No knock. Just the wood—dry, clean, and clearly not from District 12’s haphazard stockpiles.

Hazelle noticed it first.

The next time it happened, she waited by the window and caught the flash of a gray uniform disappearing into the trees.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said the following morning when he returned. Her tone was light, amused, touched even. “We manage fine.”

Coriolanus offered her the kind of smile he’d practiced in mirrors since boyhood. Not dazzling, but soft—meant to disarm, to suggest sincerity. He clasped his gloved hands behind his back like he always did when trying to appear harmless.

“I don’t mind,” he said, tone gentle. “It’s no trouble. I had some left from a run the Capitol sent us.”

Which wasn’t true.

But he was finding that the best lies were rooted in just enough plausibility to pass.

Hazelle tilted her head at him, looking through him the way all mothers do when weighing someone’s intent. “Most Peacekeepers don’t go out of their way,” she said, and there was a hint of suspicion there. Barely a sliver.

He let it sit between them for a breath before shrugging, looking almost sheepish. “Most Peacekeepers didn’t grow up with wood fires. I did. I know how miserable it is to wake up cold.”

Hazelle’s features softened. “Capitol boy, were you?”

“Once.” He smiled again, this time with a touch of wistful sadness. “A long time ago.”

The moment passed. She invited him inside.

From there, the offerings became more frequent. Small things. Intentional things.

A vial of medicine when Burdock came home coughing soot. A loaf of bread on a week when the rations had been thin. A fresh needle for Hazelle’s mending basket.

He never asked to stay long. He made a point not to overstay his welcome. But he was careful—always careful—to speak to Hazelle directly, to meet her eyes, to listen when she spoke.

When she mentioned her late husband, he bowed his head respectfully and didn’t pry. When she joked about how Burdock never learned to split logs properly, Coriolanus laughed along, as if the image of her son’s clumsy work amused him.

And always—always—he paid attention to the details.

He noted when their roof leaked. He noted when their flour was nearly gone. He listened when Hazelle spoke of her daughter’s stubbornness, her sharp tongue, her tendency to disappear into the woods for hours.

He tucked it all away like pieces in a puzzle he was beginning to see clearly.

Not out of malice.

At least, not openly.

Coriolanus told himself this was strategy. Necessary scaffolding. If Hazelle trusted him, if she thought of him as kind, generous, different from the others—it would be easier when the time came.

Easier to draw her daughter in.

Because kindness, he’d learned, was often the best leash.

And he intended to keep the Everdeens exactly where he wanted them—warm, fed, and inch by inch… dependent.

It was during one of his “inspections” that Coriolanus began to cross lines.

His eyes lingered on the cracks in the walls, the old, rusting stove that sputtered when it wasn’t being tended to, the way the floorboards creaked underfoot. He noted every detail—anomalies, signs of neglect—and made mental notes to ensure that Hazelle wouldn��t be able to dismiss them later.

But that wasn’t all.

One afternoon, after a particularly cold morning that had left Hazelle in a long, tired fit of coughing, he knocked on the door with the same pleasantries, the same tight smile. He had come, as always, under the guise of goodwill—bearing medicine, a few extra rations. But today, his visit wasn’t just to check on their health.

“I was just making sure everything’s in order,” he explained casually when Hazelle opened the door, the same practiced gentleness in his voice.

She frowned, slightly puzzled. “Everything’s fine, Coriolanus.”

“Just a standard procedure,” he insisted, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation, like he belonged. “It’s my duty to ensure the district is… well, functioning properly.”

She raised an eyebrow, and he caught the flicker of uncertainty in her gaze. She wasn’t fully convinced, but neither was she opposed. Hazelle had learned to pick her battles, and this was a small one in her mind.

“I’m not sure it’s necessary,” she said, but she let him in anyway, brushing a stray lock of hair out of her face. “The place is a bit of a mess, though. I’m just trying to keep things together.”

“I understand,” he said smoothly, walking past her and toward the back room with the kitchen and the small hallway that led to the bedrooms. “I’ll try not to take up too much of your time. Just a quick look around.”

Hazelle nodded, still unsure but not wanting to seem ungrateful. She was a mother, and mothering was never simple—especially when survival was in question.

Coriolanus moved through the house with careful steps, feigning the air of a man simply trying to be thorough in his duties. He ran his fingers along the walls as if he were checking for mildew, though he had already seen the state of the rooms a dozen times before, noting which spots were particularly neglected, which places seemed to hold more attention than others.

But his interest wasn’t on the structure. It wasn’t even on the food or the firewood he’d already provided.

It was on her daughter’s room.

He had seen it before, of course, when he’d delivered the ration baskets or medicine. But this time, the door was closed. The walls were lined with books, the air smelling faintly of dried flowers and old paper. This time, he didn’t ask permission to enter.

The door creaked when he nudged it open.

His eyes scanned quickly—fingers twitching at the sight of a journal, the corner of a notebook peeking out from the bed’s thin quilt. He saw the books she kept, the tattered edges of pages she’d read and reread in her solitude.

His eyes didn’t linger there, though. They focused on the small drawer tucked underneath the desk.

He slid the drawer open slowly, his fingers brushing against something soft. Her undergarments—folded neatly, as if by her mother, but unmistakably hers.

He bit the inside of his cheek to suppress a smirk. It wasn’t the undergarments that held his attention, but the silent reminder that he could, at any time, invade. That she was vulnerable in ways she didn’t yet realize.

As he turned back to the desk, his eyes found the journal. The leather binding was worn from use, the pages filling with words that weren’t meant for anyone else’s eyes.

It was easy. Too easy.

He slid the journal out, holding it in one hand, inspecting the worn corners. He was careful, moving it between his fingers with delicate precision as he flipped it open to a random page. It was the same as everything else—fragile, small, and filled with the secrets of a life he didn’t know yet but was desperate to understand.

“It was never supposed to be this way,” he read silently. “The Peacekeepers will burn everything. They’ll take everything from us, and there will be nothing left. There’s nothing to stop them.”

His stomach clenched, but he didn’t let it show.

This was the truth. This was the essence of her world—of the world he was threading himself into with every calculated move.

He read for a few more moments before shutting the book softly, placing it back where it belonged. But the taste of the words lingered in his mind, and he kept them locked away.

The entire inspection had taken only minutes. But to Coriolanus, it felt like hours.

By the time he returned downstairs, Hazelle was standing by the fire, her face glowing in the amber light as she wiped her hands on her apron. She gave him an expectant look, but he only offered a polite smile.

“It seems you’re doing well here,” he said, masking the sharpness in his tone. “A few small issues here and there, but nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Hazelle smiled at him, too trusting, too eager to please. “Thank you, Coriolanus. I don’t know what we would do without you.”

He nodded, his eyes lingering on her for just a moment too long.

“We’ll keep it quiet for now,” he said, his voice almost conspiratorial. “But I’ll be back soon to check on things again. For your own good.”

“Of course,” she said, never questioning, never doubting. “Thank you. You’ve been a real help to us.”

He left the Everdeen home shortly after that, the day’s quiet events hanging in the air like smoke, thick and choking. Outside, the chill had settled in, but his mind was focused on the cracks in the walls, the corners of the home, the hidden places he knew so well now.

It wasn’t long before he’d wear down their resistance completely.

The following afternoon was quiet. The air was dry, crisp, and the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the landscape of District 12. Coriolanus had completed his routine patrols, his eyes always searching for the smallest hint of disobedience. His mind was preoccupied with plans—plans to secure his position, to tighten his hold on this district, on her.

He wasn’t expecting her.

It was by pure chance that he wandered out of the district’s borders that day. There was a narrow path behind the mine, a route he’d come to know well over the past few weeks. He had no reason to be there, no official inspection, but it was a part of his ever-expanding territory.

That’s when he saw her.

In the middle of the field, under the watchful eye of a fading sun, Y/N sat on the ground, a basket in her lap. She was hunched slightly, her eyes focused on the small creatures around her, moving softly, carefully. It was like a secret little world, tucked away from the rest of the district—a world where rabbits and wild animals could find solace in the quiet space she had claimed.

Her dark hair was loose, falling in waves down her back, slightly curling from the moisture of the morning rain. She didn’t hear him approach. The sound of the soft breeze and the rustling leaves masked the light crunch of his boots against the ground. It wasn’t until he was just behind her, standing near the edge of the tree line, that she turned, startled.

Her face shifted immediately, from calm neutrality to surprise. Her eyes, wide with sudden recognition, narrowed as she saw him. The change was instant. She didn’t have to say a word for him to know her thoughts. It was in the way her posture stiffened, the slight, almost imperceptible clenching of her jaw.

“Coriolanus,” she said, her voice low—almost forced, like she was willing herself not to show more disdain than she already had.

He stood a few feet away, smiling with the sort of half-amused arrogance that had become second nature to him. The breeze fluttered his uniform, and he stepped forward, his eyes never leaving her face. “What a charming little haven you’ve created out here, Y/N.”

She didn’t respond immediately, though her eyes flicked to the rabbits, the animals that had become her companions in this lonely stretch of land. Her eyes softened for just a second, but then they snapped back to him, her expression hardening.

“I didn’t think you’d be out here,” she remarked coolly, standing up, brushing the dirt from her skirt. “Don’t you have better things to do?”

Coriolanus chuckled softly, his gaze never leaving her. He knew what she was trying to do—trying to push him away with coldness, but he had learned by now that she was more fragile than she let on. “I always find time for the most interesting people,” he replied smoothly, walking closer.

She stepped back instinctively, her hand brushing against the basket of food she had been offering the rabbits. Her eyes darted between him and the small creatures, clearly wanting to retreat into her quiet sanctuary, but Coriolanus wasn’t ready to let her hide just yet.

He was too close now.

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice lower, as though a more intimate conversation were unfolding. “It’s dangerous to be alone out here, don’t you think?”

Y/N glanced over her shoulder, taking a step back toward the basket of food, but Coriolanus moved before she could get away. He caught her wrist with an almost casual grip, his fingers tightening just enough to draw her attention. She blinked, startled by the suddenness of the action, but he didn’t give her a chance to react.

With a single, controlled motion, he stepped closer, pushing her lightly against the rough trunk of a nearby tree. Her back hit the bark with a soft thud, and she froze, her breath hitching in surprise.

She blinked, eyes wide now, not expecting the physicality from him, and for a split second, she seemed… vulnerable. It was a rare glimpse into her world, one where she wasn’t in control, one where she wasn’t the fierce, self-assured woman he had come to know.

“I thought,” he began, his voice low and teasing, “that you didn’t want to see me. Yet here we are, alone. Again.”

Her breath was steady, but her heart raced. Her eyes flicked to the ground, and she tugged lightly against his grip, trying to pull away from the tree, but his body was pressed so close now, a barrier between her and escape.

“I don’t want you here,” she said with a defiant edge, but the words felt more like a defense than a statement of truth. She couldn’t deny the tension between them. She couldn’t pretend she wasn’t feeling it.

Coriolanus tilted his head, amused. “You don’t get to make that decision, Y/N.”

The words hung in the air like a challenge, and for a moment, she didn’t say anything. She only stared at him, her pulse quickening under the weight of his gaze.

He didn’t let go of her wrist, though his grip loosened slightly, enough to allow her to move if she truly wanted to. He wasn’t worried. He knew she wouldn’t run. Not now.

“I’m just trying to get to know you better,” he added softly, as though there were nothing sinister about his presence. “It’s not a crime to enjoy each other’s company, is it?”

Y/N’s eyes flashed with a mix of anger and confusion, but there was a brief, flickering hesitation in her eyes—a conflict he could almost taste. It made her that much more fascinating. She didn’t want him there, didn’t want to admit that he had this hold over her, but the longer he stayed, the harder it would be for her to resist.

With a small, almost invisible sigh, Coriolanus finally let go of her wrist, taking a small step back, though his eyes remained fixed on hers. He smirked, enjoying the quiet tension that lingered between them, the way she refused to back down, even though he knew she was close to breaking.

“I’ll be seeing you around, Y/N,” he said softly, his voice a low murmur that only added to the weight of the moment.

He turned and left, his boots crunching against the dry earth as he walked away.

But as he disappeared from her sight, a lingering feeling settled in the pit of Y/N’s stomach. It wasn’t just the memory of his touch, or the way his presence had thrown her off balance. It was the realization that Coriolanus Snow wasn’t the kind of man to let anything—or anyone—go easily.

