#audio script to chapters

[dominimoonbeam]

To The Edge - 2

This work is mine and I do not give consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted without my permission. I am sharing chapters as I work on this story but it is copyrighted material that I plan to rework and publish when completed.

story tags: scifi romance, hijinks in space, rogues learning to trust, violence, blood, guns, death, explicit language, so much kidnapping,

Works organized and easily found over on the patreon. <3

TO THE EDGE - CHAPTER 2.

“Stardust Solinoh Fairvell Malou,” they heard someone saying in the dark. It wasn’t a call, not searching for them or trying to get their attention. It was on the cusp of being a reprimand—a reminder of who they were and all the weight that should come with it. They called that weight pride, but it tasted like a threat. Their name wasn’t just a name, it was a full “Don’t you dare forget who you are. Don’t you fail. Don’t you fall short. Or else.”

Stardust woke with a choked groan, a spike of pain bursting behind their lids and burrowing deep into their skull. They forced their lids open against the onslaught of light, like it had been a challenge rather than a warning.

“Stardust?” someone asked, voice full of relief. Their name sounded strange in his mouth, different than they’d ever heard it before. “There you are.”

They lifted an arm to shade their eyes, squinting at the man beside their bed. The hum of the ship hit their senses and they remembered everything. Well, almost everything. How had they gotten on another ship? They sat up, vision blurring but arms pushing out to try to shove him away. The cuffs on their wrists rattled but they’d worn them for so long they’d gotten used to it.

He caught their forearms, holding on gently. “No, don’t freak out again. We’re on my ship, we’re off world and headed out of the area. You’re safe.”

Safe? He clearly had no idea what was going on.

“You fainted.”

Stardust wrinkled their nose only to wince at the pain that shot through that delicate bone between their eyes. “No, I didn’t.” They pulled their arms out of his hold to gingerly touch their forehead.

He huffed something close to a laugh. “Um, yes you did.”

“No, I didn’t.” They pushed at their temples, hoping that pressure might shift the pain rolling around inside their skull.

“Okay, you can keep saying you didn’t, but you did. I had to carry you. I think I’d know if you were unconscious or not.”

Stardust dropped their hands and squinted up at the man. Was he law of some sort? Or a bounty hunter? He looked like a bounty hunter… “And you want what? A medal for it?”

His eyes went huge and his mouth pulled into a grin, flashing teeth. It wasn’t the reaction they’d expected. “You are the most ungrateful kidnap victim I’ve ever dealt with.”

“How many kidnap victims have you dealt with?” Stardust asked quickly, trying to buy time for that splitting headache to wear off enough so that they could figure out what to do next. They seemed to be in the galaxy’s smallest medical room on a ship. His ship?

“How many? Really?”

Stardust waited, not letting pain or fear stop their eyebrow from lifting in brutal patience.

“Well, I mean… Are we counting the ones I personally kidnapped or just the ones I retrieved on behalf of rich criminals like your grandmother?”

Stardust felt a jolt cut through their spine, making them sit straighter. “Fuck you!” They kicked their legs off the cot, toes grazing the floor. They were still barefoot. Those pirates had stolen their boots.

The stranger laughed hard. “Fuck me? Like you didn’t know who bankrolled the chrome you were flying? You might be on a lesser-known branch of that particular family tree, Stardust, but blood is blood.”

They glared at him, because really, what could they say to that? Of course, they knew. And it seemed, even this far away from the Prime, everyone else knew too.

So that made this guy a cosmic bounty hunter or lacky of some kind.

He sighed and waved a hand at their wrists. “Let me see those cuffs.”

Stardust frowned hard enough to remember that their lip was scabbed, the pain so deep that it somehow felt like it was in their jaw. What was he going to do? Chain them to the cot? To the wall? If he knew who they were, then he was trying to get paid by returning them. He couldn’t kill them and, at the moment, they couldn’t get away from him. They lowered their arms, hands easing into the space between them.

He pulled a small tool from his pocket and started tinkering with the cuff.

“You can unlock it?” they asked, words coming out in a cracked whisper, forcing them to cough to try to hide the weakness there.

“What? Yes, of course, I can get these off you. You just have to pop this panel and then hold the reset button. It’s really easy as long as you’re not the one in them,” he said, doing just that.

The cuffs popped open and Stardust gasped, relief welling in their chest. It had been days since they’d had their hands free.

He tossed the cuffs onto the table beside the cot, still holding onto their arms, gently running his thumbs against their skin—not touching the deep purple rings but skirting them. “Your wrists are bruised but they look okay. Does that hurt?”

They winced but shook their head. “It’s fine.”

“Hm. Okay.” He let go and took a step back. “Take your clothes off.”

Stardust’s head snapping up to look at him, for a split-second doubting what they’d just heard. He waited. They jumped off the bed and tried to push past him toward the door. When he grabbed their arm, they kicked and screamed. They hadn’t spent a week fending off fucking pirates just to be creeped on by some bounty hunter!

“Woah! No kicking!”

“Let go, you creep!”

He pushed just hard enough to put them on their ass on the cot again and then stepped back, hands up but blocking the way out of the room. “I’m not a fucking creep, I’m just going to make sure you’re not dying, patch you up, and then give you something clean to wear. You can lock yourself in the storage room after that if you want. Spend the next two weeks snuggled up with my stockpile of meal bars until you’re back safe and sound.”

Stardust glared, dragging deep breaths and not liking how winded they were from just that little struggle. They really were in trouble. They had to lean back against the wall to keep from slumping over.

The bounty hunter sighed and tried again, “If you die because of internal bleeding or some stupid infection, they’re going to blame me for it.”

Stardust didn’t have to ask who “they” were. “They” were always the same people. “They” were their family. “So what?”

He laughed darkly, clawing a hand through his hair. “Thanks, Stardust. I appreciate how much you care about my safety.”

Stardust glared at him. He didn’t seem particularly affected by glares though. Instead, he sighed, like he had all the time in the galaxy.

“Take off your shirt. It’s literally crusted with blood and…is that puke?”

They didn’t look down. They were very aware of the state of their clothes. “It’s not mine.”

“Classy.”

Stardust didn’t budge. Was he serious or was he just trying to get a look?

“You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before.”

They snorted. “Wanna bet?”

“Do I want to bet? Are you serious?” He laughed again. “Oh shit, are you really concussed? I should have scanned your brain before you woke up…”

“Too late now.”

The cosmic bounty hunter groaned. “Just take your fucking clothes off, Stardust. I promise I won’t maul you.”

They didn’t think he would maul them, not really. That wasn’t why they were still hesitating, just like it hadn’t been why they’d fought tooth and nail to keep that nasty piece of clothing on with the pirates. Still, they stalled, holding up one hand, pinky finger out. “Pinky promise?” they smirked even as they asked.

“Pinky— Are you serious?”

They waited.

“You are the weirdest kidnappee I have ever dealt with…” He rolled his eyes and hooked his pinky with theirs. “Okay, pinky promise.”

“You know the rules of pinky promises, right?” Maybe they did have a concussion…

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

I hope to work on *all* of these ideas eventually; this poll is to see what excites people the most!

[batim-rewritten]

sup.

[icefest]

In celebration of the remarkable life and career of Val Kilmer (1959-2025), we're hosting a cross-fandom collection to honor his extraordinary contributions to film and the characters that captivated our hearts and imaginations.

About the Exchange

This event welcomes fanworks of all kinds celebrating Val Kilmer's diverse filmography. Whether you were moved by his portrayal of Jim Morrison, thrilled by his Iceman, enchanted by his Batman, or captivated by any of his other iconic roles, this is your opportunity to share your creativity with fellow fans.

Eligible Fandoms

All Val Kilmer roles and films are welcome, including but not limited to:

Top Gun/Top Gun: Maverick (Iceman)

Batman Forever (Bruce Wayne/Batman)

The Doors (Jim Morrison)

Tombstone (Doc Holliday)

Heat (Chris Shiherlis)

Willow (Madmartigan)

Real Genius (Chris Knight)

The Ghost and the Darkness (John Patterson)

The Saint (Simon Templar)

At First Sight (Virgil Adamson)

Kiss Kiss Bang Bang (Gay Perry)

Alexander (Philip II)

Thunderheart (Ray Levoi)

The Prince of Egypt (Moses, voice)

Any other film from his extensive career

Accepted Fanwork Types

We welcome all forms of creative expression:

Fanfiction: One-shots, multi-chapter works, poetry, scripts, alternative universes, crossovers

Fan Art: Digital art, traditional art, comics, photo manipulations

Poetic Works: Poems, sonnets, haiku, free verse inspired by Kilmer or his characters

Video Tributes: Fanvids, edits, animation

Audio Works: Podfics, song covers, original music

Crafts: Cosplay, props, jewelry, clothing designs

Meta: Character analysis, film essays, retrospectives

Collection Rules

All works must feature a character portrayed by Val.

Please tag appropriately for content warnings.

Both new works and reworkings of previously shared creations are welcome.

Both gen and shippy content are welcomed and encouraged.

Suggestions for Participation

Explore the complex dichotomies in Kilmer's roles: hero/villain, strong/vulnerable, comic/tragic.

Consider crossovers between his characters (What would Doc Holliday say to Iceman? A Crossover between Real Genius' Chris and Top Gun's Iceman, maybe?)

Reflect on the iconic lines and moments that defined his performances

Create "what if" scenarios for his characters' lives beyond the films

Craft poetry inspired by the emotional resonance of his performances

The collection can be found on AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Ice_Fest_Exchange/profile.

Add as you finish, and enjoy! Celebrate and have fun!

Timeline

The collection is open as of now, and we ask that all completed works are posted into the collection by July 4th of this year. That said, the collection will remain open all year round, and we invite you to add your tributes to Val as you wish. Val will be missed, and his legacy will endure.

In Memoriam

This collection seeks to celebrate Val Kilmer's enduring legacy as an actor who brought depth, charisma, and unforgettable presence to every role he embodied. Through our creative works, we honor his contribution to cinema and the impact he had on audiences worldwide.

"The only love you keep is the love you give away." - Virgil Adamson, At First Sight

[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc

I N T E R L U D E

warnings: mentions of suicide and rape, trauma, suicidal thoughts, pregnancy, childbirth, blood, post-natal depression. just heavy maternity topics altogether, but also soooo much fluff. a little bit before the next chapter 👀 also, yes, I'm fine, I'm just exploring what I can do :)

The following is a series of audio and video recordings belonging to one L.REED recovered from their residence.

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #1

(The static crackles. A breath. Then a sniff—quick, sharp, like she’s trying to get herself under control. The mic picks up the soft creak of wood, and the rustle of fabric as she shifts.)

“It’s… ten-thirty-two in the night. August third.” (A pause, her voice stiff like she’s reading from a script. Then, softer—like admitting it to herself as much as the recorder—) “And I think I...”

(Silence. Then another slow breath. Hesitant, unwilling.)

“I mean, I'm um, in my living room.” (A beat.) “And I have just found out I am pregnant.”

(The words sit there, utterly unwelcome. She sniffs, a wet sound, then lets out a short, uneven breath like a laugh she doesn’t feel.)

“I know how it happened. I know what my body is capable of, what the biology is, how it works, what I—what I couldn’t have stopped. But knowing doesn’t change anything.” (Another beat, like she’s swallowing down a jagged marble.) “I cannot fix this. Cannot stop it. I have no say in this. None.”

(Her voice shakes on the last word, and she inhales sharply like she’s trying to stop it from happening.)

“I just…” (A sniff, another breath, her voice almost inaudible—) “I just wish I knew what the hell to do now.”

(Silence. Not empty. Suffocating. She shifts again, restless, like she can’t stand the feeling of being in her body.)

“I’m so scared. And so... alone. But I can't have anyone near me, not with everything I am now.” (The smallest her voice has ever been.)

“I think I’m—four months in, maybe more. My stomach, it's…” (A soft exhale, like she’s looking down at it, touching it, struggling to accept it.) “It’s getting bigger every day. The baby is growing fast. I feel it when I sleep, when I roll over, when I move. It's in there. Real, alive. Something I didn’t ask for.”

(She stops, swallowing hard before forcing herself to go on.)

“My body—it doesn’t want this. It knows it doesn't belong to me anymore. I can feel it. It’s rejecting food, rejecting rest, rejecting reason. I—I am so tired, I can barely think, but my mind won’t shut off. I keep trying to get back onto research, to make sense of my life but I can’t focus, I can't sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t stop—” (Her voice catches, and she presses her lips together. A second passes before she forces the next words out.)

“I can’t forget. But I also can’t remember. Not all of it. Just—these pieces. Bits that crawl in when I least expect. And when it comes... I cannot move. Breathe. I am helpless to escape it.”

(She exhales sharply, frustrated, like she hates herself for saying it.)