[batsplat]

thought of a prompt that might be fun for you:) assign any motogp riders of your choice (or maybe even entire rivalries if you want) a classical piece of music

ahaha anon not only would this be fun for me - this is something I have put enough thought into that I already have notes for several of these and like... an entire quite long spotify playlist for classical music that reminds me of casey specifically. I'm going to go for quality over quantity here and give you one pick each for three rivalries. none of these picks are... the height of originality and I'm sure they might feel a bit hackneyed to the connoisseur lol. but well, sometimes pieces are popular for a reason

first off, the sete/valentino rivalry. this pick also works for valentino's arc in general 2003-04, but it fits particularly well to this rivalry

berlioz! the unorthodox rebel, the ambitious and controversial revolutionary. a delightful curiosity to his experimentation, an eccentricity and willingness to push the bounds of what was acceptable in his music - as well as a certain enjoyment of the macabre

berlioz as a composer gives me valentino vibes in general and I could have gone for another work here ('damnation of faust' has obvious relevancy to the sete/valentino situation) - but here I've opted for one of berlioz's most well-known works. his symphonie fantastique. the video above should start at the fifth and last movement, 'dream of a witches' sabbath', which is the most weird and fun and works so well for the sete/vale rivalry. however, I'd definitely encourage you to listen to the whole thing - if nothing else, to hear the innocent version of the melody that eventually is so perverted

the symphonie fantastique is a piece of program music, which means it uses solely instrumental music to tell the listener a story. in this case, it's a (loosely autobiographical) story of a bloke who falls desperately in love with a woman and does some opium before eventually ending up at a witches' orgy, where the woman he's in love with is having a lovely time. here's a slightly better summary:

the movements are tied together by an idée fixe - this recurring musical motif used as a way of representing the woman the artist is in love with, the object of obsession... a melody he hears everywhere he goes. the first movement starts so gently, with so much promise - daydreams, passions as the artist first lays eyes on his love. which is how, after a long slow build-up, the idée fixe is introduced: sweet and brightly romantic. light and breezy - but also with a real passion injected in its wake. it livens up the music with its presence. the next movement, a waltz, followed by a third gentle pastoral movement. and then, the dream is transformed into a nightmare with the fourth movement's 'march to the scaffold' as the artist poisons himself and suffers from hallucinations. has he killed his lover? perhaps by being responsible for her receiving a back-of-the-grid penalty? or was it all just an illusion? and then, finally, comes the infamous witches' sabbath. here is berlioz's description of the fifth movement:

in a way, it's almost cheating using a piece of music that directly tells a story. but, well, how can you resist! the story of sete and valentino is the story of a friendship twisted by rivalry, of an innocent camaraderie turned sour - until from one day to the next, sete turned around to look at someone he was so insistent was a 'good man' and could no longer see his friend at all. perhaps a monster. perhaps a witch

the whole thing is fittingly gothic for sete/vale. who doesn't love a good witch's curse, right. again, I would recommend the whole thing - in particular the fourth movement where the artist is marched to his grave - but for now we're focusing on the fifth movement. by this point, the 'beloved melody' of the previous movements (the idée fixe) has been twisted, perverted. no longer is it 'noble' or 'shy'... it enters the movement as a silly, jaunty tune that almost immediately manages to summon the entire orchestral hordes of hell upon the listener's head. silly, yes, but capable of remarkable feats of malice - as it cheerily ushers in the funeral bells. valentino's journey from 2003 to 2004 is a form of self-actualisation, leaving honda to strike his own path and control his destiny. to sete, by the end he has been transformed - gone is the cheerful friend, now sete has to deal with the monster. valentino had already shown prior to 2004 that he was capable of both joy and cruelty, but here he marries the two: he uses his silly little celebrations to directly mock and humiliate sete. the face of the artist's lover might remain the same, but now she joins the diabolical orgy to roars of delight. maybe she even leads it

listen to the music, to its whimsy - the imitation of laughter, the 'strange sounds', disjointed, until the idée fixe comes through. in all its energy, that jaunty jig... you can hear something a little mocking in that, how it cannot even take its macabre surroundings seriously. cheerily chaotic, wild in its unrestrained swing. brimming with malice. the ominous chime of the funeral bells... and yet you never quite lose the frenetic, silly energy that keeps the piece moving. the curse strikes, sete's career dies a painful death and the music keeps flowing. the crescendo to reach the depths of hell is both violent and triumphant... depending on whether you are the artist or the witch. there is a pleasing surrealism to this musical landscape that suits the sete/vale rivalry. like that rivalry, it starts in what feels like a normal place but becomes far more bizarre, more cruel - strange and sudden enough it really must have felt to sete like he had suddenly been trapped in a nightmare. he thought he had known the rules of engagement. he had been wrong

berlioz was hardly a universally beloved composer - with one contemporary describing his music as 'the work of a tipsy chimpanzee'. some other remarks:

isn't there something compelling about that willingness to dispense with self-seriousness? berlioz might have been clownish but at least he was doing something interesting. this is a pick that suits valentino because berlioz suits valentino. there is a power to whimsy that berlioz embraced - and sometimes, genius is more important than talent. berlioz's idée fixe becomes no less beautiful for the corruption it undergoes over the course of the symphonie fantastique. and what's so wrong about witches' orgies anyway?

moving on to valentino/casey. I do feel like this is a. very basic pick. but I'm SORRY I do associate it with them, sue me

you can't go wrong with beethoven, can you. and for these two... a proper duet is only right. so we're going for beethoven's ninth violin sonata, the famous kreutzer sonata. specifically the first movement, and if you only listen to one movement then make it that one - but as above, of course I'd recommend listening to the whole work

said first movement starts out gently enough, two voices testing each other out before they lock horns. soon enough the music develops into a ferocious competition between the violin and the piano, both vying for supremacy. you may note that this piece is called a violin sonata and you'd really expect the piano to have more of an accompanying role - but instead the two parts are unusually well-balanced, both giving as good as they get. fitting! whichever way round you want to play it... perhaps it's all about casey refusing to accept his role as a background character in motogp, as anything other than the protagonist. announcing his arrival to the top of the sport in fiercely determined fashion at the start of 2007 and refusing to budge since then. or perhaps it's about valentino not accepting the role of second fiddle to his hungry young challenger - he will not countenance being replaced just yet. this is a rivalry about defiance. this piece is plenty defiant

the kreutzer sonata also happens to have a troubled composition history, which adds rather nicely to how well this piece fits the pair of them on a meta-level. here's a piece on the topic that details how beethoven initially composed the piece for a lovely new violinist friend who he then fell out with --

-- except kreutzer, the guy beethoven then dedicated the sonata to, fucking HATED the piece and never played it (hey, look, there's berlioz again) --

-- and I'm sorry. I'm not assigning anyone specific characters here, but this story just has a vale/casey vibe somehow. the pettiness of it all... there's something of casey in beethoven's temper - a heartfelt dedication removed after a quarrel, a championship shirt that bears valentino's name before casey furiously disavows him. but you can also find hints of casey in kreutzer's unimpressed dismissal... a man who saw one of beethoven's most beloved works as amateurish and didn't deign to play it himself. except now he's stuck forevermore with his name associated with that piece - something poetic about that, isn't there? we've got some proper characters here

another thing that works on a meta level: the first movement really is the best. I like the other movements just fine - but (as the piece I linked to details) the three movements feel disconnected, with beethoven semi-plagiarising himself for the third and using a half-finished sketch for the second because he was rushing for a deadline. the casey/vale rivalry peters out pretty sharpish after 2008 for various reasons - which gives you that slightly frustrated feel that the narrative arc which reached its climax at laguna 2008 was never quite completed. there's still a loping grace to the latter two movements... the gentle, near playful ribbing of the second - not absent of tension - that meanders delicately to a conclusion... the manic energy of the third, neither party willing to relent as they continue to trade blows - vivacious in its chaos. just like the abysmal bickering of vale/casey's 2010-12 dynamic, it lacks the narrative genius of the first act... but it's not without its merits. at the very least, it's plenty of fun

one more bit of the work's history worth bringing up - the tolstoy short story about a guy who kills his wife because of how she performed the kreutzer sonata with another man

so, as you see, it's so powerful a piece you could kill someone over it. that's how closely the work connects the two duellists - it's a passion and an intimacy formed in close combat. a unique bond between the two performers... if they are perfectly matched, there's nothing quite like the magic they can produce

and it's that daring, suspenseful beauty to the first movement that so evokes this specific rivalry. two voices testing each other every step of the way - the broiling tension of the first few exchanges preceding the explosion of bright noise and colour. when the music builds into a furious contest, think about laguna in valentino's determination and casey's rage and their mutual refusal to yield to the other. this is stubborn music. neither party can ever back down. and the thing about violins, they sure can yearn. for all its antagonism, perhaps the voice of the violin is longing for something unattainable... something impossible. casey never entirely got over his early hero worship of valentino - he might have hated valentino, but he never could quite stop himself from liking him. even as the violin challenges the piano - the pluck of the strings in feisty counterpoint to the voice that should have been its accompaniment - it would be impossible to conceal the emotional depths of the violin's cry. it's a duet that mixes aggression and melancholy and hope... it wouldn't be anywhere close to as compelling if it were just one thing

this duet needs true equals who manage to both compete and compliment each other. both parts play fully realised melodies beautiful in isolation that together still manage to be more than the sum of their parts - because sometimes, rivalry makes both sides better. sometimes it is only by hearing both voices that their brilliance can be truly appreciated. sometimes both sides push each other to new heights because that's the only way they can keep up with each other. the kreutzer is defiant - but it is also endlessly demanding. and it will not allow either side to let up

last but not least, a piece for the marc/valentino rivalry

here, we go to sibelius and his violin concerto in d minor - the only concerto he ever composed, one of a kind and thus impossible to take for granted. again, my recommendation for the purposes of this post is the first movement - and again I'd encourage you to listen to the complete piece. hey, did you know that sibelius had to give up on his dreams to be a violinist in his twenties due to a shoulder injury? perhaps that explains why he wanted to compose a piece for a true virtuoso... a piece that throws the hardest stuff you can possibly demand at the violinist and then some. it requires a dazzling technical mastery of the violinist - one voice that stands out clearly against the full might of the orchestra

this is another work with a troubled history. its composition followed a difficult period for sibelius (who suffered from depression and alcoholism for much of his life) - he composed this concerto once he'd picked himself up from rock bottom

the concerto was originally dedicated to violinist burmester who was supposed to play it for the premiere in berlin... but in the end, the premier was in helsinki - making use of a violin teacher instead who supposedly played the piece poorly, and the first performance was not a success. sibelius heavily revised the piece. when the berlin premiere eventually happened, burmester apparently got offended by them using someone else (from andrew barnett's book about sibelius):

in danger of over-exposure, eh

speaking of that young hungarian violinist: he wasn't just 'young' he was really young. a proper child prodigy

so then, a piece sibelius was himself not able to perform, with the leading role granted to a child prodigy. you see where I'm going with this... perhaps there's something appropriate to marc following the notes that valentino had already penned, right. the marc/valentino rivalry is inevitably heavily preoccupied with the frailties of ageing, with the existential agony caused by loss of youth, yearning after what was once possible and will never be again. it is a rivalry of sliding doors - an age gap that should have been to immense to allow for competition at all, its very existence was improbable. the sliding doors just about made it possible for them to fight but also made that fight limited... it was too late for valentino to compete fully against marc. but sibelius never lost his love for the violin and found new ways of expressing that love - and valentino, too, can never walk away entirely from motogp

the first movement starts off with an achingly romantic violin melody. it has such heart and such vigour, it captures the attention, it is alone at the top - but eventually the second melody sets in, darker, brooding, as the tension builds. the music is caught between the soaring heights of what could be and the creeping horror of what will come to pass. the orchestra heralds the storm clouds as they begin to encroach upon the scene... eventually, the movement reaches its climax as the violin cries out, by itself, in the cadenza. even as the violinist recaptures the initial romantic melody in the midst of a frenzied display of technical mastery and excess, the melancholy of the movement's ending feels inevitable

the marc/vale rivalry is narratively structured like a tragedy - one that feels both inevitable on a grand scale but deeply avoidable in its specifics. a conflict that both felt like it had to happen but didn't need to happen like that. this music is uncompromising as it reaches that very same conclusion... it never loses its heart even as it descends into fury. the second movement that follows it is slower, sad and poignant, the aftermath of the sorrow - while the third is warmer, more energetic, a flurry of the violinist to show off every virtuoso skill imaginable in service of some chance at emotional release. blindingly brilliant

one thing about sibelius - he's very effective at establishing a mood. at setting the tone. he's got the drama, he's got the terseness, he knows how to stress you out and make you sit with that tension. and really, that's what the marc/valentino rivalry is all about... something that lingers. an open wound. the genius of the composer and the virtuosity of the violinist come together to provide a way of expressing that lasting pain. the result is uncompromising from start to finish

[letthemkook]

Soulstitch K.TH

Pairing: Kim Taehyung x Reader

Genre: Dystopian, Angst, Tragedy, Slow Burn

Word Count: ~2000

Tone: Gentle, Emotional, Devastating

Warning: Very Sad, Themes of Death

Intro: He promised to protect you when the world fell apart. And he kept that promise. Quietly, completely, piece by piece.

—————

note: this piece took a lot out of me i was lowkey thinking like omfg there’s something wrong with me while writing this. Lmk what you think:) and hope you like it <3

You were ten when the world fell apart.

They called it The Divide—the moment when cities cracked open and humanity was split into those who had control, and those who didn’t. Those in the Core kept power, warmth, and medicine. Those on the Edge—like you—got nothing but cold and hunger and silence.

But you weren’t alone.

You had Taehyung.

He was eleven. Just a year older. But to you, he felt like a shield. A wall against the wind. Someone who always knew which corners to sleep in so you wouldn’t be caught by the roving tax enforcers. Someone who knew how to break into the vending machines with just a sliver of wire.

He made you laugh when you cried.

He held your hand when you screamed.

————-

The Divide wasn’t one day. It was a thousand little collapses. First the power grid. Then the water. Then the food lines that stretched for blocks, then snapped like brittle wire. By the time the government pulled out, the walls had already gone up—splitting what was left of the Core from the rest of the world.

And in the Edge Zones, where no maps reached and no rules remained, you were just another mouth.

Another orphan.

Another nobody.

Except to him.

Taehyung found you digging through the ruins of a ration house, your fingers raw and bloody from scraping concrete. You didn’t look up when he spoke. You were used to being chased off. Hit. Ignored.

But he didn’t do any of that.

Instead, he crouched beside you and offered half a protein wafer.

“I’m not hungry,” he lied.

You looked at him then. Skinny. Dirty. Smiling like someone who didn’t know what the world had become—or maybe did and chose to smile anyway.

You took the wafer.

He sat beside you in silence, chewing the other half with solemn ceremony.

“My name’s Taehyung,” he said eventually.

You didn’t answer.

He waited.

“Fine,” he shrugged. “You don’t have to tell me yours. I’ll just call you… ’Sunspot.’”

You scowled. “That’s not a name.”

He grinned. “It is now.”

That night, he led you to the place he called home: an old commuter station buried beneath ash and rubble. He’d turned it into a shelter. One generator. One water purifier. Two blankets.

And he gave you both.

“You’ll freeze,” you protested.

He rolled his eyes. “Nah. I run warm.”

You weren’t sure if it was kindness or stupidity. Probably both.

But for the first time since the world ended, you slept.

⸻

The next morning, he drew a map in the dust.

“These are the barter posts,” he explained. “Here’s where the gangs run territory. Here’s where the old med unit is—what’s left of it, anyway.”

You stared at the careful lines, the way he marked safe zones, where the guards wouldn’t shoot, where the good wire could be scavenged.

“Why are you showing me this?”

He looked up. “Because you need to know how to survive.”

You bit your lip. “You said this is your shelter. You don’t even know me.”

He smiled again—quieter this time.

“I know enough.”

You didn’t trust him. Not completely. But that night, he wrapped a heat pad in fabric and tucked it into your blanket without saying a word.

You didn’t give the warmth back.

⸻

You lived like that for months.

Scraping. Scavenging. Avoiding patrols.

He taught you how to hide in plain sight.

You taught him how to climb broken scaffolding without breaking your neck.

And then, one day, you fell.

Not far. Just enough to split your palm open on rusted wire. The blood wouldn’t stop. You tried to pretend it didn’t hurt.

But Taehyung saw.

He carried you all the way back. Cleaned the wound. Boiled the water. Wrapped your hand in strips torn from his only shirt.

You hated the sting in your eyes.

“I’m fine,” you insisted.

He didn’t argue. Just placed a cracked bottle cap into your other palm. Inside, a single copper wire twisted into a loop.

“What is it?” you asked.

“A promise,” he said. “That I’ll take care of you.”

You frowned. “Why?”

He paused.

And then, with a softness that hit you harder than anything ever had, he said:

“Because someone has to.”

⸻

You wore the bottle cap loop around your neck after that.

And Taehyung never made you say thank you.

Because he didn’t do it for gratitude.

He did it because, somehow, in a world that had nothing left to give, he still believed in giving what little he had.

Even then.

Even as a boy.

Even before you knew what it would cost him.

—————

The years passed.

The world didn’t get better, but you and Taehyung got smarter. He became quick with his hands, good with tools. He could hack ration bands, siphon heat from old utility cores, make water filters out of scraps. He kept you fed, safe, hopeful.

You called him your miracle. He laughed and said he was just “resourceful.”

You grew into your limbs. Learned how to barter with your eyes, not your voice. Learned which metals traded best, how to stitch up your own skin, how to make a filter out of crushed charcoal and a broken air valve.

But no matter how much you changed, Taehyung stayed the same.

Not in the way he looked—he was taller now, leaner, with sharper angles and quiet eyes that didn’t miss anything. But in the way he treated you.

Like you still mattered.

Like you were still the soft, angry kid he found in the rubble all those years ago and promised to protect.

You tried not to need him as much. Tried to be strong. Fast. Useful.

But Taehyung never stopped giving you the better blanket. The last piece of bread. The cleanest corner of the shelter. Every night he ran until his lungs burned, trading with black-market tech salvagers, siphoning power, stitching up broken wiring for scraps.

And every morning, you’d wake up to something new.

A salvaged battery. A fresh can of tomatoes. Once, even a real orange—small and half-rotted, but still impossibly bright.

You stared at it in awe.

He shrugged. “Some Core kid must’ve dropped it.”

“You stole this from the Core?”

“I borrowed it permanently.”

“You’re insane.”

He grinned. “Maybe.”

You split the orange in half. He gave you the bigger piece.

You didn’t argue. You never did. Not then.

One night, you heard him coughing.

Sharp, wet, ugly.

You jolted awake and found him hunched outside the station, one hand pressed to the wall for balance.

“Tae?”

He waved you off. “Just dust.”

“Since when does dust make you bleed?”

You saw it then. The red on his sleeve. The way he couldn’t quite straighten his back.

“Tae,” you said again, your voice smaller now.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not—”

“I said I’m fine,” he snapped.

And the way he said it—it scared you more than the blood.

You didn’t push him that night. But the fear settled in your chest like a seed. You started watching him more closely. Noticed how his shoulders slumped when he thought you weren’t looking. How his hands trembled sometimes when he worked. How he flinched when cold rain hit his spine.

You told yourself it was just fatigue. The weather. The usual.

But you started setting aside your own food rations. You started stealing extra med kits from patrol routes. You started learning the backdoors to the Overflow Unit, just in case.

Because Taehyung would never ask for help.

And you were starting to realize that maybe—maybe—he never really stopped bleeding for you.

⸻

The day the fever hit you, he didn’t sleep.

You don’t remember most of it—just flashes. Taehyung’s hand on your forehead. His voice, raw from yelling your name. The sound of wind screaming outside the station, or maybe that was you.

When you finally woke up, everything smelled like burnt fabric and metal. Your throat felt like it had been scraped hollow.

Taehyung sat beside you. Pale. Shadowed. But smiling.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Still with me?”

You blinked. “What… what happened?”

“You got sick. Really sick. But I fixed it.”

You tried to sit up. He gently pushed you back.

“How?”

He hesitated.

“Don’t worry about it.”

You should have pressed him. Should have seen the hollowness under his eyes. Should have noticed the bruise on his arm, the thin line of IV marks that hadn’t been there before.

But you were too relieved. Too weak.

And he was so good at pretending.

⸻

You got better.

And he got quieter.

The cough never came back. But he stopped climbing with you on scavenging runs. Stopped taking the long routes. Started sleeping more—when he could. And when you asked if he was okay, he always smiled the same way.

Like he wanted to believe it.

Like he needed you to believe it.

You thought you had time to ask.

To figure out what he was hiding.

To pay him back.

But the thing about slow deaths is… you don’t see the edge until you’re already over it.

——-

Winter in the Edge Zones didn’t announce itself. It didn’t creep in gently or turn the leaves. It struck like a warning shot—an airless, brutal silence that stole warmth from your lungs and color from the world.

The frost came early that year.

And with it, something else: desperation.

People began to vanish. The barter markets closed. Gangs stopped patrolling—not because they were gone, but because they’d moved deeper into the shelters, into homes, into corners where they could take more without being seen.

You and Taehyung stopped leaving the station after sundown.

He reinforced the doors with melted pipe casings and steel mesh. Rewired the solar battery packs. Taped the windows. But it was never enough. Nothing was ever enough in a place that kept taking.

“We need to leave,” you said one night, your breath fogging in front of your face. “Find somewhere warmer. Somewhere with food.”

“We can’t,” Taehyung said without looking up. He was soldering wire to a circuit board with shaking fingers. “The next safe zone is three days away. You wouldn’t make it.”

“I wouldn’t?”

He hesitated.

“You wouldn’t let me.”

You both froze.

And then he laughed—dry, too quiet. “Guess I’m not subtle anymore.”

You sat beside him, pulling the frayed blanket tighter around your shoulders. “You think I don’t notice? You limp. You flinch. You go pale every time we pass a Core drone.”

“I’m just tired,” he said.

“You’re always tired.”

“I’ll rest when you’re safe.”

You didn’t say anything after that.

Because you didn’t know how to argue with someone who’d already decided you were worth more than himself.

————-

You never noticed when his jacket changed.

You thought it was a new patch—some salvage find from an abandoned supply drop. You didn’t realize he’d sold his own to buy antibiotics when your lungs started to go bad.

You never asked why his hands shook sometimes, even when it wasn’t cold.

You thought it was the weather.

You didn’t know he’d sold plasma to the Core’s black market for months—because their scanners only accepted DNA from people still “viable,” and you weren’t. Not anymore. Not after the fever.

And you never asked why he walked with a limp after the winter ration riots.

He said he’d slipped on ice.

The truth was that he took a pipe to the leg when they came looking for people to conscript. He volunteered in your place. With a smile. With your name still carved in the inside of his boot.

⸻

You didn’t know.

Not until it was too late.

⸻

It started small.

He’d come home late, eyes foggy, lips pale. Said he was just tired. You made soup. He smiled.

But then one day, he didn’t come home at all.

You searched the sectors. Checked every burn clinic. Asked every contact. And finally—finally—you found him.

In the Overflow Unit. Sector 13.

The place they sent people after their bodies gave too much.

Taehyung lay on a cot surrounded by machines. Barely breathing. Skin drawn tight across bone. He looked like a shadow of the boy you once clung to during sandstorms.

“Tae?” you whispered, kneeling beside him.

His eyes fluttered open. The light in them was dim—but still warm. Always warm.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he murmured.

You clutched his hand. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He smiled weakly. “Because you still smile when you think we’re going to make it. I didn’t want to ruin that.”

Your chest shattered.

“You gave everything,” you whispered. “And I never saw—”

He cut you off gently. “No. I chose.”

And then, softer:

“I didn’t think I’d make it this far. Not really. But then you’d laugh, or braid your hair, or complain about stale protein packs like they were five-star meals, and I’d think—‘Yeah. One more day. I can give her that.’”

You sobbed into his chest, curled against a heart that had beat for you more than it ever beat for itself.

“Stay,” you begged. “Please. I’ll take care of you now.”

But he was already slipping.

“I don’t need you to take care of me,” he whispered, his voice barely air. “I just needed you to live.”

His fingers curled loosely into your palm.

“I’m not afraid,” he said. “I kept my promise.”

And then he was gone.

⸻

You buried him in the greenhouse sector—the one he once said smelled like “what dreams might’ve been.” You wore his old jacket, now patched and fraying. You carried the knife he gave you when you turned fifteen. You kept the pendant he made from salvaged wire and old Core glass.

And every time someone asked how you survived the Divide, you said only this:

“There was a boy who kept me whole. Until there was nothing left of him to give.”

And even in a world stripped of mercy, the name Taehyung became a quiet prayer.

The echo of someone who never stopped believing that love could outlast ruin.

————-

It was raining the day you returned to the shack where you and Taehyung spent most of your lives. The metal roof sang softly with the storm, like it remembered the way he used to hum under his breath whenever he was fixing something.

You weren’t sure why you came.

Maybe grief is a compass. Maybe it always leads you back to where you loved someone the most.

You wandered through the clutter—tools still hanging neatly, even now. His cot, still tucked in the corner. A small glass bottle filled with spare screws and notes. And then… you saw it.

His jacket.

The old one.

Not the one you buried him in—the one he stopped wearing the day he started bleeding for you in secret. The one with the inside pocket you’d always thought was stitched shut.

Your fingers trembled as you pried the seam open.

Inside was a folded scrap of synthpaper. Fragile. Soft from time.

You unfolded it, breath held.

His handwriting—looping, careful, familiar—spilled across the page.

Hope you never have to read this.

But if you are, it means I couldn’t keep the final promise.

I’m sorry.

Not for what I did. Never that.

I would give myself again. And again. And again.

You once told me I looked at you like you were the whole sky.

The truth is, you are.

I don’t know what kind of world you’ll have when I’m gone.

But if it ever hurts too much to move forward, take this jacket.

Put your hand over the left side. Feel it? That patch is made of three layers: one from your old blanket, one from my first ration card, and one from the shirt I wore the day I met you. It’s everything I was. All stitched in one place. So you remember.

You were always worth the sacrifice.

I just hope you never feel like you have to make one for someone else.

Live. Laugh. Complain about food. Fall in love again. Build something better.

And when the wind feels warm, that’s me. Still walking beside you.

I love you like no one has ever loved before, my Sunspot.

—Your Taehyung

[justinsentertainmentcorner]

Olivia Troye at Olivia Of Troye:

Just days ago, the Trump administration began issuing termination letters to dozens of arts organizations across the country, canceling grants already awarded by the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA). These weren’t future proposals. These were lifelines for projects already in motion, now abruptly cut off midstream. And suppose Trump's 2026 budget proposal succeeds. In that case, it won't stop there: the NEA and its sister agency, the National Endowment for the Humanities (NEH), will be eliminated entirely. This would dismantle an agency that has made over 128,000 grants totaling more than $5 billion since its founding in 1965, building cultural infrastructure in every corner of our nation. This is the next target in the administration's campaign to gut federal institutions, especially those that elevate diverse voices, foster independent thought, or build cultural connections. I spoke about this recently in The Guardian, where I shared concerns about the targeting and dismantling of our arts and humanities agencies, including the Kennedy Center. It's not just about dollars. It's ideological.

That said, let's talk dollars. Trump is now hosting a $2 million-per-ticket fundraiser at the Kennedy Center, during a performance of Les Misérables. Has he ever even seen the show? Does he know what the musical is actually about? Because the irony isn't lost on me. It reeks of a grift. Will any of the Kennedy Center’s musicians, programs, or staff ever see a dime of it? We've seen this “performance” before so to speak. (Jim Acosta and I discussed this Kennedy Center debacle on his Substack show.) Now, as the administration lays the groundwork to erase the NEA, familiar arguments are resurfacing, framing the agency as wasteful, unnecessary, or elitist. These are the same talking points used in past attempts to defund it. When you hear people use these, I’ve taken the time to dissect them for you, to better arm you in educating others in your local communities. Let’s break them down and see what they really mean.

Private philanthropy can fund the arts; we don't need the government.

But here’s the truth: NEA funding doesn’t displace private giving, it multiplies it. On average, every $1 in NEA grants generates about $9 in matching support, including local governments, private donors, and foundations. NEA backing acts as a national stamp of credibility, especially for smaller, rural, or experimental programs. It signals to others that this is worth investing in. If the NEA is removed, many of these projects will lose not just seed funding but also the confidence of other supporters. When the scaffolding is removed, entire ecosystems collapse. The free market will take care of the arts. That’s not how it works. The market rewards profitability, not purpose. The NEA & NEH aren’t funding box office blockbusters. They’re funding:

Ballet performances for children with autism and their families in Utah,

The Japanese American National Museum in Los Angeles, which highlights stories of resilience, civil rights, and community through art and education,

Women & Their Work in Texas, dedicated to promoting contemporary art by women,

Studio Two Three, a community art space and print studio, in Richmond, Virginia

And, the Military Healing Arts Network.

This is a very tiny snapshot of examples of programs they fund. These programs don't exist to turn a profit. They exist to serve people, foster healing, build identity, and preserve history. In some cases, the NEA is the only thing keeping them alive. And now, even veterans' art initiatives are being disrupted, despite claims that military communities would be a funding priority. The administration's elimination of the NEA's Challenge America program, historically supporting underserved groups, including veterans, has left organizations scrambling to survive.

The NEA is just for elites and coastal institutions.

Not even close. The NEA is not a playground for elites or coastal institutions. Over 40% of its funding goes to underserved and rural communities, often in states with little access to the arts. Recent programs like ArtsHERE have awarded $12.3 million to expand arts access in historically underserved communities. These aren’t elite programs. They’re lifelines.

They include:

A children’s theater in Lexington, Kentucky, that serves rural communities in its surrounding area.

An oral history and arts project in a town devastated by wildfires in Tennessee.

And how about this joint statement from six U.S. Regional Arts Organizations urging Congress to restore federal funding for the NEA? They emphasized that the abrupt termination of active and pending NEA grants and the proposed elimination of the agency in the FY2026 federal budget would devastate communities nationwide. The statement highlighted that the NEA is critical in broadening access to the cultural, educational, and economic benefits of the arts in every Congressional District, supporting thousands of communities, including 678 counties that private foundations do not reach. The NEA is one of the most equitable and efficient agencies we have. It spreads cultural investment across the country, amplifies community voices, and builds up the places too often left behind.