“Maria, the leader of this new commune, brought a doctor home. She said the baby will be born around mid-January.” (A pause. Then, the tiniest scoff, that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so resentful.) “That’s five months. Five months until—” (She stops. Another breath.) “Until this is real. Until I have to face this.”

(And then her voice shifts—tightens, sharpens like she’s trying to force steel into it.)

“But it’s not mine.” (The words come fast, desperate, like if she says it enough, she’ll believe it.) “It’s not. I know it’s not.”

(She inhales too quickly, voice trembling as she goes on—rushed, frantic—like she’s trying to outrun a danger that’s catching up to her.)

“I can’t do this. I can’t. I'm going to stain the poor thing, I'm going to ruin it. I can’t be a mother. I can’t care for it, I can’t love it, I—I don’t want to. How could I?” (Her breath stutters, her voice turning quiet, broken—) “Not when every time I look at it, all I’ll see is them.”

(A silence. Her breathing is uneven now, rough around the edges. When she speaks again, her voice is barely above a whisper.)

“I still hear them.” (A lull, thick and trembling.) “At night, in the hallway. I think it's them. The shadows. Their footsteps, their laughter. I think I'm going crazy. I can't stop reliving it. I thought it was over the moment I burned that place. I thought I was safe. That they were gone.”

(She swallows, breath shaking.)

“I still smell them on me. It reeks.” (A horrible, suffocating admission. Then nothing.)

(Silence. The static hums, filling the empty space. And then, a sound—tearful, muffled. She’s crying. But she won’t let herself fall apart. She won’t.)

“I feel them everywhere.” (The words barely make it out. Like they weren’t meant to.)

(Then—one deep, rattling breath. Too big for her lungs, like she’s struggling to contain everything inside her.)

“It takes everything in me not to throw myself off that dam. Easy, isn't it? One jump, you fall, your bones break, you deserve every bit of the pain, and eventually you drown. Calm.” (Flat. Hollow. A simple truth.)

“Were it not for the tiny human depending on me...” (Her voice is small again. Furious. Tired. Fading.) “And until it’s out, I have to stay.”

(Silence. Long, awful silence.)

“I can’t love it.” (A raw confession. A wound.) “But I can’t kill it either.”

(Another silence. She sniffs hard, then inhales slowly, forcing the air into her lungs.)

“I have to stay alive.” (A breath. Then another.) “At least until this baby is out of me and safe.”

(Click.)

X

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #2

(The static clicks on. A breath, like she’s convincing herself she’s fine before she speaks.)

“It’s… ten-sixteen in the evening. September the eighth." (Her voice is steadier than the last recording. Detached, almost clinical, like she’s just logging facts.) “I’m in my living room.”

(A longer pause. A shift of fabric, like she’s adjusting, trying to get comfortable. Then—)

“I’m five months in now. More than halfway.” (The words land heavier than she expects. Another pause, like she’s thinking about it too much. Then—quieter—) “I’ve gotten used to the bump. It’s just… there. Part of me now. Stopping me, restricting me.”

(Another inhale, then a sigh, frustrated.)

“But the food—god. I just can’t eat.” (The words come out sharper, like she’s sick of repeating herself, sick of struggling.) “Nothing stays down except eggs. And I hate eggs now. But it’s the only thing I can stomach, so I eat them. Every damn day. Maria jokes that I've gone through most of Jackson's egg produce this month.”

(A quiet lull. A shift, and then, softer—like she’s speaking more to herself than the recorder—)

“Y'know, I hate that food is a necessity to the human physiology. That my body demands it even when I don’t want it.” (Another beat. Then, bitterly—) “Like I don’t have enough things forcing me to keep going.”

(Silence. Then, her voice drops lower, a heaviness creeping in.)

“My research has stalled. Not that it matters. I stared at the board for days now, and nothing.” (A sharp laugh.) “I’m a disappointment anyway. A waste of space. My parents left this world thinking they were handing their life’s work to someone capable. Someone who’d do something with it. Carry it forward.” (A swallow.) “Sorry, Mama. Sorry, Daddy. I blew it. I failed you.”

(Her voice stays even, but it's cracked at the edges, barely holding together.)

“I’ll be joining them soon enough. Incomplete, inadequate. Useless.”

(Silence stretches. Then, she exhales, long and controlled, like pushing that thought out of her lungs.)

“Now, Maria won’t leave me alone.” (Flat. Matter-of-fact.) “Neither will her husband, Tommy. He’s… alright. Nice, even. But they keep coming by. With food. With medicine. With advice I don’t want. They think they’re helping.” (A humourless snort.) “They won’t listen when I tell them to stop and leave me alone.”

(A pause. Then, quieter—reflective—) “Maybe that’s why they keep showing up. But I don't need their hope. I just need to stay alive, stay away and have this baby.”

(Another pause. A change in her tone—slightly lighter, curious.)

“Tommy told me today that the house across from mine isn’t empty after all. Says his brother has been living there for sometime now. Joel.” (She repeats the name, testing it in her mouth, unfamiliar.) “Said if I needed anything, I could go to him.” (A scoff.) “Like that's happening anytime soon. I don't need anything from anyone. I just need to... think.”

(Silence. Then, there's a difference in her voice—unsure, reluctant.)

“But… I’ve been watching him.” (A quiet, almost amused breath.) “Not in a way that's intrusive. He's doing it in plain sight. Wasting away, like me.” (A soft exhale, like she’s shaking her head at herself.) “He just—he has this routine. I haven't understood it yet.”

(She shifts again like she’s glancing toward the window as she speaks.)

“Every night, he sits on his porch with that guitar of his. He plays. Sometimes he sings.” (Another pause. Then, softer—) “It’s… nice. Simple.”

(The words linger, like she didn’t expect to admit them. Then, quieter—almost like a secret—)

“It helps. It calms me.”

(Another silence. The mic picks up a faint sound—her fingers rubbing against fabric, an absent movement, thoughtful.)

“I feel the baby kick when I listen.” (She exhales, almost like a laugh—small, tired, but real.) “Maria says that’s a good thing that the baby is kicking. That it means it’s healthy.” (Then, neutrally—) “I don’t care.”

(And yet, she doesn’t sound entirely convinced. Then, softer, quieter—like she hasn’t let herself think this before—)

“But I guess it’s nice to know it’s happy inside me. That I can still...”

(Another pause. Her next words are barely more than a whisper—like she isn’t even sure she wants to say them out loud—)

“That there’s something about me it likes. Even if I'm much worse than those Infected out there.”

(Silence. Then, the click of the recorder shutting off.)

X

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #3

(The static clicks on. A deep exhale, then a groan, voice laced with exhaustion.)

“My back has been killing me. I think it’s splintering apart every time I move. Which means my baby is getting bigger by the day. And happier, too, apparently.” (A tired laugh, warm despite itself.) “Kicks all through the night—doesn’t let up for even a second.”

(A beat. And then, quieter, softer—like she’s only just realizing it herself—)

“I really like it. I like thinking about it, rather than the nightmares. How it might feel to hold the baby. See it smile at me.”

(Silence, just for a second. Then—another small, breathy laugh, almost amused at herself.)

“I mean, yeah, I can’t sleep when I think of this, but… I stay up. Just listening. Feeling it move. And when I talk—like right now—ooh—oof, okay, I felt that one.” (A giggle, surprised, unguarded.) “Yeah, okay, I know you’re in there, baby. I'm listening. You having fun? Spacious enough for you?”

(Barely more than a whisper—like it’s a thought she isn’t meant to say out loud—)

“Why do you like me so much?”

(A beat. Her voice turns dry, self-deprecating—like she’s brushing it off before it can settle too deep.)

“Huh, guess you haven’t met me yet. You'll hate me just as soon.”

(Abruptly lighter—like she’s trying to reroute her own thoughts before they get too serious.)

“So, I’ve been eating more. Craving more, actually. Blueberries. Mashed potatoes, mostly. Which is good, carbohydrates are energy. Good for the baby. I've had so much of it, I swear I might give birth to a sack of potatoes instead.” (A small, wry chuckle.) “Baby doesn’t seem to mind, though. I've put on twelve pounds, easy. I feel so large.”

(Silence for a moment. And then, her voice shifts again—subtly different now. Thoughtful… curious.)

“Oh and, well. My neighbour’s made some progress. It's always nice to see.”

(A hint of amusement now, almost teasing.)

“Finally combed his hair. Patched up his shoes. Got himself a nice shirt. And—get this—he played my favourite song the other day. Handy Man.” (A small exhale, almost a sigh.) “I even sat out on the porch steps just to listen. He’s got a good voice. A real singer's voice. Maybe he was once upon a time.”

(A pause, and then—quieter, like she’s saying it more to herself—)

“Baby and I went wild for it. We hear him sing every night now, without fail.”

(Silence lingers this time. When she speaks again, her voice is different. Not playful anymore. Not light.)

“I didn't ask, but Tommy tells me Joel’s been through hell. That he's still going through it.”

(Silence lingers, stretching out like a thread pulled too tight. Then, a sharp inhale—one that shakes, just slightly, before she steadies herself.)

“Yeah. That’s something we’ve got in common in this awful world.”

(She exhales, but it’s not relief. It’s bitter, sitting on the back of her tongue.)

“I hate that we do. Some arbitrary, lonely, bitter man... and me.”

(A pause. Not empty—just full of things she doesn’t want to think about. Full of everything she’s been trying not to feel.)

But it's creeping in any way.

She’s spent so long trying not to really see him. Just some man with a permanent scowl and a slouch that almost looked like he was reverting the evolution chart back to ape. The kind of grief that takes the pressure out of a man’s steps, that hollows him out so bad you start to wonder if there’s anything left inside at all.

It was easy to ignore. To dismiss. Just another ghost of a person.

But she wasn't sure when she started watching.

Not on purpose. Not at first. She’d catch glimpses—him sitting on his porch, fingers idly plucking at the strings of his guitar, eyes staring out at nothing, lost in some place she wasn’t sure he’d ever come back from. Sometimes that pretty little girl would stop by, sit with him, and talk to him. Joel barely ever spoke. But he listened to her, hanging onto her every word.

And then Leela started listening, too.

And the more she listened, the more she saw. How he still went on patrol, and still did what he had to. How, despite all that he carried on his shoulders, he never let it slow him down. How he walked around like a man who had no reason left to live—except he was still here. Still moving, existing, even when it looked like it hurt.

She saw herself in that, and she hated it.

Because he had already given up. And she hadn’t. Not fully.

So, the words slip out before she even realizes she’s saying them. They sound strange. Foreign. Like they don’t belong to her...

“I don’t want to die.”

(She swallows. The admittance has been buried under months of fear, exhaustion and numbness.)

“If that man can do it, just live for the sake of it, why can't I?”

(It's harsh. She means it.)

“So, not dying just yet. I'm going to have this baby and I'll make it work. That's what I do best. I am not a quitter.”

(A deep inhale. Exhale. Like she’s setting a task down. Or maybe picking that task up.)

“I have too much left to do in this house. I have to finish what they started. I'm not giving up.”

(A pause. Then, almost like an afterthought—)

“For my parents. For their legacy. For me. I will not die.”

(A soft clearing of her throat. Getting back to the facts now.)

“It's eight-twenty-two in the evening, November the second. I'm in my living room. Seven months in. Um, Leela signing off.”

(Click.)

X

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #5

(The static clicks on. A deep, shuddering breath. Then another. It’s slow, controlled—like she’s fighting to keep it together.)

“Uh, eight months now. Ow... Eleven pm, I think. Kitchen. December nineteenth, right? God, my D-day's in three weeks. I just get cramps more often now.”

(She exhales, sharp and strained.)

“It’s not bad. It’s just—” (a shifting sound like she’s trying to find a comfortable position) “—it’s like having my period. Constantly. I can't believe the... shit women have to go through.”

(Another breath—this one shorter, hitching slightly at the end.)

“So, Maria’s sentenced me to bed rest now. Tommy comes by every day to check on me. I’m… I’m so grateful for them. But I really don't need anyone to...”

(A deep breath. Then, suddenly—)

“Ooh—” (A small, startled sound, not quite a groan, but close.) “Yeah, there it is. Comes and goes. I've got to start tracking that, too.”

(A long silence follows. Just static humming in the background. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter—faintly distracted, like her mind has wandered somewhere else.)

“But I’m doing okay. I think. I’m eating more. I’ve tried to move around a little, to cook for myself, but…” (a breath, then a tired huff of laughter) “…my garden is overgrown. Like, completely. It’s a jungle out there. And the house…” (she sighs, deeply, the weight of it pressing down on her words) “I keep seeing everything that needs to be fixed. Loose floorboards, dusty windows, and a leaky pipe in the kitchen. I’ve let it go to hell. Daddy would be furious.”

“I guess I’ve been too busy… I don’t know. Baking a baby? Surviving?”

(Another shift, a slight creak of whatever she’s sitting on.)

“I set up a nursery. Because the baby needs space to feel at home.” (Her tone is vague. Then, wryly—) “Heh, a nursery. If you can even call it that.”