So if it’s not about the money, what is this really about? Control. The NEA costs little, just $200 million a year, or less than 0.004% of the federal budget. But it has something far more powerful: the ability to nurture stories that challenge authority, expose injustice, and imagine better futures. So if it’s not about the money, what is this really about? Control. The NEA costs little, just $200 million a year, or less than 0.004% of the federal budget. But it has something far more powerful: the ability to nurture stories that challenge authority, expose injustice, and imagine better futures.

Trump’s attacks on the National Endowment for the Arts and the National Endowment for the Humanities are a colossal insult to American pride.

See Also:

The Status Kuo (Jay Kuo): We Just Got Gutted

[solsticelosthermind]

hiiiii I’m here to bother and ask

I’m procrastinating my first long fic so how do you outline your fics? Like do you go start to finish or sections or what’s the vibe?

Lio my darling dove, I’m going to tell you right now that I am a Disaster first and foremost. And now I’m going to yell incoherently:

Shortish answer: My fics typically begin life as a Scene that kind of just. Unfolds in my head. Which means step one of any attempt to outline is literally a braindump stream-of-consciousness style, trying to get as much of that scene written as I can before it mysteriously vanishes, never to return. As a general rule I write in order, unless there’s something that Appears to me that needs to be written RIGHT NOW (but that goes in a sep doc for when I Get To That Point tbh because more often than not, I have to tweak it to fit what’s actually going on once I get there.) I typically have a very loose outline: I generally know where I’d like it to end, though sometimes figuring out where to start can be difficult, and there are definitely parts of the so-called outline that are variations of “lulz sure hope you have an idea by the time you get here bitch bc I don’t” I am also a chronic re-writer. I have been known to get stuck on a scene because something is WRONG and I’ll have to poke at a different wip for a day or two until I can untangle what’s wrong with the main one. I can’t skip past that snarl, my brain doesn’t work like that: every scene informs the one that comes next, so I need to have the prior scene written. It’s the scaffolding to continue building. A first draft is putting sand in a box. It’s telling yourself the story. It’ll never be as bad as the first time it’s written, and written is something I can fix, but Not Written means I can’t do anything about it. So. Write it. Get it out. Figure it out as it comes. Have a back up project to play with when you need a day to let it simmer.

Long answer: The very first inkling of Severed Space Bitten Time was actually a bunch of nonsense-crack I threw in a group chat for my own entertainment:

But this is more disjointed than usual because the concepts are a bit more highbrow than I typically start with. The initial braindump for Foregone Conclusion was literally the scene where Atsushi’s eavesdropping outside the infirmary door. I just. Threw it out as it appeared in my head and then, well. The next part is: Where do I want to go with this? What is the point? What is this scene about, and, thusly, what emotion or theme am I playing with today?

And for SSBT, the answer to that was, “I want them to merge into one being/accidental soulmates-via-becoming-spacetime-itself/Choosing to become exactly what the other one needs,” which meant I had to refresh myself on all the random physics I’ve picked up over the years first. It ended up looking like this:

notably, this is for the BEGINNING of the fic. Very rushed, very much just keeping track of the emotions and big moments, concepts being used. The doc for SSBT’s outline, once I took the time to neaten it up for my own sanity, is over 3k. However, when I started writing, all I had was this, some very very thin sketches for the middle (things like: protect akutagawa, build up to a full merge, hallucination maybe) and two different scenes for the ending that very much contradicted each other but helped me keep in mind what vibe I was striving to build up.

I no longer have the outline for Foregone Conclusion, but as evidenced by uhh 90% of my other wips, my outline is really just a series of bullet points I want to hit and roughly sketched out scenes as they come to me (learning that sometimes I had to let go of those points was very annoying. But. Y’know. Sometimes the point is good, but you can make the point better a different way. Sometimes it just doesn’t fit once it’s written.) And it’s literally just “Okay, we did X. Because of X, what should/could happen?” Or the reverse, if the scene I start with isn’t a beginning scene: how do I make this happen? What must have already happened to get HERE? Foregone’s eavesdropping was originally Dazai being a bitch about the coat. I skipped back a bit and went, why/how is atsushi hearing this and why doesn’t he just barge in? Turns out he was anxious and unsure, and he’d been trying to be sweet by getting something from the cafe. And hey, turns out Dazai didn’t want to be as bitchy about the coat as I started out either, but he DID want a minute without a hovering and protective weretiger. SSBT is kind of an outlier in that I took a a bit to pin down the beginning, because I spent so much time poking through the physics of… all the physics I never actually mention in the damn fic. The middle section’s notes are very brief and mostly a list of the enemy’s insane overpowered bullshit with potential ways to counter. Still angry about helicopter-gozen, tbh.

The first attempt at chapter five had stuff like this

This whole thing was culled because I realized quickly it just felt wrong tbh so I went and did a quick re-read of what’s been published; I plucked out the threads I want to tie off, the big emotions, the major changes, repeated lines, and once I had that in a list I said okay. As a reader, what would be the most satisfactory ending to this that doesn’t feel like a cop-out? And part of what I struggled with until literally last night was—my brain enjoys reading long involved fics. I want to be eyeballs deep at all times. Give me all the details. Break it down for me from five directions. I want to marinate in this story, please. So—I was setting up ch5 to ensure I had to write a ch6 and a ch7 and and and—and that’s not the kind of fic I set out for, this time. The story is about them becoming and accepting their unity: I told that part of the story already. I just need to give them a new beginning; I don’t need to write the ending to that new beginning too. I need to write this one in such a way that the reader knows whatever comes after my story, they’re okay. Very different parameters. While writing, I keep the most relevant bullet points in the same doc and literally just write above it, crossing off the points as I hit them or realize they’re better off elsewhere/useless after all. That’s why I tend to keep my chapters in separate documents within a single file. I’ve also got the main outline, which has all of the bullet points and self-rants in one very messy pile, usually a cull document for bits that dont fit but might be useful elsewhere… SSBT also has a doc for the divine being/fyodor’s attributes and abilities, breaking down the swords involved etc, and another to keep track of the terms I never used anyway.

Which is a very very long way to say: I’m very messy in the way I’ve pinned down that works best for me: stream of consciousness and the occasional bullet point that’s just cursing and “???” You could definitely pop into the ask box of folks like @/aurorahrt @/roadtripwithlucifer or @/acreeperinawhitevan (Lynnja) or @/lalaurelia (genmitsu) and ask them if they’ve got less insane systems, but be warned that both auroraheart and lynnja seem to possess a preternatural ability to just. Have an idea appear mostly from start to finish and then churn it out with terrifying speed lmao

[odditycircus-2002]

Medusa!Reader and Shang Tsung in Mortal Kombat 1 Story Mode Part 11

PREVIOUS

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Spoilers for Mortal Kombat 1 Storymode: Proceed with Caution

The first thing you did when you and your group were finally able to get a safe distance away from Ying's Fortress was punch Shang Tsung in the face and then Quan-chi.

"That's for your part in the Other Shang Tsung's plan!"

Jerrod has to physically hold you back from doing more to them before reminding you there is a more pressing problem. He promises that both Sorcerers will face justice when this crisis is averted. Jerrod's assurance is enough to placate your fury for now. Shang Tsung scowls deeply at the Emperor's words but, for once, doesn't say anything.

You then turn to look back toward the fortress, finding legions of stone warriors marching as one in a long line, similar to ants. You listen as others start speculating about the army and strategies to defeat them, along with Titan Shang Tsung and Titan Y/N. Until the Shang Tsung you know, comes up with a good question about more than one timeline. Although, you looked like you physically wanted to vomit when agreeing with the Sorcerer.

"As much as it pains me to say, Lord Lui Kang, Shang Tsung is actually ri- ... Not wrong to think like that. My Titan self mentioned a timeline of her own, meaning there has to be more than two timelines."

"Precisely. We lack strength, but we could find it in other timelines."

Lui Kang appears surprised by your argument before his expression takes on one of deep thought. This gets the ball rolling as everyone starts strategizing to gather allies from other timelines in an overwhelming opposing force against Titan Shang Tsung, including a plan for Lord Lui Kang to reclaim his Titan powers again. You just hope he’ll be able to do so in time.

Meanwhile, your Titan self conspires with Titan Shang Tsung while overwatching the construction of the Portals Nexus point. Titan Y/N instructs Shao to defend the portals at all costs, as Titan Shang Tsung commands Geras to find Lui Kang. Although Titan Shang Tsung expresses frustration toward Lui Kang’s development, Titan Y/N assures her husband that they will succeed, and when they do, watching Lui Kang suffer will be all the sweeter to savor.

”You always know how to brighten my mood, my love.”

Meanwhile, you were observing the Dragon Army with the rest of Earthrealm’s champions, regrouping with them to talk strategy in Lord Lui Kang’s absence. Kuai Liang tasks you as the field medic and air support.

You’re not ashamed to say that when both Shang Tsung and Quan-chin opened their mouths again, you were seconds away from biting them both. Again, Jerrod had to hold your shoulder to silently tell you to drop it for now.

With everyone’s role assigned, you take to the skies. Immediately, some stone soldiers spotted you and started hurling boulders towards you. You were barely able to dodge the barrage of the first one, and even then, you got scrapped and bruised. So not only did you have enemies on the ground to assist against, but you also had them in the air, so nowhere was truly safe. Fortunately, you could stop constructing a newer portal by dismantling the scaffolding.

While you were supposed to be general air support, you often found yourself having to assist both Raiden and the Sorcerers. Such as with a Darker Rain and Smoke, turning both of them to stone after Shang Tsung and Quan-chi defeats them.

”Thank you so much, sweet Y/N.”

”Don’t tempt me to cut out your tongue and force Quan-chi to eat it.”

You finally got to take out some of your fury on a Dark Shao, which you 100% enjoyed helping to beat down. The fact his life force was connected to the portals was just a bonus. Although, he almost caught you off guard when you went to tend to Raiden to heal up his fractured ribs. Luckily, and unfortunately, Shang Tsung and Quan-chi saved the young Earthrealmer just in time. You didn’t miss Shang Tsung’s flirtatious look as he walked to confront Dark Shao. As much as you wanted to end Shao, you knew you had to heal Raiden first and even more this time considering he took a lot of hammer blows.

Fortunately, both Sorcerers succeeded and took both Dark Shao and Reiko’s souls, stranding the Dragon Army within Earthrealm. Saving your timeline. However, your relief was soon replaced with irritation when Shang Tsung reminds you and Raiden about how he and Quan-chi risked their lives to save the realms.

”I have to agree with Raiden. What you did hear was simply cleaning up your own mess.”

However, there wasn't a time to squabble amongst yourself. Not when there was still the remaining Dragon Army to defeat.

...

Back with your Titan self, you accompanied your Titan husband to Lui Kang's Hourglass. You arrived flanked by either side of your minions, some Shang Tsung crafted explicitly in a way so they may be gifted to you.

”Titans fighting Titans? Now that’s something new.”

You comment in amusement when noticing that Lui Kang has found Titan allies while giving them all an unnerving smile. A shiver of anticipation goes down your spine when Titan Shang Tsung reiterates the new plan he told you earlier of annihilating Lui Kang's timeline from existence.

"Shall we begin the process, my flower?"

"Let us proceed, darling."

Both of you then released your minions onto Liu Kang and his allies to keep them occupied. Shang Tsung and you walk hand in hand toward Lui Kang's Hourglass, stopping when you're both close enough to combine your magic with your Kitana and Mileena. The cracking of glass ringing out like chiming bells in your ears. Of course, Lui Kang's ever-faithful servant, Geras, attempts to save the Hourglass with his own blast of magic.

You let out a hiss before directing some of your magic to Geras, just enough to gain his attention so he looks directly at your eyes. Your gaze worked like a charm to turn Geras into stone. However, before you can celebrate, the construct shedded the stone off him like dried mud. So you bare your fangs in frustration as you try again to turn him into stone, only for him to then unpetrify himself. This cycle repeats long enough for Lui Kang and his allies to band together and use their power to overpower you and Shang Tsung's attempt at destroying the Hourglass, simultaneously repairing the relic of any previous damage. The magic overwhelmed you both to the point you and your husband were brought to your knees.

"Dearest!"

You shout as your face morphs into one of concern, with your snakes slithering in his direction and hissing in your shared distress. Shang Tsung gives you an assuring look.

"I have survived worse."

You both supported one another back on your feet to retreat into your timeline with the rest of your defeated minions. You glare at the rest of your fellow Titans, who were wise enough to not even look your way. Which only frustrates you more.

"Shang Tsung, I believe it's about time we gather some new allies of our own."

"Agreed." A/N: Remember to like, reblog, or comment! We just got one or two posts left to go!😁😁😁😁

Playlist

“Redemption” by Besomorph and Coopex

“Bloody Mary” by Lady Gaga

“Fix You” by Danny Olson

[19thperson]

19th's Steam Next Fest Impressions Feb 2025 Edition - Day 1

Day 0

Played some demos today, but I was worn out enough that I don't feel fully confident in the actual writing of the impressions. Whatever though.

Monster Train 2

Aside from its floor system, the most unique and fun part of the original Monster Train was the fact that each run had the player choose two factions, like mixed color decks in Magic. I can't really gauge how it plays out here, because they only give you two factions here, no room to mix and match. Expected for a demo, but mildly frustrating.

They've added more to this game. the previous one was mostly "play cards and spells, then let character abilities and combat automatically play out." Here some units will have abilities that can be manually activated, with turn based cooldowns. You can now spend equipment on unit cards. You have floor cards that give special effects to individual floors. They've upped the complexity, but in my short time playing… It feels a lot less elegant. My mind might change as I get to grips with it, though.

Last one is that they're making this one more plotty. More characters with dialogue and character interactions between runs. And I can't really comment on it so far but… I don't think Monster Train needed this.

Creepy Redneck Dinosaur Mansion 3

Apparently this game has been a long running gag for Strange Scaffold, devs of El Paso Elsewhere, I Am Your Beast, and Clickholding. I am out of the loop of this specific joke though.

The game is a very loose parody of resident evil and survival horror games in general, in the form of a match 3 game. You come across a variety of obstacles, and each one you play a puzzle board to get resources to use skills to solve said obstacles. An interesting wrinkle is that after you make a match, whatever you're fighting gets a chance to match-3, so you not only need to get the symbols you need, but also try to starve out your opponent from getting the symbols they need. It also makes it harder to pull off multi-turn setups.

In between the match 3 matches is a simple text based exploration system, CYOA into different rooms and make different choices. Certain choices will unlock traits that will make new choices available in previous areas, so the devs call it a metroidvania even though it's…not. that?

Anyways, the team apparently has made a name for itself with it's writing, haven't played much of their output, but. That isn't on display here yet. Early on after dying once the protagonist realizes he's in a video game and a buggy as fuck one. And from there all the humor is gamer webcomic "isn't video game logic wacky" humor. The ability to go back with new traits is the protag exploring with "debug mode" on.

There is some mild intrigue with the very end of the demo, though, with the swerve that the protag learns his game is buggy because… it was cancelled. There's nothing for him anymore. And you could possibly go somewhere with that. I just hope they do so with a better set of jokes.

Detective Instinct: Farewell, My Beloved

Before anything else, I gotta say that I'm really digging this game's aesthetic. With it's chunky but detailed and expressive character sprites, but backrounds made with explicitly lower detail 3D, it screams original DS.

The interaction is the basic ADV-style "look at background to get bits of info and then run through every dialogue option with every character" that you get with phoenix wright investigation sections.

The plot of the game sounds interesting. During a cross country train ride, a woman disappears, and the protag and assistant duo seem to be the only ones who remember she actually existed. The plot of the demo… isn't much there. You don't even get on the train.

There is some intrigue. The game opening up with a man falling from a 5th story hotel room (and your player character getting falsely accused by the comic relief incompetent cop because he mixed up rooms 105 and 501). There's some fun interactions, like the eccentric detective letting tourists poke around a crime scene while all the other officers are sick of his shit or your weirdly excited co-traveler diving too enthusiastically into the opportunity, and it's all held up by great spritework, but you don't really get to solve anything.

So far, it's a game that runs solely on vibes. But the vibes are excellent.

Isopod

Like webbed before it, this game is a physics platformer starring realistic yet cute bugs in Australia. The biggest shifts are the move from 2d to 3d, and the inexplicable extra power moving from a laser to magnet powers.

The magnet is an equal parts blessing and curse. The name of the game is momentum, and aside from slopes the main tool to do this is using magnetic pull. When it works its incredible. But the game auto-targets what you're magnetizing to, and if you misjudge it, the closest magnet being behind you, you're whipped backwards and your momentum is killed. I'm not sure if it's a system issue or a skill issue.

I was frustrated with the demo's Koopa-the-Quick style race. The game asks you to run through gates, but their hitbox is relatively unforgiving, it's too easy to slip passed it when your momentum is high.

I wasn't able to finish this one due to time. I may revisit it, but for now I'll leave it as: Less intuitive than Webbed, but more potential. May need some polishing.

[xxxdragonfucker69xxx]

Hi! 10kDays has had a vice grip on my psyche for the last week or so, and I'm really excited to play the preview. However, I don't wanna make anyone else in my group GM this game just because I want to play it, so I'd like to try out the GMless mode of play, and so would they, but none of us have any experience with that style of game.

Is there any game you'd recommend we look at for a general picture of how you intend GMless play to work? I do own Ironsworn, which has a GMless mode, so if that jives with what you're intending that would be really convenient lmao.

Thanks for your time!

So there's a couple of thoughts i have here, starting with the shape of the game and the pieces of it that need different kinds and amounts of attention:

The game itself is kind of designed in three strands: courses, combat, and the Face game.

Courses are an adaptation of the Arc/quest mechanic from Jenna Moran's Glitch. I've found that they reduce the GM load hugely, for two reasons: you can roll up half an hour before game, ask "who wants to be in the spotlight, what does your quest say is happening in your life right now, and what needs to happen?", and drop something in. Connections and debts are also designed to give you improv prompts, and to a slightly lesser extent perspectives. The other benefit of Courses is that they move planning burden from "GM, night before game" to "player, whenever they want to think about their blorbo". So on a large-scale, "figure out what the campaign looks like" view, you can get away with improvising every session and just following your own character arcs. Likewise, the District moves and intentions are intended to give GMs an easy "i don't know what to do next" button, and the focuses of mask/gear/bell are intended to share around the responsibilities of worldbuilding. Ironsworn's oracles are another example of how to help outsource some of that decision-making, and it's the reason Appendix Yi is earmarked to be a million random tables. For more information on how oracles work, please google Jay Dragon's Sleepaway on your work computer (or at least read this Twitter thread from NightlingBug).

There are a couple story structures that are well suited to wuxia and this game. There's the Shaolin Soccer/shadowrunner/classic ttrpg setup where you are clearly a team, and there are enemy teams, and you are doing hijinks against them. But there's also a Jin Yong wuxia epic type thing where you have, let's say three or four PCs, and you're maybe nominally on the same side but you're clashing a lot and you're tied together by sworn and blood kinship and you keep running into each other. I think the most pared-down version of 10kdays you could run and still call it a full game is 3 players, characters living sort of far apart so they rarely run into each other, and interactions are 2 of the PCs clashing at a time while the 3rd player picks up any NPCs, throws in some District moves, etc. You could do a 2-player game but the kinds of interactions you could have would be severely limited, I think. The Face game of politicking and building support structures is kind of just... you two, face to face.

Now the problem on everyone's mind is fighting. It's attention-intensive, everyone's interested in it, and depending on your setup there can be loads of combatants that a GM would normally be expected to pilot. Again, there are a couple of scaffolds for trying to do this GMless. The sample Techniques in Appendix Jia come with combat tactics to make use of them, so any player can pick up an NPC combatant and figure out what they're going to do. Fight choreographing like this runs the pitfall of it feeling sort of bad to hurt your friends effectively, at least for some tables, but there is the incentive of hitting your friend's Bite highlight when you grab the corpo thug and bite them in the ass.

It is one of my mid-to-low priorities to create like algorithm type protocols for enemy fighters to run themselves, though that's still in the pipe dream phase. One thing I'm looking at here is Katabasis by Rathayibacter, which has a super cool system for easily lining up combatant actions, enemy or not). Maybe I'll end up with literal combat loop Turing machines or something.

There's one more option here which is to lean the other way -- to foreground the GM themselves being a player. I'm talking Ryuutama dragons, I'm talking Fellowship Overlords. Obviously I one hundred percent have not added this yet, and I'm not even set that I will, but it's definitely a tool I'm thinking of to help manage the wuxia/cyberpunk/other bullshit genre merger. If you went this way, it would look like picking a district -- secret note, each district is built to amplify a genre. Gongshan is made to focus on wuxia/the bell, Jiaotou is made to focus on cyber/the gear, Youzhou is made to focus on punk/the mask, Jingcai Xin is made to focus on court and courtroom politics, and Yuanhai is made to play Nezha Reborn. Pick a district that corresponds to the genre the GM is playing as, turn those Moves into Heroic/Humbling Moves and the landmarks/NPCs into Treasures and Connections, turn the Intentions into Skills. Now you can combine this with what I first talked about, sharing out cognitive load, and focus on playing as a district/genre. Is that meaningfully different from being a GM, who let's recall still counts as a player at the table? I'm a sicko who loves being a GM so I'm unqualified to comment, but try out any combination of these options and see how they take you.

[chromaticflare]

What the new signs and sigils in volume 12 probably do.

I can’t thank the WHA community enough for helping me with translating the spell info on volume 12’s bonus page. As of now, 7 people have sent and/or shared translations with me, and having so many sources to draw from really helped me to draw some meaningful conclusions. Here are my findings.

Findings From the Vapor Bubble

The sign underlined in blue had the same translation every time - "cooling.” It likely does exactly what the name implies; cooling stuff down. We'll just call it a cooling sign. I cannot tell you how long the spellmaking side of the fandom has been waiting for a canon way to make ice spells, and we FINALLY HAVE ONE!

Next, we have the sign underlined in red, which I got a few different translations for, including “gathering,” “collection,” and “assembly.” Based on these translations and the spell’s behavior/structure, it is likely that this sign allows spells to pull in and gather material from the surrounding area for the spell to then manipulate. I’ll be referring to it as a gather sign. Gather seems to share many similarities with collection, but gather's ability to pull in nearby material sets them apart, as collection can only absorb material either in contact with or very close to the spell.

Findings From the Pegasus Carriage

An important thing to note before we begin is that the pegasus carriage spell was first shown in Chap 1. Oftentimes, the closer you get to the start of WHA, the less ironed-out and consistent the magic system becomes. Many, MANY spells from the first 2 volumes (especially Vol 1) were retconned, changed, or replaced later on in the story. This spell is a great example of this.

We'll start off with the sigil underlined in green, which was consistently translated as being a "wind" sigil. We actually already knew prior to this that it behaves very similarly to a typical wind sigil based on its behavior in Chap 1, the only chapter it was ever shown in. Within this chapter, it was drawn on both the pegasus carriage and on Qifrey's sylph shoes. By Chap 3, Pg 2, the modern wind sigil had made its first appearance, and by Chap 4, Pg 2, the sylph shoe spell was changed to its modern form, directly retconning this sigil's inclusion within the spell. For all intents and purposes, the sigil seemed retconned, until now. I am unsure why Shirahama chose to bring this sigil back, but I doubt we'll be seeing it anytime soon. Let's call it the old wind sigil.

Next up we have the sign underlined in yellow, which was always translated as "gas." Literally no one knows what this is supposed to mean. However, we actually know this sign and its effects, as it is part of the wind sigil. When wind sigils have this bad boy (which we'll call gas), it makes them manipulate the air nearby. Aeroform sigils have a different sign in place of gas which makes them generate air instead.

Next up we have the sign underlined in purple, which was translated as "whirlwind." It made it's only appearance on the pegasus carriage Chap 1, and appears to be made of modified old wind sigils. That is literally all I know about it. It makes spinning air, I guess? I have zero evidence for this outside the name, so I'll just call it whirlwind. This one gets a big fat IDK.

Next we have the sigil underlined in blue, Wind Underfoot (it already had a name). We already suspected that it creates a wind platform below the spell capable of supporting weight, and all the translations we got (“wind with a foothold seal,” “scaffold-like wind,” and “underfoot wind”) seem to support this idea.

Lastly, we have the two glyphs underlined in red (which do the same thing), translated as "stabilize" and "balance." You might notice that both are float signs. Why would a float sign "stabilize?" Well, after going over it with three of my fellow magic system "experts," we managed to figure it out. Previously, we thought that what float did was make things ignore gravity, but this isn't the case. Instead, float causes the spell and what it manipulates to try and maintain or "stabilize" it's current altitude. We aren't sure weather this is in relation to absolute altitude or the surface below the object or spell, but the idea holds true for the floatglow lamp spell, the carriage spell, and the spell that Beldaruit used to dig up the ground that one time (it's a spoiler if I detail any more). If the official release of Vol 12 matches the translations, we may just have to rewrite everything we know about this sign.

I'm not even done with this post, I still have two more spells to go over, but at this point I've been writing for over an hour. I'll come back to this later and complete it.

Credits

Twitter

@acelessx (translation)

@Bonis_Kkha (spell analysis)

@hypomanix (translation)

@merchantarthurn (translation, scans)

@Okay668 (spell analysis)

Tumblr

@chromaticflare (writing, spell analysis)

@kirbypoyopoyo (translation)

@romistery (spell analysis)

@wild-icarus (translation)

Discord

crayoni#7716 (translation)

sora.haneul#4273 (translation)

@tulipweed (translation)

[dearlyd3parted]

the bed wars hacker (˚0˚)!!- 01 chat he's hacking (written parts)

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋

the stream starts, viewers and donors already going up, as the thousands of viewers start to flow in. yn is smiling in her usual streaming place, a cozy background behind her as she adjusts her headphones and sakuya is connected into the stream.

y/n: "hi guys!" -reading the chat as it goes by, when sakuya connects smiling into the camera- "saku!! hi!!"

sakuya: (waves to camera) "hi ynnie and ynniecraft! it's been so long since i've been guest by myself!"

chat:

randomfan1: THEY ARE SO CUTE IM IN TEARS

mincraftluvr donated $5

randomfan2: WE ARE SOOOO BACK

randomfan3: ARE THEY STARTING SOON?

★gojofanboy gained top donor title!

randomfan4: GOJO FAN BOY ALREADY TOP DONOR IM CRYING

y/n: "saku, i think it needs to be like this more often. your brother causes too much uproar when he's here. i asked him if he wanted to join but he rejected me pretty hard..."

sakuya: "is it because i'm here? how mean..." -sakuya pouts, his eyebrows furrowing a bit- "i'll have to confront him for that..." -sakuya says with a small grin-

y/n: -you stare at him a little intrigued, slightly concerned before laughing it off. "okay...! let's join hypixel, yeah?"

you both join a server, making your ways into bed wars duos, where the both of you will be competing against other teams of two. a few eager fans trickle in who join in hopes of competing against you, but nonetheless it's looking to be a fun stream. especially when you and sakuya get assigned the color pink and get reasonably excited about it.

the game begins, with you and sakuya splitting up. his goal is to protect your own pink bed, while yours is to destroy other team's beds to eliminate them from the game.

as the game begins you make your way through the map, fighting with opposing teams and taking out beds as usual, commenting back and forth with sakuya.

that is until you see a player from the green team fall from their island, all on their lonesome.

"um...someone's new here...," you say through giggles to sakuya. watching from the distance as the player regenerates.

the player, penguinkai, as his gamertag reads runs straight out of his base, equipped with a mere wooden sword as they still make their way to you regardless. you watch in a mixture of shock and amusement as they slowly build a bridge over to you, falling a few more times in the process, and it's clear to you they have never played bed wars, or possibly, minecraft in general.

"it's like he doesn't even know how to jump!" you tell sakuya, deciding to have fun with it as opposing teams kept themselves busy in eliminating each other.

penguinkai finally reaches you, but misses almost every hit as you take him out, and you continue to kill him for nearly the next 5 minutes (but mostly, he's taking out himself, somehow giving you his own sward in the process). your live chat finds it as entertaining as you slowly close in on him, all his efforts to stop you going in vain.

with his teammate fighting with another team, his green bed is left defenseless in his care. you're about to start to break into the protecting blocks surrounding it, when penguinkai regenerates again, but this time he returns with armor and a weapon and...he kills you?

you are brought back to your base, and stare in confusion at the webcam, sakuya noticing that you had died for the first time in the whole match. "ynnie...what happened?" he questions with a shock in his voice.