“It’s just my old crib. In the nearest room.” (A beat.) “That’s it.”

“I wanted to do more. I really did. But it was hell just getting that stupid thing up the stairs. Had to drag it, inch by inch. Thought I was gonna throw up halfway through.” (She lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh, but it fades quickly.)

“God, this baby’s gonna hate me so much.”

(Silence. Just for a second. Just long enough for that thought to settle.)

“And what’s even scarier than that? The actual birth.” (Her voice tightens. She doesn’t want to say this, but it’s been sitting in her head for too long, and now it’s coming out whether she wants it to or not.)

“I've been warned that it’s going to hurt a lot. That it's not just a simple push.” (A breath. A hand, maybe, pressed to her stomach—may be pressing against a cramp, maybe just needing to feel the realness.)

“Like bones breaking. That’s what they say.” (A quick inhale.) “That there's going to be a lot of blood and mush. That it could last hours. The 'labour pains'. A whole day. That when it happens, I’ll need to find someone, fast. Get myself to the clinic. That I’ll need help.”

“But what if I don’t?”

(Her voice is smaller now. Fragile. Like a crack she’s been trying to plaster over, finally starting to widen.)

“What if something happens? What if it starts in the middle of the night, and I can’t get to anyone in time? What if I… what if I die? What if I die without ever seeing my baby? What if I die without finishing my research?”

(A sharp, unsteady inhale. Then silence. Heavy, pressing down on everything.)

“There was this nice old woman who came over.” (Her voice is different now, like she’s remembering, and grounding herself.) “She told me that plenty of women have done it on their own. That it’s a matter of strength and love. That I have nothing to worry about.”

“I don’t know if I believe her. The thought of blood and guts is scaring me.” (A breath, then, like she’s forcing herself to say it—) “But I have to be ready. Just in case.”

(A long pause. Then, quietly—like she’s reminding herself, she’s willing it to be true—)

“I know I won’t be alone. There are people here around me now. Joel from across the street. The old couple next door. Maria. Tommy.” (A beat. A swallow.) “But… on the off chance?”

(Another pause. Then, softer—like a vow, like a promise, like she’s holding onto it with both hands.)

“I’m going to fight like hell.”

(Click.)

X

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #6

(Click. A beat of silence. Then, her voice—soft, thoughtful, almost hesitant, like she doesn’t know why she’s saying this out loud.)

“It's December the twenty-second. Nine-seventeen in the morning. Um... Joel came by my place.”

(A pause. Then, quieter—almost to herself—)

“I don’t know why I feel the need to log that. This is supposed to be about the baby, not…” (A sigh.) “Whatever. It's not like anyone's going to hear this.”

(Then, the faintest hint of a scoff—amused, self-aware—)

“He was only here for, what, two minutes? Less than that? Just long enough to hand me some food. Tommy couldn’t bring it over—something about the Christmas celebrations in town. So, I guess Joel got stuck with it. Poor guy.”

(A beat. A shift in her voice, like she’s turning the memory over in her mind, inspecting it.)

“It’s different, seeing him up close. I’ve been watching him from across the street for months—just glimpses, shadows, the sound of his guitar carrying over, entertaining us. But when someone’s right in front of you, you see things you didn’t before.”

(She exhales, thoughtful.)

“He’s taller than I thought. Very... big.” (A soft, almost breathless chuckle, like she’s realizing how ridiculous that sounds.) “I don’t know why that surprised me. He looked tiny from all the way here.”

(A pause. Then, slower, like she’s piecing it together as she speaks—)

“He’s got more silver in his hair than I realised. I'm guessing he's around fifty. And this scar, right on his temple—looks like a bullet just barely missed him. He smells like sweat and dirt and old clothes that’ve been worn too many days in a row. And his eyes…”

(She trails off for a second, then swallows, trying to find the words.)

“They’re thin. Sad. Not in an obvious way, but—” (She exhales, frustrated, like she’s mad at herself for not explaining it right.) “—they turn down at the edges. Could be from age the way Daddy was, or could be from grief. Maybe both. He's seen too much.”

(A quiet halt. Then, abruptly—)

“He’s handsome, right? For his age.” (A beat. Then, drier—) “Not that I’d know what the hell that means. The only men in my life are Daddy and Tommy.”

(A change. Something smaller now. More personal.)

“He didn’t even knock.” (Another breath, like she’s thinking back on it.) “Wouldn’t have, if I hadn’t seen him standing there and opened the door first.”

(A pause.)

“He asked about me. The baby, I mean.”

(She says it softly, like it means more to her than she wants it to.)

“It was… weird. Having him there, asking me. S'like watching something from a distance for so long and then suddenly finding yourself in the middle of it.”

(She inhales.)

“He nodded. And that was it. Just turned and left. Now I wished I'd talked a little more. I'd like to be his friend.”

(A beat. Then, softer, almost like a realization—)

“And this morning, the snow on my pavement was gone.” (A faint, barely-there smile in her voice—) “He did it for me.”

(Silence stretches for a moment like she’s sitting with everything she just said. And then, almost too soft to hear—)

“Sweet, sad man.”

(And then, barely above a whisper—)

“He saved my life without even knowing it.”

(The static runs for a while. Click.)

X

The first wave of labour pain came like a shockwave. Sharp, deep, untimely.

Leela sucked in a tight breath, stiffening, clutching the edge of the sink as a dull ache bloomed low in her belly, deep in her bones. Her nightgown stuck to the backs of her thighs, damp, and—

She looked down. A thin stream of fluid ran down the inside of her leg, spilling onto the marble floor. Clear. Warm.

No. Her heart lurched. Her mind reeled, scrambling for numbers, for weeks, for the dates that made sense—four weeks early.

“No,” she whispered, gripping the sink tighter.

She wasn’t ready. The baby wasn’t ready.

Another wave of pain slammed into her. Worse. Like the baby inside her was twisting, pushing, trying to force its way out between her legs. She gasped, curling forward, forehead pressed against the mirror. Her reflection blurred in the fog of her breath.

Was she dying? Was the baby dying? Had she done something wrong?

Breathe. Breathe, she repeated to herself. It was probably just another cramp. Although it felt worse than usual.

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remember Maria’s voice. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

She counted. She breathed. She thought through the haze, clutching the one that mattered.

Get help.

Joel.

The name came without hesitation. She didn’t question it.

Leela stumbled out of the bathroom, one hand gripping the swell of her belly, the other steadying herself on the walls as she made her way down the stairs. She barely felt the cold wooden steps beneath her feet—just the pulsing, unbearable reduction to her thighs. Another contraction hit before she reached the bottom, and she collapsed onto the last step, twisting her ankle with a strangled sound, curling into herself.

Too fast. Too fast. Slow down.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. She wasn't prepared. Her baby was going to die, she was going to kill this baby—no.

She was saving this baby. The baby was going to live today.

She gritted her teeth, forced herself upright, and half-ran, half-fell toward the door. The night hit her like ice shards, the biting winds slashing through her thin clothes. Snow stung her bare feet, but she didn’t stop, didn’t think—just kept moving.

One house. Just one house. That was all she needed. And the baby will be safe.

She barely made it up the porch steps before the next contraction sent her crashing to her knees.

Leela gasped through the pain, body curling forward, forehead pressing against the frozen wood. She couldn’t—couldn’t—stay here. Couldn’t do this alone.

With the last of her strength, she reached up and knocked. A polite knock, at first. Stupid. She was past politeness now.

“Please help me.” Her breathless voice barely carried over the wind.

Nothing.

Inside, something crashed. A bottle? A chair? He was there. He just hadn't heard her.

So, she knocked again, harder this time. Her whole fist. Faster. Desperate.

“Joel. Please.” Her voice wavered, although louder. The next contraction was coming, she could feel it rolling over her, pulling her under—and then, from inside—something shattering onto the floor. A glass. A plate.

“I said fuck off!”

A thundering snarl, slurred and dangerous.

The force of the yell startled her back, her sore heel slipping on the icy porch, sending her stumbling into the railing. The world tilted, and then—pain.

She crumpled onto the cold wood, a ragged sob ripping from her throat as the contraction slammed into her.

She tried to breathe. Couldn’t. Tried to move. Couldn’t. Her body was locking up, shaking, curling in on itself against the cold. No one was coming. Completely alone.

She had to leave. She had to go. Joel wasn't coming.

But—she had no energy to make it to the next house.

The wind had already swallowed her footprints by the time she stumbled back through her front door. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she collapsed, the door swinging shut behind her with a dull thud. Cold. The floor was so cold. Or maybe that was her. She couldn't tell anymore.

Her eyes tracked up the daunting stairs that led right up to the bathroom, stockpiled with everything she'd need for the birth. Somewhere warm and clean.

She cried out. “No.”

She couldn't go up there. She couldn't move.

Her fingers dug into the floorboards as the next wave of pain tore through her, blinding, all-consuming, like her body was being ripped apart from the inside out. She gasped, legs curling in, a sob clawing its way up her throat.

She couldn’t do this.

She needed help.

But there was no one. Joel had sent her away, possibly passed out drunk. No one else was awake. No one knew. Of course—it was Christmas Eve. Everyone would be up at the square, raising their cups in celebration.

She pressed her forehead to the floor, breath shuddering against the wood. It hurt so much. It was too much.

And still, the baby kept coming.

The contractions came in surges, pulling her under, like dark waves on a cliff, and stealing the air from her lungs with every swell.

She lost track of time. Minutes. Hours. An epoch.

Her body wasn’t her own anymore. No, it was ravaged by the pangs and pangs of shooting pain. It was something else entirely—a force of nature, unstoppable, breaking her open, splitting her apart.

She couldn't stop trembling. Somewhere in the haze of pain, she thought of her mama. Her mama never got to do this; it was why she got her. She thought of the women who had done this before, utterly alone, on dirt floors, in darkened rooms. She thought of how she’d sworn she would never be one of them.

And yet—she was.

She whimpered, nails scraping weakly against the wood. “Please, baby. Please don't do this to me.”

She couldn’t do this. She had to do this.

The next contraction ripped through her, and she screamed. The sound barely made it past the walls. The winds outside devoured her cry for help.

She had to move.

Leela’s hands shook as she crawled across the floor, belly sagging, breath uneven. Her body felt alien, now it really didn’t belong to her anymore—just another one of her machines grinding itself down to dust, gears forcing, and bent on one purpose. Pushing this child out.

Her head swam. She was soaked in sweat. Every muscle in her body clenched and burned.

Get up, Leela.

She made it to the kitchen on sheer instinct, her knees bruising against the tile, ankle smarting, fingers scrambling at the counter.

Something soft. To sit on. To lie on. A towel.

Her hands closed around one. She fumbled to turn on the tap, let the water run warm, and then laid the cloth on the floor. The heat bloomed through the fabric as she slogged onto it, already improving the sensations.

Okay. Okay. Think.

She was alone. She was doing this alone. It was okay.

Her arms trembled as she lowered herself down, lying back, spine flat to the floor, trying to find some way to ease the vicious fire tearing her open.

She was gasping, sobbing, whispering half-broken things under her breath—prayers, curses, for her mother. Mostly her mother. She imagined her looming over her, holding her hand, stroking her hair, telling her she was so brave. It felt good, until it didn't.

“Please, please, please...” she begged no one.

Another contraction hit.

Her entire body seized. The pain was a wave—no, an earthquake, this time, tearing through the core of her. This may have broken a bone in her ribs, she was sure of it.

She clenched her jaw so hard she thought she might crack a tooth.

A sound ripped out of her. Somewhere between a wail and a growl. She didn't even know what made sense anymore. Breathing? Dying? Choking?

She was splitting apart. She knew it.

But it wasn’t stopping. She couldn’t stop it.

She pressed her head to the floor, chest heaving.

Think, Leela. Think. You know what to do. What?

She had to push.

Yes, push. She’d heard it before, the doctor had specific about that, she knew the basics, but now—now it was real. Now it was her body, her baby, her pain.

She adjusted her legs, her back arched off the floor. She sucked in a gasping breath, readying herself. She shook her head, and everything else out. She was saving this baby. She was saving her baby.

“Push,” she breathed.

Another shockwave of agony rolled through her.

Push. Push hard.

She nodded, “okay, okay,” and braced herself. Breathed in through the nose, out through the mouth. Again, and again, until she felt like she was ready.

And she pushed.

A scream tore from her throat. The pain was unreal, as if her insides were tearing open. Pulverizing. This was torture.

“I can't, I can't,” she sobbed.

She let her head fall back against the floor. Panting. Sobbing. Wishing death upon everyone in this fucked-up world. Wishing death upon her drunk neighbour, Joel. Wishing death on Tommy and Maria for not being here. Wishing death upon everyone but her child.

Her body felt too weak, too small to hold so much pain, so much life.

Push, Leela. Save the baby.