"the noob that sucks, he...killed me?" you say, gathering items and running back to the green base only to find penguinkai has managed to rack up a few kills, and is now holding a much better sword in his hand, even using a scaffolding a method to bridge over to you much faster.

for the next few minutes, a battle unfolds between the two of you, with penguinkai not letting you get close. somehow, the player who could hardly jump or walk properly, was using techniques that took you time to master when you first started playing. and it was hurting your ego knowing all your viewers were seeing it. it is then that you finally look closely at his ranking, and discover he has an amethyst prestige, levels 900-999...only one rank under you. the gears instantly align in your head as you speak.

"chat...is he hacking?"

sakuya immediately gasps, and the chat bursts into an agreement as the battle continues. after a bit more, you are able to break into his base, and eliminate his bed, eliminating the green team from the game.

you quickly move on to fight with the only remaining team, leading to a win for you and sakuya. but for some reason, it tasted sour knowing you almost lost it to an alleged hacker. you and sakuya started running over the match, all the signs leading to him being a hacker.

"that was so embarrasing," you say with a sheepish smile, "one minute i was saying he sucks and then he actually kills me. even if it was only once."

sakuya nods, the chat still blowing up. "players like him always get banned eventually, we'll have to look into him after stream."

the stream continued, but the buzz of the hacker never died down and you had a feeling that it wasn't the last you'd be hearing of penguinkai.

______________⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ⋆_______________

soobin watched as the server number was leaked for the night's stream, and he had a sinister, sinister, idea.

normally, his best friend/roommate/minecraft addict, huening kai, would never let him play any online minecraft game. seeing one of his favorite streamers play it always made him want to as well, but kai claimed it was too difficult and soobin wasn't ready considering he could barely handle survival mode (with cheats on), and kai's answer never changed despite any begs.

before he knew it, he was up and in kai's room opening minecraft on his pc and typing in the server number. kai not being home yet was the perfect opportunity, and truly, how hard could it be?

he managed to be lucky enough to get in, and as the game began, he waited anxiously, reminding himself what the W A S D keys did, and pulling up the ynniecraft stream on the second monitor.

low and behold, it was that difficult. not only was the map and all its details foreign to him, playing the game as good as he watches you doing it proved to be a lot more complicated than it appeared on stream. his other teammate was nowhere to be found as soobin fumbled around in the base, no clue where to begin as his heart raced at the thought of you being in the same map, but his heart really raced when he heard you laugh at someone falling off the map and turned to the stream to find his base in view.

he swallowed his fears and figured this was his chance to play with his favorite streamer as well as impress you. using some building blocks and a wooden sword, he prepared to go to battle, hoping to at least get one hit in but...a manslaughter ensued. every key he pressed did the exact opposite of what he wanted to do, and it was so damn difficult to not fall off the map.

he became a sweating, focused, mess as he tried his best, listening to your quips and bickers about him, not even daring to read through the chat. he hadn't even noticed how long he had been playing until.

"soobin! what are you doing?!" kai asked as he burst inside his room.

soobin backed away from the computer, his chair getting pulled back as kai watched his monitors in horror. "i...she was playing bed wars, i wanted to join..." soobin confessed.

kai's face went pale as he looked at the viewer count, a total of 400,000+ watching the twitch stream. "oh god, don't tell me that many people have been watching you get murdered on MY account..." kai dreadfully said, his eyes trailing back to soobin.

"i didn't know it was that hard!" soobin said as kai pulled him from the chair, sitting down to start playing himself. "i'm sorry! it's not that bad!"

"maybe not that bad for you, people think this is me!" kai said. quickly taking control of the game and managing to barely protect the bed in time.

they both watched in silence, a thick tension in the room before your voice broke through...."chat, is he hacking?," and it was all it took for kai to look at soobin with a dark expression.

none of them could say much, but eventually you beat kai, listening to the entire conversation that followed before moving onto the next game, before kai finally turned around in his chair to look at soobin white as a ghost.

"choi soobin, i'm gonna kill you."

______________⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ⋆_______________

[wooliguns]

Act VI: Love Under Siege

The days pass in a long, dozing smear, each hour a watercolor bleeding into the next, dull as the sound of rain on rusted gutters. Kinich shuffles through the motions of school life, a marionette with tangled strings: the lectures blur into a single incoherent hum, a chorus of gnats at his ears, while the clock’s hands seem to spin only out of spite. He scribbles notes, doodles nonsense, and thinks, always, of Scaramouche.

The first week, he drags his carcass to ancient history, dodging group presentations with the deftness of a cat in a burning house. The second finds him entombed in the library, the zephyr rich with the scent of aging paper and something bitterly human—regret, perhaps. His friends swarm around him; birds drunk on fermented berries, laughing about dance-offs and cooking class disasters, but it all trickles past him, thin and insubstantial.

He plays their games. ‘Sneak and Scream,’ ‘Extreme Charades,’ some godawful relay race involving water balloons and trust exercises—he plays. He laughs at the appropriate moments. He performs. But behind every hollow smile is that image of Scaramouche: the ruined mouth, the shattered silence, the raw red brimming at the corners of his gelid eyes.

How is it possible, Kinich wonders, for something so breathtaking to look so utterly destroyed?

And worse—what kind of idiot imagines himself capable of salvaging ruins?

“Earth to Kinich!” Furina’s voice hacks through his reverie, sharp as broken glass. “You’re up, genius!”

He blinks at them—Dahlia, sprawled in faux agony on the lawn, miming what could generously be described as ‘a penguin roller-skating to its doom’; Venti, wheezing against a tree like a consumptive poet; Furina, arms akimbo, radiating the righteous indignation of a thwarted goddess.

“Sorry,” he mutters, forcing a crooked grin. “Spaced.”

“You think?” Dahlia quips, pink hair flouncing, solely a flag in retreat. “He’s about as present as a dead saint.”

They erupt into laughter, and for a moment—just a moment—Kinich lets himself laugh too.

But then he sees it.

A figure, distant but searingly distinct against the gold-lit hedges of the garden. As still and sharp as a shadow cast at noon.

Scaramouche.

His body moves before his brain consents to it. He discards the game, discards his friends, discards the fragile scaffold of normalcy he’s built these past few weeks—and strides across the lawn toward him, heart hammering a frantic tattoo against his ribs.

When he stops, he does not bother with softness.

“Where the hell have you been?” he demands, and it comes out sharper than he meant, but somehow not sharp enough.

Scaramouche blinks, just once, slowly, like a feline caught mid-prowl. For a fraction of a second, there’s something almost human in those eyes. Then it’s gone, slammed behind iron shutters.

“You have the audacity,” he murmurs, voice as cold and thin as piano wire, “to speak to me that way? You?” He smiles—oh, he smiles—and it is a cruel, lovely thing, like a child carving butterflies into the bark of a living tree.

“I’m someone who gives a damn,” Kinich says, a little too loudly, a little too bright. “Apparently the only one.”

“How magnanimous of you,” Scaramouche sneers, stepping closer until Kinich can see the fine cracks at the corners of his mouth, the bloodshot weariness around his eyes. “The little provincial knight, come to save the poor damned prince. Spare me.”

Kinich feels something inside him snap—something delicate and soft—and suddenly the anger surges up like gore from a deep cut.

“You looked broken,” he grits, the word a slap, a prayer. “Don’t pretend you don’t remember.”

“And so?” Scaramouche drones, arching a brow with such delicate malice that Kinich wants to tear it off his pretty face. “You think your pity is balm enough? You think you can fix in five minutes what a lifetime’s worth of rot built?”

“I’m not trying to fix you!” Kinich spits, fists clenching at his sides. “I’m trying to reach you.”

Scaramouche tilts his head slightly, studying him with a detached sort of callousness—as if Kinich were some peculiar insect pinned to a velvet board. “Reach me?” he repeats, almost thoughtfully. “Darling, you couldn’t even find me.”

And that, somehow, wounds deeper than all the rest.

“You think this is about winning?” Kinich breathes, voice rough. “It’s not. I just—”

“You just what?” Scaramouche interrupts, taking another step forward until there’s barely a breath between them. His smile now is obscene, a thing with perfectly aligned teeth. “You just want to feel like a hero? You just want to slap a gold star on your conscience and say you tried?”

Kinich’s mouth goes dry. He wants to say no. He wants to say yes. He wants to say anything that will make this hurt less.

But he says nothing.

And Scaramouche, seeing that, leans in—so close that Kinich can feel the heat rolling off him in waves—and whispers, “You’re no savior, Kinich. You’re just another fool waiting for me to break.”

He turns then, like a knife twisting in a wound, and saunters away into the dying light. Not running. Never running.

Kinich stands alone in the gathering dusk, feeling something inside him collapse. . .quietly, thoroughly, irrevocably.

He watches Scaramouche’s silhouette grow smaller, swallowed by the hedges, the school, the afternoon.

And he understands, finally (horribly), that some people build their cages so intricately, so beautifully, they cannot be freed. Only admired from a distance.

Like a tragedy in a glass case.

Or a saint on a crumbling altar.

Kinich presses a hand to his ribs as if trying to hold something broken in place.

It doesn’t work.

It never does.

**

They break from the crowd, slipping into a quieter corner of the gardens, where the sun stains the grass in gold and the trees, old and wise and gnarled, murmur in the late afternoon wind. Students in the distance buzz and laugh, but here, in this pocket of peace, something heavier hangs in the air;  smoke before a storm.

Furina collapses first, all delicate chaos, sprawling onto a sunlit patch with a hefty sigh. “Did you really just charge at him?” she demands, eyes alight with disbelief, with horror, with a fascination bordering on the religious. “Like—a full-on attack? Scaramouche?”

Venti, lounging like a spoiled kitten, props himself up on his elbows and adds, “Do you think you’re invincible? Or just spectacularly unwell? You don’t walk up to him, Kinich. That’s not done.”

Kinich stares at them as if they’ve grown three heads. “What is this? You act like I’ve—what? Declared war? I was just. . .” He shrugs helplessly. “Checking in.”

“Checking in?” Furina cackles, clutching her ribs as though he’s confessed to skywriting his love over the gardens. “You waged emotional warfare, darling! You don’t check in on Scaramouche—you submit a formal petition for audience, wait six to eight weeks, and even then you might get ghosted.”

Dahlia, who has been curiously silent, shifts where he sits, voice threading through the conversation like a cutter through linen. “You lot don’t get it,” he says, and the weight of it pulls them all closer. “Scaramouche isn’t just some gloomy boy with sad blue eyes. He’s. . . entwined.”

Kinich frowns. “Entwined?”

Dahlia leans forward, whispers, “He’s entrenched, Kinich. Tied into the families that matter. His word is not a stone tossed into a pond; it’s an earthquake. He can bankrupt a family with a whim. He can kill a name just by breathing wrong. Do you understand? He owns the air these people breathe.”

Kinich feels the words root themselves in his chest like iron thorns. “You’re exaggerating.”

“No,” Dahlia remarks, gaze almost gentle now, pitying. “I’m not.”

The sun seems numbing now, the convulsions from the distant lawns a mangled kind of music.

“So,” Kinich begins slowly, the taste of it foul on his tongue, “you’re telling me. . . I just picked a fight with someone who could end me without ever lifting a finger?”

“Exactly,” Furina affirms, voice rinsed in something stabbing and sad. “And he would. If he wanted to. He’s not cruel for fun. He’s cruel for sustaining.”

Venti, court jester by nature, tries to soften the blow. “He’s not a villain, Kinich. Not really. He’s just. . . what happens when you grow up surrounded by wolves and told to smile.”

Kinich drags a hand through his hair, feeling suddenly, terribly small. “So what am I supposed to do? Leave him alone? Pretend he doesn’t look like he’s one bad day away from falling apart?”

Dahlia shrugs, the movement fluid and stagy, but the sadness beneath it is real. “Sometimes,” he says, “the kindest thing you can do for a drowning man is not jump in after him.”

“But what if,” Kinich pronounces, scarcely whispering now, “what if I don’t want to let him drown?”

The words hang between them, a condemned man at the gallows.

Dahlia exchanges a look with Furina, with Venti, and the silence that follows is loud enough to make Kinich’s teeth ache.

“Just. . .” Dahlia utters at last, softly, almost pleading, “don’t get attached.”

“I’m not—” Kinich begins, but Furina cuts him off, uncharacteristically sharply.

“You are,” she says. “You already are.”

He opens his mouth to argue, to deny, but the words shrivel before they reach daylight. Instead, he looks down at the grass, at the thin green blades swaying in the breeze, and says nothing.

Venti tries to salvage it, flashing a lopsided grin. “M-maybe it’s a tragic love story! Star-crossed! Forbidden! One kiss and the heavens themselves weep!”

Furina rolls her eyes so hard it’s a wonder she doesn’t sprain something. “Or maybe it’s a slow-motion train wreck and Kinich gets flattened.”

Kinich exhales, long and low. “I’m not in love with him,” he mutters.

“Not yet,” Dahlia intones, and it is not a threat, not an accusation, but something worse—a promise.

For a while, they sit in uneasy silence, the breeze tugging at their clothes, the sun tilting lower in the sky. Somewhere, a bell tolls from the tower, and Kinich thinks: time keeps moving even when it ought to stop.

Finally, he says, “I know it’s foolish. I know it’s dangerous. But. . . maybe he needs someone. Even if he doesn’t know it.”

“And maybe,” Furina murmurs, “he’ll eat you alive without ever meaning to.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Kinich asserts, surprising even himself with the discreet certainty in his voice.

The others nod, cautiously, circumspectly, the way you nod to a man boarding a sinking ship. Not because you think he’ll make it. But because you love him too much to tell him not to try.

And somewhere deep in the garden’s shadowed heart, Kinich thinks he can feel a pair of eyes on him—blue and endless and full of ruin.

Waiting.

Watching.

. . .