But she kept going. Over and over, she pushed and pushed, between sobs, between minutes that stretched into eternities. Between the waves of contractions that seemed to shorten and shorten. Seconds. Cried for her mother so hard, she must've heard her from the heavens. Cried hard for anyone, someone to come help her.

And then—a movement deep inside. A twist. Another deep breath, and she pushed, another scream storming these empty hallways.

A ripping, a world-ending agony, a slip, and a sudden, unbearable release.

And then—a wail. Light. Reedy. Shuddering. Alive.

Leela groaned with the spasms. Her body was ruined, quivering from pain, from exhaustion, from the unthinkable, unbearable weight of what she had just done. She had done it.

She gasped, her head rolling back against the cold floor, her chest rising and falling in ragged, disbelieving breaths.

She had done it. She had done this all by herself.

Her breath caught, and for a moment, everything else vanished. The cold floor beneath the towel. The ache in her bones. The pulsing, raw wound inside her. All of it... gone. Just for a fleeting second. It was over. She was alive. Her baby...

Another cry—louder, stronger. Needy.

Her hands, trembling so violently she could barely feel them, fumbled downward, searching.

My baby. Where's my baby?

Then there it was. Warm. Tiny. Slick with blood and life. All hers.

She nearly collapsed over the baby as she gently lifted it to her chest, curling her body around it, sheltering, shielding, warming.

So small. So ridiculously, beautifully small.

A shuddering breath tore from within her. She pressed her forehead to the damp, wriggling heft in her arms, her baby. Her baby. Her whole life.

She wept, her body trembling with it, the last remnants of pain and terror and exhaustion spilling out of her in waves. It was over, she was okay now.

The storm outside raged on. Time was lost to her, meaning, too. The wind howled, the snow fell, and the world went on. But here, in the quiet, in the warmth of her own arms, her own home—she had survived.

Leela didn’t know how long she stayed like that—hunched over the tiny body in her arms, shaking, holding, not letting go.

It could've been more and more eternities. But finally, it was the cold that finally snapped her out of it. The wetness soaked through her clothes. The sweat cooled on her skin. The lingering ache clawed through every inch of her.

She blinked down at the baby's little feet, her breath hitching.

I should look at my baby.

The thought terrified her. For months, she’d been carrying this thing, this life, this... stranger.

She had felt it move, twist, push inside her. She had known it was real. But she had never seen it. It was hers, she knew that much. Her little baby.

Her arms loosened, just enough to shift the child. The tiny body squirmed, legs kicking weakly, the cry dwindling into a soft, hiccupping whimper.

Leela’s fingers, still trembling, moved on their own. Swept gently across damp, wrinkled skin at the soft, beating chest. Over the little fingers. A little clenched fist. And then—a face.

Oh.

Leela’s breath left her all at once.

“Hi, baby,” she whispered.

Her baby blinked up at her, squinting, face scrunched in the effort. Big, beautiful, brown eyes. Her arms curled tighter, drawing the tiny body closer, nudging the baby’s warm skin against her own. She ran her fingers through the wet wisps of dark hair and smoothed a shaking hand down the curve of a round, soft cheek.

Her baby made a sound—a tiny sigh, a noise so small, so utterly fragile that Leela broke.

“Hello.” A laugh—small, disbelieving, almost hysterical—escaped her lips. She made this. She had done this all by herself. The baby blinked at her, yawning, face still scrunched in that newborn way—like she was confused by the world.

Leela understood the feeling. She swallowed, throat raw from screaming, her fingers still tracing over delicate features. The button nose. The furrowed brow. The teeny tiny mouth. The soft fuzz around her cheeks.

She should be saying something. She should be feeling something. That spark of love. That spark of want, to protect, to keep.

Instead—there was nothing.

Her fingers barely twitched when they ran along the baby's arm again, the damp skin cooling now, sticky with blood.

She should cut the umbilical cord. She should clean it. She should wrap it up. She should keep it warm. She should—do something.

Her hands quivered as she shifted, trying to brace herself against the slick, cool tile. Her limbs were shaking, still too drained, but she forced them to move.

She knew where they were. The scissors. Leela let out a shuddering breath and half-crawled, half-dragged herself toward the stand, the floor sticky beneath her, her own blood and fluids trailing behind.

The baby let out a sound—a whimper, a breath against her. She shushed the baby, rocking it on instinct. “I'm still here. Ssh.”

Leela gasped through her teeth, reaching, reaching, finding. Her fingers fumbled against the metal. Grasped the handle. Slipped them into her grip.

Her breath came fast, too fast.

She pressed the scissors between the cord, hesitated.

It was so pale, twisted, true. This had been her lifeline. The little softness that had appended them together for months. Somehow, she didn't want to do it. Her vision blurred—would the baby even be hers anymore? Would it still know her?

She pressed the blades closed. A soft, wet snip.

A sharp pulse of pain tore through her stomach, a wetness slipped right out, and she sucked in a breath. Leela flinched, gasped, and held herself up. The baby gasped before it wailed another strident, shaking cry.

There. Done. Her baby was separate from her now. Their one unit, broken apart.

Leela swallowed hard, vision swimming in tears, limbs shaking. The scissors clattered to the floor.

Her chest ached as she held her child. Not from love. Not from relief. Just the echoing emptiness within her. She was just an empty vessel now, clinking around, making noise.

The baby sighed, its breath hot against her skin, and Leela blinked, staring down at it.

She had imagined this moment. Imagined some heaven-sent burst of happiness. Imagined weeping in relief, with gratitude. Imagined love so strong it would knock the breath from her lungs. Imagined kisses pressed to ten tiny fingers, imagined a warmth so bright and overwhelming it would banish all the dark things inside her. Imagined that something inside her would wake up, ignite, change. That she would feel like herself again.

All she felt was exhaustion. She was just so, so tired. And soon, the thought came and went too fast to hold onto.

I shouldn’t have done this.

Her breath caught. She squeezed her eyes shut.

No. No, don’t think that. You’re disgusting. You're evil.

But she could feel it, creeping in at the edges.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Just love it. Love your baby.

The featherlight weight in her arms was heavy. Too heavy. She had to hold on. Make sense of her commitment.

She swallowed thickly and tried to whisper, barely above a breath, “You’re real. And mine.”

The baby stirred, a soft, sleepy noise leaving it.

Leela waited again. Anytime now. The warmth, the love, the connection. That the sound would evoke whatever was dormant in her. She was sure of it.

It didn’t come. Not even a little.

Her poor baby deserved better. Better than an impaired, stained, sick, disgusting, unloving mother.

Her arms curled tighter around the baby, almost desperate, still apologetic.

“I'm sorry,” she cried softly. “I'm so sorry, baby.”

But some notion of sound registered in her ears. The dull thud of boots on her porch. The hesitant creak of a door opening. A pause.

And then—“Holy shit.”

Leela didn’t lift her head, but she heard him. Tommy.

His boots hit the floor hard, fast—tracking the smeared trail of blood, of fluids, of everything that had poured out of her, dragged behind her like a crime scene.

Tommy's breath caught. A beat passed, and suddenly, he was moving.

His voice was a sharp inhale, half a curse, half a prayer. “Jesus—Leela.”

She barely had the strength to lift her head, but when she did—just the smallest movement—relief broke in her chest. They weren't alone. They had someone here. Someone was here for them.

“Tommy!” she sobbed.

He was already dropping to his knees.

“Okay, alright, I gotcha—” His hands were warm, gripping her shoulders first, then moving—checking, searching. His voice and breath were frantic. “My god, just how long—? Never mind, never mind. You’re okay. You’re okay, sweetheart. I gotcha.”

His eyes landed on the baby. A sharp, shaken breath, like he didn't know if he was happy or devastated.

Leela felt her own body shake, from exhaustion, from shock, from everything. With careful fingers, Tommy pulled his jacket from his shoulders, bundling it in his hands before reaching out.

“Here, honey, let me—let me take the baby off you for a second.”

Leela hesitated. Just for a moment. Then, without even realizing she was doing it, she let him.

Her baby was pried away from her, leaving her cold.

Her breath shuddered out of her chest as she fell back, half-conscious, as Tommy cradled the tiny, fragile thing in his hands.

The silence stretched. What did he think? Was the baby healthy? Did anything look weird? Was it still breathing normally? Was it choking? Was it safe? Was it hungry?

“Christ,” Tommy whispered, his voice breaking. “Look at you, beautiful. You wanted to see your mama that quick, huh?”

The baby let out a soft, breathy noise. A laugh or a sigh? A sound too small, too new to understand. It made Leela break out a tired grin.

Tommy’s face softened. “Hi, girlie,” he murmured, breathless. “It’s your Uncle Tommy. Oh, she's perfect. And so strong."

“Girl?” she whispered. She hadn't even thought to check.

Tommy nodded, still half-dazed, his thumb stroking over the baby’s tiny, blood-slicked fingers.

“Yeah,” he breathed, and his hand found Leela’s hair, damp and clinging to her forehead. He swept it back, easing her for a moment. “You did real good, mama. And you did it all alone. Fuckin' superhero.”

Leela let out something between a laugh and a sob. Her body slumped back to the floor.

“I can't move,” she rasped, her voice breaking.

Tommy nodded once, sharp. “Right, here’s what I’m gonna do,” he murmured, devising. “I’m gonna quickly wash the baby, then I’m carrying you upstairs. Maria’s on her way and she's gonna clean you up. We’re gonna take care of you, alright?”

Leela just nodded. Because what else was there to do?

She had survived. Her baby girl had survived. She had brought this life into the world.

Now, she had to figure out how to keep going.

X

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #7

(Click. A beat of silence. Then a breath—shaky, slow. When she speaks, her voice is raw, worn thin, like she hasn’t used it in days.)

“I’ve shut them all out. Locked the door. No more Maria. No more Tommy. No more—anyone.”

(The quiet hum of static. Then, softer, almost to herself—)

“If they see it—if they see that I don’t love her the way I should, they’ll take her from me. And I’ll be alone. Alone with the pain. Alone with the shadows in the hallway.”

(A sharp inhale.) “I can’t let that happen. She’s mine.”

(A long pause, then a slow, exhaled breath.)

“Day nine. January fourth. Baby girl is... still healthy. Maria said she’s too small, but—she’s here. She's okay. She’s breathing. I’m nursing her, constantly. Every two hours. Sometimes less. She sleeps, she feeds, she excretes and repeats. I thought—”

(A wry, breathy laugh, humourless.)

“I don’t know what I thought. That she’d do more? That she’d be awake, that she’d—hold my hand? That she’d know me? Smile, laugh, something.”

(A beat. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter, duller, more clinical. She's speaking facts now.)

“But no. She doesn’t know anything yet. I understand that her brain development will be slow. Her motor skills will take time to come in. She is gaining knowledge, and she's intelligent. She tracks the light, she knows crying is a catalyst for food. Now, everything she learns, she’ll learn from me.”

(A breath. Like that is just now sinking in.)

“And I—I am—”

(A beat. A breath chokes in her throat. Then, a whisper—raw, broken—)

“I am bled dry.”

(A sharp exhale. A sniff. She presses on, voice more distant, detached.)

“I eat when I can. Throw up more often than not. Try to sleep, try to think sometimes. I scratch twenty integers on the board and try to satisfy it as a functional equation. My brain and body—it’s still not mine. It’s just... a machine. My baby's machine. Warm flesh, arms to hold her, her nutrition source. She doesn’t love me. She only cries when I’m gone.”

(A sigh. A sound—barely there. Like she might be rubbing at her face, at her tired, sleepless eyes.)

“I want to love her. I want to… know her. But I look at myself, and I don’t—” (A sharp inhale like she’s swallowed a bitter pill.) “I don’t recognise the person anymore. My body, my face—it’s all... wrong. I'm fat, weak, and can barely hold myself up.”

(She moves around, fabric rustling, the sound of creaking, like she’s leaning against a wall, trying to hold herself up.)

“My stomach is soft now. Loose, almost. There are marks, these pale lines like something clawed me open from the inside. Because something... did. My breasts leak, my thighs scrape each other—so alien—and my down there—”

(Another pause, but this time it stretches—too long—before she speaks again. When she does, the words are hushed, like a secret she’s afraid to say out loud, even in the privacy of this recording.)

“I can’t imagine a man loving me now. Not that I ever could before, but now—” (Her breath wavers.) “Now it’s impossible. I am not a woman anymore. I'm an unloved, ruined mother.”

(Then, soft—barely audible—)

“I feel like a monster. A monster who can't love her own child.”

(A deep, shaky breath.)

“But... I will try. I have to. I can’t let her go. She’s—keeping me sane. Giving me a reason to wake up. A reason to exist that isn’t research. She needs me. And I—I need her.”

(A swallow. A deep, slow inhale.)

“It’s... symbiosis. We are symbiotes. Like the inside of the Infected—she’s this incredible, complex brain. I’m the infection.” (A beat.) “Yes, always the infection.”

(Another silence. Then, barely above a whisper—)

“But it will work. In some time, it has to.”

(So soft it almost disappears—like a prayer, like a plea—)

“Please, let this get better. Please.”

(Click.)

X

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #8

(A long pause. The faintest sound of static, like she’s hesitating, maybe rubbing a finger over the mic. Then—soft, almost disbelieving—)

“This man… Joel. My neighbour. He’s here. In my home.”

(Another pause, like she can’t quite believe it herself. A rustle—maybe she’s moving, pressing the heel of her palm against her temple, thinking.)

“I thought—” (A breath, quick and shallow, like the memory unsettles her.) “I thought he was gonna put his boot through my ribs. The way he looked at me at the door that night—” (She exhales sharply.) “He hates me.”

(Quieter—like she’s marvelling at the absurdity of it all—)

“And now he’s upstairs. With… Maya.”

(A sound, soft and unexpected—giggle. The kind that sneaks up, breathless, like it doesn’t quite belong.)

“Maya. My baby’s name is Maya.” (She tries the name again, savouring it.) “My daughter. I’m her mama.”

(A slow exhale, tone shifting, tired but full of quiet wonder.)

“Maya. Such a pretty name. I think it was my mother’s. Or my sister’s? I can’t remember.” (A beat. Then, softer—wistful—) “But they were beautiful. Just like Maya.”

(Another silence, stretching. Then, a little lighter, like she’s almost smiling—like she’s trying to smile—)

“Joel said it rhymes with Leela. That Maya looks just like me.”

(There's fondness there, or confusion, or she hasn’t quite figured out what it is yet.)

“Every time he’s near me, I expect myself to bolt. Run the other way. But I don’t. I just—” (A breath, slow, searching.) “I just want him to stay.”

(She stops like she’s startled herself. Like she hadn’t meant to say that out loud.)

“Not with me. Just… in the house. Breathing. Silent. A friend.”

(The last word is strange on her tongue. Like she’s testing it out, seeing if it fits. It doesn’t, not really. Not yet.)

“He’s a good man. A darling man, even.” (A half-snort, like she knows how ridiculous that sounds, but it's true.) “Nothing at all like the hotheaded ass he looks like. He isn't drunk anymore.”

(A sigh, long and slow, like she’s falling and doesn't want to admit it.)

“He's fixing that crib for her. He’s so good with Maya. So natural, like he’s been a father forever. He's bonded with her so easily. And I think—” (A swallow.) “I think my baby loves him.”

(Her voice tightens.)

“She smiled at him today.” (Then, lower—hurt, guilty, and in between—) “She’s never smiled at me. That's alright. At least she's feeling good. She has someone who loves her.”

(Silence. A stretch of it. Then, something fragile, almost apologetic—like she’s saying it to the air, to herself—)

“My daughter has the prettiest smile. Like a little blooming sunflower.”

(Another pause, something thick caught in her throat. A sniff. Then, shifting—pushing forward, changing course.)

“But Joel—” (A breath, bracing.) “Yeah, he does not like me.”

(A rustle. Maybe she’s pressing her hand to her face, rubbing at her temples, like saying it out loud makes it more real.)

“I don't expect him to, I know what I really am. In fact—” (A quiet laugh, humourless.) “He called me a coward to my face. He's not wrong. I'm the coward who couldn't die. I'm the coward who can't love her baby. I am a coward for asking him to take my baby away. But I... I'm just so exhausted.”

(The words land heavy like they’ve been circling in her head for days, refusing to leave.)

“He watches me. Glaring. Every time I try to nurse Maya, every time she cries, every time I—” (She exhales, sharp, frustrated—at him? At herself?) “Like he’s waiting for me to mess up. To choke up. To drop her.”

(A pause. Then, bitter—resentful, defensive—soft.)

“And I get it. I do. Would anyone let a monster near a baby?”

(Silence. Thick, oppressive. Then—quieter, almost thoughtful—)

“But he doesn’t ask questions. Not like Maria. Not like Tommy. He doesn’t push. He just… is. He brings me food. He tells me to sleep. He has taught me to hold Maya.” (A breath, settling in tired and resigned.) “I’m grateful for that.”

(A long pause, like she’s trying to decide if she wants to say the next thing out loud.)

“I just hope he doesn’t leave soon.”

(It is creeping in at the edges. It's bitter, knowing.)

“Not for me. Not for anything to do with me.” (She exhales, sharp like she’s forcing the truth out before she can swallow it back down.) “It’s Maya. It’s always Maya.”

(Her voice tightens. Not angry, not quite. Just… something else. Aching, raw.)

“He doesn’t care about me. He barely looks at me. But he looks after my baby. Holds her like she's his own. That's all I want.”

(A breath. Then, a half-laugh—small, almost embarrassed, almost resigned, like she can’t believe she’s about to say this out loud.)

“He’s too useful around here.” (A beat. Then, even quieter—like a confession, like she shouldn’t want it but does—)

“I want to keep him with Maya always.”

(Silence. Then, a quiet click.)

X

L.REED HOME VIDEO #1

(The screen wobbles, unfocused, a mess of pivoting shapes and the worn floorboards of the home. A voice, low and grumbling, cuts through the static—)

“Jesus. Is this thing on? Shit’s fucked.”

(Laughter—delicate, chiming—before another voice, lighter, teasing, cuts in—)

“Joel, just—” (a giggle, the sound of movement, a blur of fingers reaching for the camera) “Give it here. I'll do it.”

“No, no, no—go to her, darlin’. I got this.”

“You’re shaking it.”

“I ain't shakin’ it. It's the damn camera.” (A pause, more rustling, moving.) “Just go.”

(The camera swings wildly before settling, focusing—somewhat shakily—on Leela. She’s sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, in summer clothes, the warm glimmer of lamplights catching on the sharp edges of her face. She looks… younger. Softer. Happier. It's obvious, it's the love glow. There's a small smile playing at her lips, her eyes full of distinctive excitement as she glances toward Maya.)

“Okay.” (She starts, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, her voice turning sunnier, less factual.) “It’s September the eighth. Maya, aged nine months. Living room. The time is… seven-twenty-two in the evening. The temperature is—”

(A low chuckle from behind the camera—dry, amused—before Joel cuts in—)

“The hell are you doin’?”

(Leela frowns at the lens, scratching at her forehead, clearly exasperated.) “I’m… stating my controls.”

(Joel snorts.) “What, you sendin’ a rocket to the moon? It’s a goddamn home video. Just go to the kid.”

(Leela rolls her eyes, muttering—) “So unsystematic.”

(The camera tilts and refocuses—Maya’s in the frame now, sitting in the middle of the floor, a toy horse clutched in her tiny hands. She’s all soft curls and chubby cheeks, her dress a blur of little embroidered flowers. She blinks up at her mother, wide-eyed, then over at the camera, grinning when Joel snaps his fingers to get her attention.)

“Over here, baby girl. Here.” (His voice is softer now, coaxing.)

“Da-da, hi!” (Maya squeals, all four teeth and dimples, her tiny hands slapping at the carpet in excitement.)

“There's that winning smile. Hi.”

(Leela laughs, reaching out to smooth a hand over Maya’s curls.)

“Oh, you look so pretty. What is that you're wearing?”

(Maya clutches at her dress, scrunching it up in her little fists, bouncing where she sits.) “S’flowers. Dwess... flowers.”

“Wow. I don't have one like that.” (Leela coos, her face softening. She holds Maya's little hand between her index and thumb.) “Okay, okay—Maya, can you tell your da-da what you ate today?”

(Maya blinks, considering this. Then—)

“Mama.”

(Joel huffs out a quiet chuckle from behind the camera. Leela tries again, biting back a smile—)

“No, no, baby—what did you eat?”

(Maya grins, showing off all four tiny teeth.)

“Da-da.”

(Joel outright snorts this time, shifting the camera slightly as he zooms closer. Right on Maya and Leela's faces.)

“I've got bite marks to prove it.”

(Leela groans, nudging Maya's arm playfully.) “Maya, listen to Mama. What was it you ate, love? Was it… blue…? A berry?”

(Maya’s whole face lights up in recognition, and then—)

“Booooo-berries.”

(Leela bursts out with a giggle. Joel chuckles low in his throat.)

“Did you get that?” (Leela beams, glancing up at the camera, her elation clear.) “She said it!”

(A pause. Then—Joel curses under his breath, the camera jerking to the left.)

“Shit, I think I forgot to hit record.”

(Leela's head snaps up, eyes wide.) “Aw, Joel, c’mon.”

“I told you, darlin'—”

(Cut to black.)

X

L.REED HOME VIDEO #2

(The camera hums to life, adjusting, focusing. A golden afternoon spills through the windows, warm light pooling over the wooden floors. The soft strum of a guitar filters through the room—enduring, unhurried—followed by a low, familiar voice.)

“Yes, I'll admit that I'm a fool for you… Because you're mine, I walk the line…”

(The camera shakes and zooms in—Joel sits on the floor, legs stretched out, the guitar balanced against his knee. Maya sits between his legs, tiny fists tapping at the base of the instrument, her chubby fingers drumming against the wood in wild, uncoordinated beats. Every few seconds, she squeals, as if she’s part of the song, as if she knows she belongs in this moment.)

(Off-camera, a quiet laugh.)

“You’re a natural, baby girl.” (Leela teases, zooming in on the way Maya bounces in place, her curls bobbing, her wide, toothy grin bright enough to rival the sunlight.)

(Joel breaks off mid-chord, glancing up sharply. His brow furrows, like he’s just realized he’s being filmed.)

“Hey, get that thing outta my face.”

“But it’s your birthday video.”

“You're two days early.”

“I already turned on the camera, Joel. Go with it.”

(A sigh. He eventually sets the guitar aside, lifting Maya onto his lap, resting his chin lightly on top of her head. His fingers roll at her tiny palms.)

“Fine. Whaddya want?”

“Okay, first off—state your name, age, date, and time.”

(Joel gives the camera a flat look.) “I ain’t one of your science experiments.”

“Just do it.”

(Another sigh, this one profound. He rubs a hand down his face, muttering—)

“Can't believe this... alright. Joel Miller. Fifty-six. September the twenty-fourth. And it’s… I dunno, one in the afternoon. I am still waitin' on those greasy-ass cheeseburgers I was promised.” (Joel winks.)

(Leela muffles small giggles) “Patience is a virtue. Now, what’s your birthday wish this year?”

(He scrubs at his eyes, exhaling through his nose.) “Jesus, Leela.”

“Say it.”

(A hum. Joel shifts, adjusting Maya on his lap. When he finally answers, his voice is quieter, like he’s not sure he wants it caught on record—)

“Makin’ it to fifty-eight.”

(Leela hums.) “Okay, what... do you think about your birthday present?”

(Maya smacks at his cheeks before he can answer, her little hands patting at his stubble like she’s trying to figure out what it is. Joel huffs, catching her wrist before she can shove her fingers in his mouth.)

“My what?”

“Can’t believe you forgot. Think fast.”

(A set of keys flies through the air. They bounce off his chest, jangling, but his reflexes are still quick—he catches them before they can hit Maya.)

(The camera tilts and spins. Leela comes into the frame now, just her eyes, unfocused, wearing that playfully serious expression, her lips pursed like she’s pretending to take notes.)

“Signs of cognitive decline. Memory loss and poor motor functions.” (She shakes her head.) “I might have to look into that later.”

(The camera spins again and focuses back on Joel. He's glaring at her.)

“Cognitive... you big dork. You’re lucky I’m holdin’ the kid.” (He lifts the key, squinting at it, realization dawning.) “So, the Maranello is really all mine now?”

(Leela laughs, shifting the camera slightly, catching the way Joel’s eyebrows lift, just a fraction.)

“All yours. Surprise!”

(Joel exhales, rolling the key between his fingers. He looks back at her, a little sceptical.)

“And what, we’re supposed to ride out on the I-22 till the sun sets? You realize I can't drive the thing anywhere?”

“Sounds like a steady date.”

(Joel snorts, shaking his head, but there’s peace in his face—softer, fondness—that he doesn’t bother hiding this time. He glances at Leela, opening his mouth to say something, but...)

(The camera tilts again, zooming in on Maya. She’s sucking on her fist now, watching the two of them.)

“One more.” (Leela coaxes, voice gentle.) “One last present. Maya, look at Mama. Like we practised, okay? Happy…”

(Maya blinks, distracted, then grins at Joel. She curls and uncurls her fingers, rocking back and forth.)

“Da-da, comma, comma, comma.”

(Joel snickers, adjusting her in his arms. He points back at Leela, forcing her attention. He wants to hear this present right now.)

“Your mama’s talkin’ to you, baby girl.”

(Maya glances at Leela, her tiny hand lifting, fingers wiggling in a wave.) “Hi, Mama.”

“Hi, baby.” (Leela laughs.) “Okay, you have to say it now. Happy…”

“Happy!” (Maya chirps, delighted.)

“Birthday.”