“Enough of this brooding!” Furina trills suddenly, her whole body electric with renewed purpose, as if she were a duchess making a proclamation from the marbled steps of an imaginary palace. She beams so brightly that the afternoon sun seems a pale counterfeit by comparison. “Let’s do something extravagant! I heard there’s a new restaurant opening downtown—exclusively extravagant. We should absolutely grace it with our presence.”

Venti’s eyes sparkle, pupils practically dilating with delight. “Oh, divine idea! I hear they serve seafood so exquisite it could make even a tax accountant weep into his ledger—and desserts rumored to have driven at least one poet into early retirement!”

Dahlia, always showy with his gestures, flips his bouncy curls with a buoyant so camp it would’ve scandalized Versailles. “Please. Dining at the school cafeteria is an act of self-mutilation. We deserve a little luxury! Especially after that little Scaramouche episode you staged, Kinich.”

Kinich, helpless against the flood of their enthusiasm, nods, though a small, reasonable voice deep in his brain sputters in protest. “Sounds amazing. But. . . is it really safe for me to be seen with you guys? I mean, after what Dahlia just said about Scaramouche. . .”

Furina lets out a huff, her hands slicing through the air like an orchestral conductor dismissing an uncooperative violinist. “Safe? Darling, with us? We are untouchable. Irrefutable. Practically a government.” She flashes him a mischievous grin. “You just need to stop thinking about sad little princelings for one night and learn to live.”

The decision makes itself, carried on a tide of ridiculousness so fast Kinich hardly realizes he’s nodding until they’re moving again, swept up in Furina’s wake.

As they head for the campus exit, the car comes into view, and Kinich falters for a half-second: a McLaren Sabre, glossy and murderous in eau de Nil, crouching under the sun like a jungle tabby about to pounce. A Bengal. Its curves gleam like a scythe; it is not so much a vehicle as a threat, parked there as if daring the world to be unimpressed.

But it’s not the car that captures him, not really. It’s the figure standing beside it.

She stands with one hip cocked, her silhouette so crisply drawn against the dying light it feels almost sacrilegious to look at her directly. Tall, whipcord lean, every movement a study in disdainful grace. Her dark suit fits her like skin, and her platinum-blonde hair gleams like a blade newly unsheathed. She doesn’t move, not exactly; she waits, poised in that exquisite stillness that belongs only to predators and agate statuettes.

Kinich stares, bewildered, and barely hears Dahlia’s giddy explanation: “Ah, yes. Miss Arlecchino. Furina’s bodyguard.”

“Bodyguard?” Kinich repeats blankly, like a man hearing the ocean in a seashell.

Dahlia claps him on the back. “Oh, don’t be fooled by the glamour. She’s less ‘runway model,’ more ‘black-ops assassin.’ First time we met her, Venti nearly asked for her autograph. We thought she was someone important.”

Venti leans in, all false confidentiality. “Turns out she is important. Just not for reasons you can put on a movie poster.”

“Arlecchino,” Dahlia purrs. “The deadliest, most beautiful insurance policy in Fontaine.”

Kinich eyes the woman again, deliriously noting the way even her breathing seems deliberate, curated, as if to reveal weakness were a punishable offense. “She doesn’t look dangerous.”

“And that,” Dahlia says gravely, “is precisely why she’s dangerous.”

“She’s a walking contradiction,” Venti adds cheerfully. “Introvert trapped in an extrovert’s body. Attention magnet against her will. Imagine looking like that but secretly wishing you could turn invisible.”

“Sounds. . . exhausting,” Kinich grouses, unable to look away.

“She loathes it," Dahlia confirms. "The photos, the whispers, the glances. The poor woman has the aura of a condemned saint.”

He can picture it easily: Arlecchino standing stoic in the eye of a hurricane, tourists mistaking her for a supermodel, desperate for selfies and autographs, while she dies a slow, silent death inside.

“And the worst part?” Venti says with a sly smile. “She never so much as blinks. You could be fangirling her face off and she would just stand there, arms crossed, radiating unspoken fury while looking like an editorial spread in Vogue.”

As Kinich watches, Arlecchino’s gaze sweeps over them with the chilly efficiency of a sniper surveying potential threats. She says nothing. She doesn’t need to. Her very existence seems to declare: I could end you, but I have better things to do.

Furina, unfazed by it, beams at Kinich and gestures grandly toward the McLaren. “Come along! Don’t mind Arlecchino. She only murders on weekdays.”

**

They finally reach the car, and as Kinich watches Arlecchino, that unfaltering flint figurine of composure, step forward to open the door for Furina with the kind of dutiful rigor usually reserved for ancient, venerable customs, he feels a shiver peel up his spine. There is something about the woman—so polished, so fatal—that unsettles him in ways he cannot fully articulate. She moves with a cost-effectiveness that borders on sacramental; her gestures are clean, exact, and sacredly matter-of-fact.

Furina slides into the passenger seat with elementary tact, a pearl rolling into its velvet box, offering not a word, not a glance, as if it were the most natural thing in the world (and perhaps it is). But Kinich catches it: the flutter, infinitesimal but beyond doubt, in the way Furina smooths her hair, fingertips loitering too long at the curve of her cheek, the way Arlecchino’s cool gaze lingers a second more than protocol would suggest before the door closes with a sound like a polite execution.

The rest of them, he, Dahlia, and Venti, pile into the back in a tangle of expensive fabrics and boyish limbs. Venti sprawls instantly, claiming space with the casual tyranny of a cat, whereas Dahlia, all easy mischief, leans forward to regale them with extravagant bruit about the restaurant’s allegedly heretical tiramisu.

But Kinich’s mind is hence. His eyes snag again and again on the two figures in the front: Furina, nonplussed like an exiled queen; Arlecchino, hands on the wheel, face cut from the coldest fleck. They do not speak. They do not need to speak, rather. The air between them bombinates with a muffled, diabolical electricity—a silence that is not empty but overcrowded.

Outside, the city scrolls by: gold-filigree balconies, shadowed alleyways, the waxen facades of Fontaine’s jet set playground. But inside the car, time seems curiously suspended, as if Furina and Arlecchino’s shared silence were a bubble resisting the vulgar abrasion of the world.

Kinich notices everything. How Furina���s posture stiffens fractionally when Arlecchino checks the rearview mirror—how she pinks at the temples when Arlecchino brushes the centre console just a breath too close to her wrist. It’s all performed with such deadly subtlety that Kinich marvels he’s seeing it at all.

“Oi, Kinich,” Venti drawls lazily, throwing an arm across Kinich’s shoulders, a jester spoiling the sanctity of an opera. “You look like you’re solving world hunger over there. Still brooding about your ice prince?”

Kinich shrugs him off with a grunt, the question landing with a thud in his already overburdened mind. “Just. . . thinking.”

Dahlia smirks but lets it lie, too absorbed now in a spirited debate with Venti about whether Fontaine oysters are ethically sourced, or if it matters when you’re fabulously rich.

The McLaren eats up the city in glossy swathes until they reach their destination: a restaurant so clandestine it bears no name, only a cryptic symbol over the threshold, something like a crest or a curse. The place shimmers like a secret kept too long, and as they glide to a stop, Kinich is struck again by the eerie ballet unfolding at the front of the car.

Arlecchino steps out first, her movements economical, dispassionate. She opens Furina’s door, offers her hand—not offered, exactly; presented, like a royal decree—and Furina, for a hairbreadth of a second, looks up at her with something astonishingly soft, a look so. . . so unguarded it makes Kinich’s chest ache in a way he’s unwilling to name.

The woman who rules every conversation, every gathering, every foolish school event with a flourish of her manicured hand—melting, quietly, tremulously, at a touch.

Inside the restaurant, amid the unfilled clinking of gold utensils and the low murmur of moneyed voices, the charade continues. Arlecchino does not sit. Of course not. She stations herself nearby, a marble obelisk of lethal loyalty, while Furina presides at the table with all the brittle majesty of a crowned child who knows the crown is too heavy.

Kinich watches. Watches as Arlecchino adjusts a glass, leans too near; watches Furina’s lashes flutter, her fingers tightening around her napkin. It is not romance—not the clumsy, breathless kind—they are far too proud for that. It is something sharper, more hazardous: a perilous worship disguised as decorum.

The others, blessedly obtuse, laugh about oysters and wine and who will have the audacity to try the high-priced soufflé. Only Kinich sees the hidden stageplay, the way Furina’s veneer cracks slightly each time Arlecchino’s cool fingers graze her world.

And yet, even as he watches, even as he sips some irrationally delicate champagne and pretends not to notice, there is an unwelcome question nesting under his ribs: What about me?

He spears a sliver of glazed fig with his fork, chewing mechanically, the clamor of the restaurant receding to a murmur, and finds himself thinking—distractedly, traitorously—of another.

Of dark, fathomless eyes. Of a boy who looks like he’s been carved from despair itself, standing just out of reach, daring the world to try and touch him.

Kinich swallows hard against the sweetness of the fig. No, he tells himself. No crush. No romance. Just. . . sadness. Concern.

But the lie tastes bitterer than the champagne.

And as Arlecchino silently refreshes Furina’s glass, her fingertips lingering a heartbeat too long, Kinich stares at his own reflection in the golden surface of his spoon, and wonders when, exactly, he became so utterly doomed.

**

After Arlecchino excuses herself, a bow so slight it could be mistaken for the settling of dust, Furina exhales—visibly and gloriously—as though someone had unstrung her from the rack. She sinks, not ungracefully, into the folds of her chair, that antarctic composure she wears like a tiara slipping just enough for Kinich, keen-eyed and quietly amused, to see the supple, frantic creature blinking underneath.

Dahlia and Venti, those twin jesters of luxury, are too busy arguing over the erotic merits of caviar (“It’s a sensuous experience, Venti, not just a snack!” “Oh, please, Dahlia, if caviar is sensual, then my left shoe is an aphrodisiac.”) to notice the change in Furina’s mien.

But Kinich notices. He notices everything.

“So,” Furina purrs, casual, measured, the very sound of a woman testing the temperature of the room with her bare toes, “what do you think of our lovely Arlecchino?”

She swirls the last of her wine, a garnet whirlpool in a crystal chalice, and watches him from under lashes so long they could cast shadows of their own.

Kinich raises a brow. “She’s. . . impressive.”

“Impressive?” Dahlia hoots, nearly choking on a sugared violet. “That’s the understatement of the year, darling. The woman could command armies—or at least an haute couture runway.”

“Or an empire,” Venti adds, swooning theatrically against the back of his chair. “Imagine being sentenced to death by someone that symmetrical. I would die smiling.”

Furina laughs, a little too pointedly, her fingers tapping—tap, tap, tap—an anxious percussion against the thin stem of her glass. “She has just returned,” she says, and there is something brittle in the way she says it, as if the words had to crawl over broken glass to leave her mouth. “Been away. . . on business.”

Her voice slides into a strange softness, a slip she does not quite catch in time. Kinich catches it, though. Of course he does.

“I missed—” she begins, and then slams the gate shut with a violent clearing of her throat, the blush blooming up her throat betraying her utterly. “. . .I mean, her absence was noted, naturally,” she amends, the way one might amend the breaking of a priceless vase by calling it ‘an aesthetic choice.’

Kinich does not comment. He watches, silent, savouring the rare glimpse of Furina—glittering, proud Furina—unmoored.

Dahlia, blessedly ignorant, fans himself with a menu. “Honestly, if Arlecchino ordered me into battle, I’d march straight into cannon fire with a grin.”

“And if Furina did?” Kinich murmurs, unable to resist the bait.

“Oh, please,” Venti says, with a flick of his fork. “With Furina, it would be death by fabulousness. Sequins and all.”

“Enough,” Furina says, voice laced with amused exasperation, but the flush does not leave her cheeks, no matter how imperiously she glares at them.

Kinich sips his water, not the vintage sparkling water Venti ordered, and watches her from behind the veil of his glass. He sees the way her eyes dart toward the door Arlecchino disappeared through. He sees how her fingers, traitorous things, still toy with the rim of her glass.

She missed her. Not professionally. Not even remotely.

But he says nothing. Not now. Some things are too delicate to name under chandeliers.

Dahlia saves them from the too-thick silence by launching into another campaign. “Kinich, darling, we must rescue you from that hideous cafeteria. You’re practically wasting away! You need truffles, and foie gras, and champagne served by shuddering waiters who fear for their livelihoods!”

Venti pounds the table for emphasis. “Exactly! A proper Fontaine education! One cannot learn on an empty stomach, and certainly not on the sad beige nonsense they serve on campus!”

Kinich, who grew up chasing lizards through dust trails and eating roasted maize under the full Natlan sun, grins.

“You lot are so obsessed with all this excess,” he warbles, his own brand of a mischievous drawl. “One day, I’m dragging you all back home. You’ll see what life’s like without sommeliers and caviar. Humble.”

And just like that. The words dangle in the air, such ripe, forbidden fruit.

Dahlia freezes, fork poised midair, precisely like a fencing foil. “Humble,” he verbalizes, tasting the word as if it’s poison. “You mean. . . no Michelin stars?”

“No sommeliers?” Venti whispers, scandalized.

“No luxury at all?” Furina gasps, one hand flying to her chest, acting like she’s just been diagnosed with a fatal illness.

Kinich laughs—a piercing, incandescent sound, startling even himself. It is real, it is good, and for one dizzy second, he feels free.

The image of these glittering aristocrats, slipping on muddy paths, squinting at campfires, bartering over roasted corn in a sun-drenched market square, sends him into silent fits. Perhaps, he thinks, as he watches Furina blush and fumble with her dignity; perhaps the world is not entirely made of ice.

Perhaps it only seems that way—until you know where to look.

“Oh, come now,” Kinich says after a while, catching his breath between fits of laughter. “It’s not that bad. We do things like. . . share meals with family, go to local markets, that sort of thing.”

“Markets?” Dahlia reiterates, tone climbing an octave, a note of horror thrumming under the velour. Venti, for his part, flinches flamboyantly, clutching his heart as though Kinich’s words have physically bludgeoned him.

“Local markets?” Furina echoes, aghast, every syllable oozing with disbelief. “Kinich, that sounds positively. . . barbaric.”

“Utterly uncivilized,” Venti adduces with great ceremony, sliding his empty crystal goblet away from him as if its mere existence now offends.

“And wait.” Dahlia narrows his pink-fringed eyes, suspicion written into every perfectly plucked line of his face. “You mean we’d have to. . . cook our own food?”

Kinich laughs so hard that he folds forward onto the table, shoulders heaving, silverware rattling on linen.

“Yes, Dahlia,” he gasps between chuckles. “You might actually have to lift a spatula.”

“A spatula?!” Dahlia recoils, affronted, one manicured hand flying to his mouth. “Do you hear this, Furina? This is absurd! I haven’t cooked since—since never!”

Furina nods gravely, her expression solemn save for the wicked gleam in her eye. “The trauma, Kinich. How could you even suggest such brutality?”

Kinich wipes a tear from his eye, heart thrumming with rare, genuine joy. “You’re all hopeless. But I’m serious—you could use a taste of the real world. Fresh air. Real stars. Food that doesn’t come plated like a museum piece.”

Dahlia shudders so violently he nearly topples his dessert plate. “I’ve been traumatized just listening to you describe it.”

“Seconded,” Venti says, daintily dabbing his lips with his napkin. “I am far too delicate for the wilderness. I’d perish before sundown.”

Kinich shakes his head, grinning like a wolf among lambs. “You lot wouldn’t last a day.”

And then—like a cold blade slicing through velvet—the voice cuts in.

“It’s not so bad,” says Arlecchino.

She has returned, silent and inevitable as the turning of the world, and she reclaims her place beside Furina with the same lethal nimbleness she might use to claim a battlefield.

The table falls tranquil, the air thickening, supposing someone had set fire to the oxygen.

“I’ve lived humbly before,” Arlecchino appends, voice low, each word weighed and measured like ammunition. “Not all lives begin with privilege. There’s strength in simplicity.”

The others stare as if she has begun to speak in tongues.

“You have?” Kinich leans forward, eyes wide, greedy for details.

Arlecchino inclines her head—precisely, regally. “You learn a lot about yourself when you are not cushioned by wealth. It teaches you resilience. Precision.”

Dahlia looks genuinely faint. Venti stares at her like a man who has seen a ghost.

“So. . . no personal masseuse?” Venti ventures, trembling.

“No daily linens pressed with lavender?” Dahlia croaks.

Kinich snorts, barely containing his laughter. “You two wouldn’t withstand an afternoon. But Arlecchino gets it.”

He and Arlecchino fall into an unexpected cadence, exchanging stories with the ease of two conspirators who know the taste of dirt, of blistered palms and earned meals. Meanwhile, the others sit there in mute alarm, aristocrats watching peasants discuss plowing techniques.

“Well, count me out,” Dahlia announces dramatically, crossing his arms. “I am highly allergic to anything that doesn’t sparkle.”

“I think I’d break out in hives,” Venti mutters into his napkin.

Enough talk of mud and toil, apparently.

Later, as they drift out into the night, fat with expensive desserts and expensive dreams, Furina falls into step beside Kinich, her heels whispering against the concrete like anxious thoughts.

“Psst, Kinich. . .” she breathes, conspiratorially, voice tinged with something perilously close to desperation. “Do you think. . . we could actually survive that sort of life? You know. If we tried it. You, me, Venti, Dahlia. . . and. . .” She trails off, eyes coruscating to where Arlecchino stands by the car, sharp as a sword and just as distant.

Kinich raises a brow, smirking. “You? Survive a humble life?”

Furina flushes prettily, caught out. “I’m being serious!” she hisses, glancing furtively at Arlecchino again. “What if that’s. . . what it takes to get closer to her?”

Kinich chuckles, truncated and warm, a sound that might almost be ghastly if it weren’t so fond. “Ah, so that’s it. You think living like a commoner will impress her.”

Furina scowls, but she can’t hide the deepening crimson of her cheeks. “No! I mean—maybe. I don’t know! She respects that kind of thing, doesn’t she?”

He shrugs, amused. “Good luck, Lady Furina. But don’t come crying to me when you realize there are no silk sheets in the wilderness.”

She squares her shoulders, as if steeling herself for a skirmish. “I can handle hardship,” she declares domineeringly. “I am Lady Furina, after all.”

Kinich only grins, watching her march ahead toward the McLaren Sabre like Joan of Arc into enemy fire.

But even as the night laughs around him, Kinich wonders—what happens to a creature of glass when it throws itself into a world of stone?

And deeper still, beneath it all, in the soundless corner of his heart he refuses to acknowledge, the thought stirs again, unbidden and aching:

What about him?

Scaramouche’s eyes, margined with old anguish, refuse to be forgotten.

Not even now.

**

Another day, another dull dive into academic purgatory. After his last lecture—an endless drone about the constitutional crises of Old Mondstadt, delivered by a professor who looked embalmed rather than employed—Kinich, gasping for oxygen, ambles toward the library. Perhaps isolation will soothe the ache rattling around in his chest; perhaps a book, cracked and fragrant with mildew, will do what nothing else has lately: silence the thoughts.

The library greets him with its usual stale grandeur: high vaulted ceilings, dusty chandeliers, motes of light quaking like dying stars. He moves among the stacks like a duppy, fingertips trailing the ruptured leather spines. Civics of Snezhnaya, The Philosophy of Flux, Treatises on Old Liyue,—on and on, a basilica of forgotten wisdom.

He is just reaching for something dense and comfortless, something with no adjectives, respectively, when he hears it.

A sound.

Wet. Suppressed. Breathless.

He freezes. His head tilts instinctively toward the source. Between two towering shelves—history and metaphysics, he notes unreasonably—something stirs.

And there, tucked carelessly in the shadowed cul-de-sac of dusty knowledge, are Xiao and Albedo.

Or rather, what was Xiao and Albedo.

They are disheveled—in that remarkable way only people utterly unconcerned with discovery can be. Xiao’s ordinarily sleek hair is a feral halo around his face; Albedo’s coat hangs open, buttons askew, his shirt collar slightly damp where Xiao’s mouth must have been.

Kinich’s stomach plummets in a graceless freefall. He clutches the nearest book (an ironically titled On Propriety and Decorum) like a drowning man grabs driftwood.

His brain screams LOOK AWAY, LOOK AWAY, but his eyes betray him, tethered to the scene by the kind of horrified fascination that once kept ancient tribes rooted to the soil when spotting a tiger.

They pull apart, at last—unwillingly, lazily—like sun-drenched calicos. Xiao runs a hand through his wild hair, looking faintly absorbed; Albedo, with the calm of a man dusting icing sugar from his cuffs, straightens his cravat.

And then, necessarily, Albedo acknowledges him.

There is no startle, no shame. Only that soft, secret smile of his—the smile that suggests he knew all along Kinich was there, and perhaps arranged this little tableau for him.

Albedo pads forward, every inch the star student, the model citizen (if one ignores the pink flush blooming high on his cheeks, or the slight, feline slackness to his posture).

“Sorry about that,” Albedo says airily, presumably apologizing for having spoken too loudly near the ‘quiet study’ signs, not for nearly swallowing Xiao whole between ‘Ethics’ and ‘The Ontology of Memory.’

Kinich tries, truly, to form a response. What emerges is a strangled squeak and a helpless flapping of hands. He feels, mortifyingly, like he might combust from sheer secondhand embarrassment.

“N-no, it’s—um—it’s fine,” he manages, voice cracking like dry twigs.

Albedo’s smile tilts, hieroglyphic. There’s a glint in his gaze now—something conspiratorial, as if Kinich has just been inducted into some ancient, blasphemous brotherhood.

“Shhh,” Albedo murmurs, placing a finger to his own lips in a mannered hush, as though Kinich is the one about to burst into scandalous confession. His tone is gentle, indulgent. A teacher humoring a particularly slow pupil.

“It’s been a while since we last spoke, hasn’t it?”

Kinich opens and closes his mouth, a pale fish gasping on dry land. Spoke? Spoke? He had just witnessed an entire novella of wordless carnality! ‘Spoke’ hardly covered it.

“Ah. . . y-yeah,” he stammers, blood roaring in his ears. “It has.”

Albedo angles his head, seemingly studying him with a bearing as cool and dissecting as a biologist peering at a particularly stubborn specimen under a microscope. Then, with a softness that feels vaguely menacing:

“How about some tea?” he offers, supposedly inviting Kinich to chat about the weather and not. . . whatever had just unfolded.

“Tea,” Kinich repeats dumbly. Because what else does one do after seeing their classmates commit unspeakable acts amid the sacred tombs of academia? One drinks tea, apparently.

“Sure,” he croaks, face flaming. “Tea sounds. . . fine.”

Albedo smiles—closed-lipped, serene—apparently, nothing in the world were out of place. He extends Kinich an arm, exceedingly courtly, while Xiao dawdles in the aisle behind him, unrepentant and sparsely smirking.

Together, they glissade toward the atrium, leaving behind the prolonged spirits of pages, dust, and dampened aspersion.

**

The soft chime of porcelain cups reverberates in the Shoguns’ chambers, every delicate sound sinking into the vast, suffocating hush. Kinich sits stiffly, a poor imitation of ease, his fingers drumming lightly (compulsively) against the armrest of his overstuffed chair. The tea before him remains untouched, sending up frail wisps of steam, the scent delicate, insistent.

He peers over, almost in spite of himself, toward the shadowed doorways of the towering, velvet-draped room, half-expecting—no, half-dreading—that a slender figure with midnight-blue eyes will emerge, devastating and stealthy.

But the doorways remain dark. Silent. Empty.

Only Albedo sits across from him, stirring his tea with distracted, soulless care, as it would be he might summon the will to sip it, but cannot quite remember why. His gaze remains distant, fixed on nothing, lodged far beyond the arched windows that whittle pale light across the ornate rug.

Kinich carts, feeling like a trespasser in a catacomb.

“So. . .” he roves, clearing his throat, voice roughened by the ossuary-like stillness. “How have you been?”

Albedo blinks, slow as an ophidian basking in cold sun. His smile—if one could even call it that—is more a soft malfunction of the lips than anything living. “I’ve been. . . alright,” he responds, each word painfully weighed, absurdly formal. “And you?”

“Same,” Kinich lies. His hands clench in his lap to stop them from trembling.

Across the room, Xiao perches on a separate couch like a moping nozzle. Rigid. Unmoving. His gaze, however, is razor-sharp, peeling layers off one’s skin without the courtesy of bleeding.

Kinich’s attention slides back to Albedo—just in time to see the shimmer.

It begins almost imperceptibly: a glassiness to the crystalline eyes, a faint quiver at the corner of the mouth. Then, one traitorous tear, chipping a silver path down Albedo’s impeccable cheek.

Kinich lurches halfway out of his seat, panic sparking in his veins. “Albedo—?”

“Please, sit,” Albedo says, in a voice so calm it feels cruel. Kinich obeys, heart pounding against the frail bones of his ribcage.

“I’m sorry you have to see me like this,” Albedo murmurs, dabbing at the tear with the back of a white-knuckled hand. His other fingers still toy absently with the teaspoon, as if caught in some private, ceaseless orbit. “I thought, after a few weeks, I’d be composed again. But. . .”

He smiles faintly—an expression of such naked grief that Kinich feels his own throat close up.

“What happened?” Kinich asks, voice splitting embarrassingly.

Albedo exhales a laugh, utterly mirthless. “My parents,” he says. “You’ve heard, surely, that they are. . . powerful.”

Kinich nods. What else could he say?

“They’ve decided that Xiao and I’s engagement. . . is unsuitable.” Albedo’s voice is light, weightless, but his hand trembles against the tea saucer. “An unsuitable union for the Shogun name.”

The words drop like lead into the room’s silent well.

Kinich’s head swims. The idea of Albedo and Xiao—beloved, brutal little Xiao—being torn apart feels like an offense against the very architecture of the world.

“But why?” he croaks.

Albedo turns his face toward the window again, watching the indifferent sky. “Because Xiao is. . . insufficient. His lineage, his holdings, his influence—” Albedo’s mouth twists, just moderately. “They would prefer someone more. . . potent. And they don’t suppose I am the right one to change that.”

Kinich feels sick, even before the final word leaves Albedo’s mouth.

“Who?” he whispers.

Albedo’s eyelids flutter closed. When they open again, his irises seem paler, washed out.

“My stepbrother,” he states, so softly that Kinich barely hears it. “Scaramouche.”

And there it is: the floor drops out from beneath him.

Scaramouche.

The name hangs in the air between them, black and sticky as molasses, clinging to every surface, seeping into the fabric of the room.

Kinich reels, grasping for something solid. His hands clench uselessly in his lap. His mind spins backward through every encounter with the icy prince, every jeer, every look of blistering disdain, every trace of kindness that had shimmered for a second too long.

“They can’t be serious,” he breathes, though the deep, sinking certainty in his gut says otherwise.

“They are,” Albedo replies, and his smile cracks, crumbles, becomes something closer to a wound. “They see Scaramouche as the perfect instrument. Still, he is the face of this perfect bloodline. Perfect alliances. They believe. . . that a marriage with one of the Shogun sons would consolidate everything. Specifically, him.”

“But. . .” Kinich struggles to breathe around the absurdity. “You and Xiao—your love—doesn’t that matter?”

“In their world,” Albedo says, his voice like thin ice, “love is a superstition. An indulgence. A liability.”

The quietude that comes after feels alive, venomous. It slithers into Kinich’s chest, squeezing.

Albedo’s next words are so quiet that Kinich leans forward, desperate not to miss them:

“I am losing him,” Albedo croaks. “And he. . . he is slipping away because he thinks he has no right to fight.”

Kinich shuts his eyes, a wave of helpless rage crashing through him.

He thinks of Scaramouche—not as the cruel prince, not as the cold-eyed Shogun heir—but as a boy, alone, staggering under the load of expectations no human heart could bear. And it sickens him. It sickens him that power, always, demands sacrifice.

Even love.

He opens his eyes. Albedo is crying silently, hands folded neatly in his lap as though submitting to the noose.

“I don’t know how to stop it,” Albedo whispers. “I don’t know if I can.”

The room spins again; tilted, broken, sickly. Kinich’s own chest aches with the monstrous unfairness of it all.

He swallows, words forming in his mouth before he can think better of them.

“You’re not alone in this,” he tells him.

Albedo finally perks up, and for the first time, Kinich sees the raw, crumbling ruin behind the ceramic frontage.

And somewhere, deep in the marrow of him, he understands: If he couldn’t save Scaramouche, he would burn every delicate rule of this bloodless, ruthless place to ash trying.