“Bo-day!” (She claps, bouncing excitedly in Joel’s lap.)

“Da-da.”

“Daaaaa-da.”

“Yay.”

(Joel grins, wide and real, lifting Maya up in the air, to which she squeals. He presses one, two, three kisses to her cheeks. With a voice like molasses for his little girl—)

“Thank you, sweetheart.” (Then he glances at Leela behind the camera.) “You're gettin' big party favours.”

“Can't wait.”

(The screen lingers, blurring at the edges when it meets with the light, the sound of laughter filling the frame—soft, real, warm—before the camera finally cuts to black.)

X

R. THESIS AUDIO FILE – L. REED - #241

(A burst of static. A faint click as the recorder whirs to life. Then—silence. Not complete, but close. The soft rhythm of breathing.)

“Okay.” (A pause. A sharp inhale, like she’s readying herself.) “Okay. This is—this is me. Leela. Age thirty. The time is eleven sixteen in the evening, on November twenty-third. Basement. And this is real, working, undeniable proof.”

(The rustle of paper. The scrape of a pen tapping against something solid. A controlled breath, like she’s holding back—excitement, disbelief, a feeling bigger than both.)

“I have solved it.” (A beat. Then, sharper, firmer—) “I solved the Riemann Hypothesis.”

(Silence. Then a small laugh—half-breathless, half-shaken, like she still doesn’t quite believe her own words.)

“I don’t even know who is gonna listen to this.” (Another laugh, quieter now.) “I guess I don’t care. I just—I need to say it. I need it to exist somewhere beyond my head, beyond these pages. I have just solved the goddamn Holy Grail of Mathematics.”

(More rustling. Paper shuffling. A faint scratch of pen against the margins, like she’s still working, still checking, still making sure.)

“I don’t even know what that means anymore. A hundred and fifty years ago, it would’ve changed everything. Even just twenty. It would’ve rewritten how we understand numbers, patterns in the universe, and how we predict and solidify prime distributions. Gene sequencing, theoretical physics, rebuilding our quantum computers, our shitty communication systems—it was the missing key. We suddenly have a roadmap to the structure of numbers. To the future.”

“And I-I think... I think, and I might be wildly mistaken, but if Cordyceps follows some sort of biological network or pattern with our neurons—in terms of protein folding or catabolism—I assume disease modelling relies on prime-based arithmatics. That would mean safer genetic research. That means a possible...” (Her voice falters slightly, like she’s thinking too fast, trying to hold onto a world that doesn’t exist anymore.)

“And now?” (A short, bitter laugh.) “Now it means nothing. The world ended anyway. Nature, unlike the infection, has run its course.”

(She exhales hard, like trying to steady herself. Then—softer, slower—she speaks again, like it’s fragile.)

“I don’t know if I should tell her. If she'll even understand. Of course not, she can't even speak.”

(A shift—fabric moving. A sound—small, barely there—someone breathing, a rustle of movement.)

“My Maya.” (Her voice is cautious now.) “She’s asleep. She’s got her hand curled up against my neck, and she does that thing—” (A breath of amusement, faint but warm.) “—where she scrunches up her nose when she dreams. She's my darling.” (A soft chuckle.)

“She doesn’t know the world used to mean things like this. Used to have things like this. A world where proving a theorem could change the future, where it could make you matter.”

(A lengthy pause. When she speaks again, her voice is lower, like it’s delicate and in her hands.)

“My parents spent their whole lives chasing something they could leave behind. Mama—Jesus, Mama—I think she loved this problem more than anything else in the world. She used to say it was poetry, that it was—” (a breath, remembering, then softens—) “that it was the closest thing to God she’d ever seen.”

(A swallow. Then—firmer, like she’s gripping something real.)

“They didn’t get to finish it. But I did.”

(A change in sound, the creak of an old chair, the faintest shuffle—someone moving in their sleep? The pattern of breathing remains the same, undisturbed.)

“And now what?” (A small, wry exhale.) “What the hell do I do with it? The world it belonged to is gone. The journals, the universities, the mathematicians who would’ve lost their minds over this—it’s all gone.”

(Silence stretches long enough that it almost feels like the recording has stopped. But then—softly—)

“But my parents aren’t.”

(The sound of fingers drumming against the table. Rhythmic. Thoughtful.)

“They lived for this. Died for this. And now it’s done. They deserve that. Their work deserves that. I deserve that. And if no one’s left to care—then I’ll care. I’ll make sure it exists. That it doesn’t just die here with me. This is their legacy. I have given too much, lost too much.”

(A long inhale. The softest stirring—fabric rustling again, the faint creak of old bedsprings, a body curling closer. A tiny sound—so small, so sleepy—Maya moaning in her sleep.)

(Leela’s breath hitches. Then, lower now—almost a whisper—)

“I have to tell Joel tonight. My pragmatist. He's the first person who has to know. It's always him. I just... I love him so much. He matters to me more than any proof in this world. More than any equation or legacy. I hope he loves me, too.” (A small laugh, tired but real.) “He’s not gonna understand a thing. Gonna tell me I’m crazy. And maybe I am. But I think—I think I have to do this. I have to get this out there, out of Jackson. Joel will know what to do; he always does.”

(A long pause. The sound of fabric shifting again. Then—faint, barely above a whisper—)

“This is far from over. Because I have not just solved any equation. I have proved that humanity is not done yet. We prevail.”

(Click.)

X

L.REED HOME VIDEO #11

(The camera jolts to life, static crackling before the lens steadies. The frame is tight on Ellie’s face, her grin wide, her freckles vivid under the glow of the living room light. She holds the camera at arm’s length, angling it just right.)

“This is Captain Ellie Williams to ground control. It is officially time to… paaaaarty!”

(The camera pivots wildly, zooming in and out like at a chaotic rave, the frame cutting to Maya. The toddler bounces on her feet as the camera goes all over, hands flailing in pure excitement, her curls bouncing with her. She giggles, caught up in Ellie’s energy.)

“Yeah, baby’s got moves. Shake it, shake it—uh-huh, uh-huh. Yeah, go, Maya. Go, Maya.”

(Maya claps, delighted, then reaches for the camera with grabby little hands, eyes bright and pleading.)

“Pease, gimme, Evie!”

“You wanna see it?” (Ellie waggles the camera, teasing.)

(From off-screen, Joel’s voice cuts in, dry, unimpressed—)

“Ellie, do not give her the damn camera. She’s gonna break it.”

(The screen tilts, spins, refocuses. Now it captures the living room—the warm, homey clutter of it. Joel and Leela are curled up on one couch, Joel’s arm stretched lazily along the back, fingers just brushing Leela’s cheek and temple. Across from them, Tommy and Maria lounge on the other sofa, relaxed, a drink in Tommy’s hand.)

(Maya is not having it; she attempts to leap for the camera.) “Evie, gimme!”

(It's Tommy who hoots.) “Oi, trouble. Jesus, gonna scream the street down.”

(She squeals back in anger.) “Ah, no, no. Gimme!”

(Meanwhile, the camera zooms dramatically in on Joel’s face, the frame locking onto his beard, then his nose, then back to one irritated eye. In an exaggerated deep voice—)

“Joel, the Contractoooor.”

(Joel exhales sharply, shooting her a look.)

“Shut that thing off. We’re talkin’ here.”

“You’re such an assh—”

(Static. Black screen.)

—

(The footage stutters back to life—more static, a blur of movement as Ellie fumbles the camera, laughing.)

(Ellie in mock horror—) “Oh no, we lost transmission! Lieutenant down! Ground control, come in!”

(The screen whips around, a mess of limbs and floorboards before it lands back on Maya, who is now dramatically collapsed on the rug like a fallen soldier. She peeks up, eyes squinting, then throws herself fully onto her back, arms splayed out.)

(Maya giggles.) “Noooooo!”

“We have a casualty, people. The baby’s down! Baby lieutenant fought bravely, but it was just too much dance power!”

(Maya, caught up in the game, dramatically sticks out her tongue. The camera shakes as Ellie cackles, zooming in close on Maya’s sprawled-out body.)

(Ellie narrates solemnly.) “Gone too soon. Alas, she shook it too hard, too fast. We will remember the too-young Maya Miller. I will avenge—hey!”

(A hand suddenly snatches the camera from Ellie’s grip—Joel’s hand, big and firm, filling the frame as he yanks it away.)

(Joel grumbling) “Alright, that’s enough bullshit from the two of you.”

(The camera shakes as Joel turns it on Ellie, flipping the interrogation around. She blinks, caught mid-laugh, then scowls. Maya sets off into a whining, screechy cry which is silenced by Maria, who sweeps her up into her arms.)

“Da-da, no, no! Evie!”

“Give it back, Joel!”

“Yeah? How d’you like it?” (The camera zooms right into Ellie’s freckled face, awkwardly close.) “Feels real fun, don’t it?”

(Ellie shoves at him.) “Ugh, you suck.”

(The screen wobbles again, and suddenly, it shifts—click—now the camera is facing Joel, who does not know how to hold the camera properly. His thumb partially covers the lens, and he’s squinting at the screen like it personally offended him.)

“The hell is this shit? Didja break it?”

(Ellie, off-camera, laughing.) “Fucking move your thumb, man!”

“Ain’t my fault this thing’s built for tiny-ass hands—”

(Static. Black screen.)

—

(The footage stutters back to life, the lens slightly smudged, making the warm glow of the living room blur at the edges. The angle shifts as if someone’s adjusting the camera, propping it up on the table. Murmurs of conversation spill through the speakers—low laughter, the clink of glass, the distant, delighted squeals of Maya as Ellie entertains her.)

(Then, a new face fills the frame—Tommy. He squints into the lens, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he leans in, his voice a lazy drawl.)

“Damn thing even on?” (He taps the side of the camera like it’s an old radio, then glances to his left. The camera shifts as he picks it up and leans into Maria’s side, burrowing his face against her neck to press a slow kiss to her skin.)

(Maria laughs, tilting her head away as she swats at his chest.) “Save it for later, cowboy.”

“Ooh, slow your roll, partner. Gonna make me blush.” (But his eyes drift past her, locking onto something else across the room. He snorts, suddenly grinning, and spins the camera in that direction.)

“Would you look at that? My favourite lovebirds.”

(The frame tightens on Joel and Leela, curled up on the couch. Leela is murmuring to him, her cheek pressed against Joel’s shoulder, her fingers idly stroking into his hair. She looks up at him as she speaks, soft and unguarded, and Joel is just gone. His eyes are half-lidded, his head tilted slightly in her direction, his arm lazily curled around her shoulders. Every so often, without even thinking, he leans forward, brushing a slow kiss to her ear. Like breathing. Like habit.)

(Tommy whistles low, off-camera.) “They’ve definitely done the deed.”

(Maria hums.) “I knew that weeks ago.”

(Joel’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing as he glares at them from across the room.)

“I heard that, you piece of shit. The hell is wrong with you?”

(The camera zooms in, catching the way Leela immediately buries her face in her hands—and into Joel’s shoulder—while he groans, rubbing a hand down his face like he’s questioning every life choice.)

“Alright, alright, since we’re all cosy now—tell me somethin’.” (Tommy adjusts the camera, fixing the focus on them.) “What do y’all like about each other?”

(Leela peeks out from behind her hands, blinking at him.) “What?”

(Tommy’s voice comes from somewhere off-screen, laced with amusement.)

“Yeah, c’mon, indulge us.” (The lens adjusts, sharpening.) “Y’know, since some people in this house refuse to talk about their damn feelings.” (The camera shifts in Joel’s direction.)

(Joel just glares at it.) “What are you tryna pull? Turn that thing off.”

“Hey, don't be such a sourpuss.”

(Joel doesn’t meet it. He’s now staring at the ceiling, hands templed on his nose, like he’s willing divine intervention to strike Tommy down where he sits.)

(A soft hum of agreement from Maria, somewhere nearby.) “It’s a good question. I wanna hear it.”

(Leela glances sideways at Joel, hesitation flickering in the crease of her brow. But that set of her mouth—small, teasing—suggests she’s not entirely opposed to this game.)

(She tilts her head, the motion easy, natural.) “You go first, Joel.”

(The footage picks up the sound of Joel sighing. His shoulders roll back as he glances toward her out of the corner of his eye. One hand moves—rubs at his jaw, then drags down the back of his neck. The camera catches the exact moment he exhales, muttering—)

“Well, Leela’s... goddamn smart.”

(Off-screen, Tommy groans, the camera giving a small, jostled shake like he’s throwing up his hands.)

“C’mon, man. That’s what you’re goin’ with? Everyone and their mother knows that.”

(Joel shrugs, his mouth twitching like this whole conversation is exhausting him.) “Well, she is. Her brain is so big and weird. She even speaks in nerd real cute.”

(The lens catches the quick flicker of a smile as Leela nudges his knee with hers. The camera wobbles slightly as Tommy shifts again, leaning forward.)

“That’s it? Nothin’ else, just her big brain?”

(Joel exhales, shoulders stiffening. He really hates this. Then—without looking at her—his voice dips lower.)

“She’s got a good heart. She cooks like a mad scientist, and her food is downright sinful.” (A pause, a shift in his expression, reluctant—then, almost reflectively—) “And... she's beautiful.”

(The camera picks up the way Leela blinks at him. Joel rubs the back of his neck, gaze fixed somewhere near the floor.)

“She's really beautiful.” (A beat.) “Could watch her all day if I could. Just being. Braiding her hair and stuff. One smile and...” (He shakes his head with a small grin.)

(Silence hums through the speakers—just for a second before the camera lurches slightly. A blur of motion as Maria smacks Tommy’s arm, a flash of her grin as she hums the wedding march—)

“Dum-dum-da-dum, dum-dum-da-dum... there's really no saving him now.”

(The camera refocuses just in time to catch Leela still watching Joel, an unreadability in her eyes. Her lips part slightly like she wants to say something—but before she can, the lens wobbles again, a brief static crackling as Tommy clears his throat.)

“Alright, honey, your turn.” (The camera steadies on Leela.) “What do you like about big ol’ grumpy over here?”

(Leela, still looking at Joel, tilts her head. The footage picks up the flicker in her eyes—affectionate, thoughtful.)

“Hmm.” (She drags out the sound, considering.)

(The camera catches Joel shifting beside her, his hand twitching slightly against his knee. His voice—grumbled, almost embarrassed—murmurs—)

“Just say my face and get it over with. I'm tired.”

(Leela laughs—the sound clear through the speakers, genuine. The camera catches the way Joel’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile and losing.)

“Well, I like it when Joel plays his guitar.” (Her voice is softer now, the corners of her mouth still curled upward, loving gaze on him.) “I love that he's an artist at heart, the exact opposite of me.”

(The footage picks up the way Joel clears his throat, fingers twitching against the fabric of his jeans.)

(Leela hums, quieter now, more thoughtful.)

“And... I love when he's with Maya.” (The camera zooms slightly, catches the shape of her smile, the certainty in it, the careful way she speaks—like she’s weighing every word.) “She loves him. And he loves her, too.”

(Joel swallows, gaze dropping to his entwined hands.)

(The footage shifts slightly as Tommy clears his throat, the camera adjusting with a jostled movement.)

“Alright, alright.” (His voice, still light, but gentler now.) “You heard it here first, folks. The mean man’s a big ol’ teddy bear.”

(The camera shakes slightly as Joel tips his head back against the couch, groaning.)

“Jesus Christ, Tommy—”

(The lens steadies, framing Leela as she laughs, reaching for his hand. The footage captures the way Joel naturally laces his fingers through hers. He lifts it to his lips—)

(The screen flickers. Cut to black.)

X

L.REED HOME VIDEO #14

(The footage wobbles before settling, the lens clouded with the faint smudge of tiny fingerprints. Maya’s face wedges the frame—round cheeks, big curious eyes, the softest scrunch of her nose as she pokes at the camera, inspecting. A chubby hand reaches, pressing directly against the lens, smearing a blur of warmth and colour across the screen.)

(Muffled giggles. The grainy recording shakes slightly as Maya shifts, little fingers gripping at the edges of the camera. The background is soft—white pillows, blankets, the low glow of a bedside lamp casting everything in golden hues.)

(A blur of dark hair enters the frame, then—Leela, tilting in, resting her cheek against Maya’s head, her voice sing-song and sweet—like she's sharing a secret.)

“What is baby Maya doing?” (The camera jostles as Maya shifts, little hands still gripping the device.) “Is she making a video? Is she Maya Spielberg? What are you looking at?”

(Maya’s mouth opens in a wide, toothy grin, giggles bubbling up from her throat. The camera shakes with her laughter, tiny hiccuping sounds breaking up the quiet.)

“Is that Maya’s smile?” (Leela’s fingers brush gently over her lips.) “Big, big smile? Look at her big girl teeth. And her cute little nose...”

(Maya throws her head back, her giggle turning into a full-blown squeal, arms flapping wildly in delight. The footage shakes, unfocused for a moment, before a low, familiar voice rumbles from somewhere off-camera—tired, amused—)

“Don’t work her up before bed, darlin’.” (The footage tilts slightly, catching a glimpse of Joel’s veined arm as he shifts somewhere out of sight.) “Can’t get her to sleep without pullin’ a muscle.”

“Oof, Daddy's in a mood again.”

(Joel sighs gruffly.) “Daddy has to wake up early, but is distracted.”

(Leela laughs softly, shifting Maya onto her lap and pulling her close. The camera steadies just enough to capture the moment as she presses their cheeks together, her voice lilting—warm and full of affection.)

“C’mere, baby.” (She tilts her head, looking directly into the lens.) “Wow, look at that. Maya looks just like Mama. Mama's hair, Mama's skin, Mama's eyes.” (A gentle kiss to Maya’s temple, a soft murmur—) “Can you gimme a kiss?”

(Maya hesitates for only a second before turning, pressing a wet, tiny kiss against Leela’s cheek. The screen wobbles as Leela laughs, delighted.)

“Oh, that’s a big kiss.” (She nuzzles in closer, rocking slightly.) “Now, can you say ‘I love you, Mama’?”

(Maya makes a sound—soft and sweet, a garbled attempt, not quite words but close.)

(Leela gasps, grinning.) “Oh! Almost! That was so good!” (She brushes her fingers over Maya’s cheek, teasing—) “Do you love Mama more or your Da-da?”

(Before Maya can respond, a hand—large, rough—enters the frame, pinching at Leela’s cheek, pulling playfully. Joel’s voice rumbles, equal parts exasperation and affection—)

“Fair play.”

(Leela swats at his wrist, half-heartedly.) “Ah-ow.” (She rubs her cheek dramatically, throwing Maya a conspiratorial look.) “Did you see that? Big bad daddy.”

(Joel grumbles.) “Sure, I'm the bad guy.”

(Maya squeals, bouncing in place, eyes bright—) “Mama!”

(Leela stills slightly, looking down at her, like she can't really believe it.) “Me? You love me?”

(Maya beams, pressing a small, chubby hand to Leela’s cheek.) “Mama, Mama.”

(The camera shakes as Leela gathers her closer, pushing her lips to Maya’s forehead, eyes closing briefly as she whispers—soft, whole, like it’s the easiest, truest thing in the world—)

“I love you, too, Maya. Mama loves you so much.”

(The screen lingers for a moment longer—the softness of them, the quiet hum of contentment. Then, a small static pop—black.)

X

R. THESIS AUDIO FILE – L. REED - #242

(A soft click. The hum of the recorder comes alive, accompanied by the faintest rustle of fabric—Leela shifting, settling. A sigh, deep and measured, like she’s leaning back. Maybe the wall. Maybe Joel.)

“This is my final log for the R. hypothesis documentation.” (A breath.) “I’m not stating any benchmarks. No primes, no numbers. None of that matters anymore. Not tonight. I'm done.”

(A soft exhale—she’s smiling.)

“The night is sweet. My daughter, who will turn one this month, is sleeping. I am safe. My skin feels clean. I have…” (A small, almost sheepish laugh, barely more than a breath.) “Made love... to the most perfect, cynical, gentlest man on this planet, who apparently loves me, too.” (A muffled snicker—like she’s covering her mouth, shaking her head.) “That’s personal. Joel doesn't like to flaunt. So, off the record, okay?”

(She sighs again, slower this time. Something moves—her tone, her posture, her thoughts.)

“I keep thinking about how the last ten years of my life have been… numbers.” (A breath.) “A set of variables and primes. A world so little I could carry it between my palms, hold it in my mind.”

(A faint rustling—her fingers tracing, maybe the fabric of Joel’s shirt.)

“I stayed in Jackson. Cremated my parents. Lived. Died. Survived. Delivered a baby girl.” (A long, slow inhale. A quiet realization.) “Found a partner I love and trust.”

(There's no sadness. It's simply final.)

“And the thing is… I did it. I proved it. Every part of it. I took the step to live, and I finished what my parents started. I reached the end of the proof. And I thought—” (She exhales.) “I thought I’d feel… bigger. Massive. Like the sky should crack open, like humanity should turn its head and finally, finally listen.”

(She laughs—not bitter, not regretful, just… acknowledging it.)

“But it won’t. It never will. Because there’s nowhere to send it. No one left to care. No world left to change. I think this is it.”

(A beat. A quiet moment where she lets the truth sink into her. Then—a softer change. A lighter note.)

“And I’m okay with that. I accept it now.”

(The creak of the bed. A shifting weight—like she’s leaning back, closing her eyes.)

“I don’t need anyone to hear it. Because I did it. I solved it. And maybe it’ll never matter, maybe it dies here with me.” (A slow breath, controlled.) “But I know. I know what I achieved. And Joel does. My new, small family does. And Maya will someday.”

(A quiet hum. More static of the recorder. An anticipatory breath—like she’s structuring her thoughts before speaking.)

“It's strange... how do I put this? You know, a function is defined by its inputs and outputs. A system or machine is shaped by its limitations. A theorem is valid only if every variable holds true.”

(Leela’s voice is quieter, warmer now.) “For ten years, my variables were singular. A closed set—isolated, self-contained, unworkable. I measured my life in absolutes, limits and intersections. And then…”

(A long pause. Her voice softens.) “The equation changed.”

(An infinitesimal sound—the murmur from Joel, deep in sleep.)

“Dare I say more complicated? New inputs and outputs. New limitations. A system with unknowns. And somehow—against every probability—”

(Her voice quiets, like she’s reaching the final line of a proof, the last, inevitable step.)

“It balanced.”

(A slow inhale. A hand smoothing over fabric, maybe Joel’s arm.)

“One woman. One child. One man. The sum is still whole. My system works. The theorem is valid.” (A beat.) “That's a good enough proof for me.”

(An understanding silence. A breath. Certain. Absolute.)

“This is Leela, signing off. If you listen to this, know that I'm still trying despite this. I am going to fight like hell to put my findings out, even if it's a long shot. Please help me prove what I've left behind, in case I don't. Prove that we haven't lost yet.”

(Click.)

X

{ taglist 🫶: @darknight3904 , @guiltyasdave , @letsgobarbs , @helskemes , @jodiswiftle , @tinawantstobeadoll , @bergamote-catsandbooks , @cheekychaos28 , @randofantfic , @justagalwhowrites , @emerald-evans , @amyispxnk , @corazondebeskar-reads , @wildemaven , @tuquoquebrute , @elli3williams , @bluemusickid , @bumblepony , @legoemma , @chantelle-mh , @heartlessvirgo , @possiblyafangirl , @pedropascalsbbg , @oolongreads -> @kaseynsfws , @prose-before-hoes , @kateg88 , @laliceee , @escaping-reality8 , @mystickittytaco , @penvisions , @elliaze , @eviispunk , @lola-lola-lola , @peepawispunk , @sarahhxx03 , @julielightwood , @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi , @arten1234 , @jhiddles03 , @everinlove , @nobodycanknoww , @ashleyfilm , @rainbowcosmicchaos , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @orcasoul , @nunya7394 , @noisynightmarepoetry , @picketniffler , @ameagrice , @mojaveghst , @dinomecanico , @guelyury , @staytrueblue , @queenb-42069 , @suzysface , @btskzfav , @ali-in-w0nderland , @ashhlsstuff , @devotedlypaleluminary , @sagexsenorita , @serenadingtigers , @yourgirlcin , @henrywintersgun , @jadagirl15 , @misshoneypaper , @lunnaisjustvibing , @enchantingchildkitten , @senhoritamayblog , @isla-finke-blog , @millercontracting , @tinawantstobeadoll , @funerals-with-cake , @txlady37 , @inasunlitroom , @clya4 , @callmebyyournick-name , @axshadows , @littlemissoblivious } - thank you!! awwwww we're like a little family <3

[nanamineedstherapy]

Quiet Luxury Husband, Loud Wife Antics

F!Pregnant Reader x Nanami Kento

Previous Oneshot Chapter [Tumblr/Ao3] | Main Series [Tumblr/Ao3]

A/N: When your husband is so unshakable he could be a national monument, but you still stick googly eyes on him at 8 months pregnant. Enjoy this slice of domestic terrorism (ft. Nanami Kento’s ‘I will endure anything for my wife’ era). No spoilers, but someone does consider counter-terrorism via kitchen counter.

[TikTok Video: Part 1—Nanami Kento | Caption: “ Kento husband maintenance log: 8 months pregnant, no thoughts, only violence ” ]

TikTok audio: Lana Del Rey’s “ Gods & Monsters ” slowed reverb.

The camera opens like a secret. Dim morning light spills through the blinds. The kitchen hums—quiet, futuristic, the kind of expensive sterile-chic only a trillionaire household could make feel this intimate.

Then: him.

Nanami Kento.

Bare-chested. Grey slacks riding just low enough to ruin someone’s family. His hair’s longer now—half tied back with your scrunchie, the blue one he stole because "it smells like you." His back muscles move beneath his skin like something engineered, a poem written in sinew.

He's cutting vegetables on the marble island. Clean, silent. The kind of man who makes slicing a cucumber look like a combat technique. Every movement exact. Every line of his body taut with the discipline of a man who hasn’t truly relaxed since 2006.

The fridge door is still open. Mango slices glisten inside. He doesn’t notice you filming.

You voiceover, deadpan:

“Welcome to my villain arc. Today we test how desensitized my husband is.”

You walk in, barefoot. Ankles slightly swollen. Belly massive, commanding. A goddess waging war in maternity shorts and a sleep shirt with Gojo’s lip balm stain.

You sneak up behind him.

You press a cold mango slice to his temple.

Nothing. Not even a blink. The knife keeps moving.

A delicate gold chain. "MILF PROPERTY" in dainty script.

You loop it around his neck. He lifts his chin slightly to help you clasp it. Doesn't comment.

You hand him your gaming mouse. “You’re the COO now.”

He shifts the knife to his left hand and accepts the mouse with his right.

“I'm already handling procurement,” he says, eyes still on the chopping board.

Googly eyes. Two of them. One for each nipple.

You apply them.

He breathes out through his nose. But he lets you.

Then a banana.

You hold it to his ear. “There’s a call from HR.”

This time, he pauses.

Looks down at the banana. Then at your belly.

"Tell them I’m on paternity leave until these ones are born,” he says. Calm. Final. A soldier filing his last report before battle.

Another voiceover by you says,

“I gave up on resistance after week 22. He’s in his wife era now.”

You slap a Post-it on his back, “CEO’s Most Valuable DILF.”

He freezes.

The knife goes down.

The camera zooms in.

He turns—slowly. A full 180°. Stares at you.

No smile. No scolding. Just… that look.

The Look.

The one that says he’s thinking about taking a different vacation right now.

The one that says, “I could lift you onto this countertop right now and make you forget your own name.”

The one that says, “I’ll play along. But there will be consequences.”

He takes a single step toward you.

Text on screen, He blinked once. The earth trembled.

Cut to black.

Top Comment:

@CorporateKitten: Did he even blink??

@MommyIsMyBoss: This is military-grade desensitization.

@GojosMoans6KSurroundSound: That man has suffered.

@FeralNanami: THE NECKLACE. I NEED ONE FOR MY HUSBAND RN.

@RacoonLawyer: Petition to get Nanami a Nobel for patience.

@ExecutiveDelulu: I want him biblically. & also legally & also violently.

@GojoIsScreamingInTheWalls: This is quiet luxury husband energy. Like he’s been professionally trained to suffer for his wife.

@KentoMilkDaddy: The necklace. The googly eyes. AND HE STILL DIDN’T FLINCH. Sir?? How???

@PregnantInMyMind: Tell me where you got that man. I’ll get pregnant today.

@MayaTheBrainSTD: He was hotter when he said, “Paternity leave?” The bar is in hell, and he’s setting it lower.

---

A/N: If you gasped, cackled, or now need a ‘MILF PROPERTY’ necklace immediately, yell at me in the comments. (Nanami’s patience needs validation. Gojo’s ego needs a medic.)

Previous Oneshot Chapter [Tumblr/Ao3] | Main Series [Tumblr/Ao3]

Next Chapter - Domain Expansion: Codependent Tamagotchi - [Tumblr/Ao3]

All Works Masterlist

[srovtl]

(A Smile that Commands My Vision) Figaro SSR Card Story Translation

The future I speak of with you that I found - Chapter 1

Rustica: I thank you all for coming to the public recording of Rustica Ferch's "Amorest Viesse"

Rustica: If you had a good time, then I could not ask for more. Tonight's hosts are me, Rustica, and...

Figaro: And me, Figaro Garcia as the guest. Thank you all for coming today.

Rustica: I hope we can meet again next week, my love. See you again.

Akira: (A whole hour just flew by…)

The moderate tension eases as the public recording of the radio show hosted by Rustica finishes.

On this day, Figaro took me to visit the recording with him.

Figaro: Hi. Sorry to keep you waiting, Akira.

Akira: Figaro! Thank you for your hard work.

Figaro: Now that's what I call a smile. How was it? Did you enjoy the recording?

Akira: Yes, very much. It was very valuable!

Akira: Rustica's calm but unpredictable talk was thrilling, and Figaro's quips were also fun.

Akira: Everyone in the audience seemed to be having a great time. Now that's what professional skills are all about.

Figaro: Haha, good then. You made sure to study, that's very admirable.

Figaro: Even so, I'm glad that only the audio is archived. The talk topics and challenge projects were pretty ambitious.

Rustica: But thanks to that, every segment was a big hit.

Rustica: Apparently, the charm of my radio show is the atmosphere of being unpredictable, both in terms of how things will develop and where they will land.

A little behind, Rustica also came out of the studio. He spoke with a smile as he held the script.

Figaro: Really, every time the conversation suddenly takes a completely unexpected turn. It's hard to imitate that kind of sense.

Akira: Rustica was also very eloquent. Even when the topic jumps around, he speaks smoothly with beautiful words, so it's pleasant to listen to.

Rustica: Hehe. I'm glad you enjoyed it too.

Rustica: Have you gotten used to this industry yet?

Akira: Just a little… Figaro takes me to all the sorts of locations and I learn something new every day.

Rustica: That's wonderful. If you'd like, please come to my dinner show too.

Akira: What! Are you sure?

Rustica: Of course. I'll be playing my favorite instrument, so please enjoy it along with a delicious meal.

Rustica: Oh, and next time, I'd love for you to come and visit our office. Chloe seems to be very fond of you.

Figaro: Hey there, Rustica. Your habit is creeping up again.

Akira: Whoa.

Figaro casually puts his arm around my shoulder, pulling me towards him.

Figaro: I am the one who found this child. Why are you always so quick to recruit the kids you like.

Rustica: Ahaha, my apologies, Akira-san was such a wonderful person, I too fell for them.

Rustica: Akira-san, if you don't mind, could you tell me more about yourself?

The future I speak of with you that I found - Chapter 2

Akira: About me?

Rustica: Yes. Favorite foods, colors, scenery, time…

Rustica: What are you not good at, or what interests you. Anything about you.

Figaro: Come to think of it, I haven't really heard much about that sort of thing from you.

Figaro: Well? Anything that comes to mind?

Akira: Let's see… things I like, things I don't like, I am sure I have those but…

Akira: My memories are hazy so I don't remember much.

Akira: So now, I think I am in the process of searching for it, together with Figaro. 

Rustica: Oh my.

Figaro: With me?

Akira: Yes. We eat at cafes and restaurants in between work, and take photos at photogenic spots.

Akira: Figaro takes me to all kinds of places and tells me all kinds of stories, so I see, hear, and experience a lot...

Akira: It feels like he's helping me search for myself.

As I said that, Figaro and Rustica looked at each other.

And at the same time, they burst out laughing.

Rustica: I guess this means I've been rejected?

Figaro: Ahaha, guess so. That's such a nice thing for you to say.

Figaro: You are truly a brand new child, just like an untrodden snow. Hey Akira, why don't you entrust your body and soul to me a little more?

Akira: Eh….?

Figaro invites me with a voice like a soft cotton blanket. His narrow grey and hazel* eyes stare at me.

*TL note/ it does actually say hazel I am as confused as the rest of you.

Figaro: Then, I'll be able to make you do what I want even more.

Akira: Umm…! T-That's a little bit….

I flinch, my eyes wandering.

Seeing this, Figaro laughs and moves away. He also taps my forehead with the tip of his finger.

Figaro: Just kidding. If you get embarrassed over something like this, you'll never be an actor.

Rustica: As one would expect, you're kind but strict.

Akira: Oh, that was just acting...?! It took me by surprise…

Figaro: My bad sorry, you were being such a good child I just can't help but tease you.

Figaro: But I'm also studying with you too. Didn't we go yesterday to a cafe that has the latest trendy sweets.

Akira: Ah, the one famous for its pudding shaped like a curled up cat.

Akira: It wobbles when you shake it, and is so cute that you almost feel bad for eating it. The peak form of modern dessert!

Rustica: A curled up cat pudding…

Rustica: Perhaps, is it the one Rutile was into last year?

Akira, Figaro: Eh, last year?

Figaro: No way~ It was all the rage recently, wasn't it?

Rustica: It was a while ago that it was a hot topic, but back then all the cafes were full and it was hard to get in.

Rustica: Maybe now is a better time to take your time and enjoy it. You two picked a good time to jump on the trend.

Figaro: Does that even count as jumping on it…

Akira: But it was delicious, and cute. I really like that pudding. 

Figaro: ……

Figaro: Well, alright then. 

The future I speak of with you that I found - Chapter 3

Afterwards, we said goodbye to the staff and returned to the office.

We organized our belongings, took a breather, and prepared tea.

Figaro: I'm glad I was able to buy the last set of these sweets. Now this one is really the cutting edge of fashion.

Akira: Thank you. I'll take a picture and look it up online.

Figaro: Haha, we've gained some really useless wisdom.

We both sit on the sofa, joking around.

Akira: Thank you for the wonderful opportunity today. I learned a lot today.

Figaro: I'm glad I could be of help to you. Rustica also helped a lot.

Akira: Yes. He was very kind and funny, and made sure to be there for me so that I wouldn't feel overwhelmed.

Akira: I heard about their agency and it seemed really lively and fun. There are a lot of unique people there.

Figaro: They're an up-and-coming agency, after all. I think it's a completely different league from ours…

Figaro: Are you perhaps interested in relocating?

Akira: Eh?

Figaro: I stopped it today but if you're really interested, I will respect your wishes. 

Figaro: There's still plenty that I want to teach you though so that would be lonely. 

Figaro laughs, shrugging his shoulders jokingly. I shook my head unequivocally.

Akira: No. Please let me stay here.

Akira: If Figaro hadn't found me that day, I wouldn't have experienced anything like this. I'm really grateful to you.

Akira: Plus, right now learning from Figaro at this office, it's so fun and I'm so happy.

Figaro: ......Yeah, I know.

Wine and grape juice are poured into two glasses placed side by side.

We gently hit the glasses together for a toast, and Figaro takes a sip of wine.

Figaro: But... if you stay by my side, I might eventually paint the brand new you in whatever color I want you know.

Figaro: Make you do whatever I want, and slowly seduce you so that you'll actually entrust your body and soul to me.

Akira: Oh, it's another play, isn't it? I won't be fooled this time...

Figaro: Who knows.

Akira: ...Figaro?

Figaro: I don't mind if you took me seriously. What about you, what do you want to do?

Leaning forward a little, Figaro peers into me.

The eyes before me are as bottomless as the deep sea.

But I know. Figaro is a kind person who won't do anything I don't like.

Akira: ...I'm okay with that too.

Figaro: Eh?

Akira: Just kidding!

Figaro: …….

Akira: Ehehehe. I tried to imitate Figaro in the afternoon, how was it?

Figaro: ...... Ahaha!

Figaro: I've been had. I've thought this before, but you have talent, Akira.

Figaro: In the future, you might become an even bigger shot than my wildest dreams.

Whether in dream or reality - Card Episode

Figaro: Master Sage, it's me, can I come in?

Akira: Figaro. Yes, of course.

Figaro: Good morning, breakfast will be ready soon, so I came to pick you up.

Akira: Thank you, it's rare for Figaro to come all the way to my room.

Figaro: I happened to wake up early today. And then, I happened to remember the dream you told me about before.

Figaro: In Master Sage's dream, I often came to greet you like this in the morning, right?

Akira: Yes. If you didn't have work to do first thing in the morning, you're nearby when I wake up...

Akira: But if the real Figaro did that, I'd get a little nervous.

Figaro: Eh~? But you weren't nervous about me in the dream?

Figaro: To be trusted by you this much, I'm getting a little jealous of myself. 

Akira: Of course I trust the real you too!

Akira: Even in my dreams you were so caring and kind. Strangely enough, it didn't feel like we were meeting for the first time.

Akira: You like drinking alcohol at night after work, and I joined you drinking juice. You told me all kinds of stories.

Figaro: Haha. I'm pretty much the same in my dreams.

Figaro: Well, but… The me in front of you right now is undoubtedly the real Doctor Figaro.

Figaro: Today, I'll escort you to the breakfast area. I'll be as gentlemanly as the me in your dreams.

Homescreen voiceline

You saw a dream where I am a super popular actor? That's a pretty realistic dream, isn't it? I am cool, and good at acting, and talking is my specialty...huh? Could it be, this is my calling? Maybe I should start aiming for it.

[satin-polar]

As Deltarune is in truth Tommorow

I wannt to rehersh all of my theories. Silly or not Silly ones.

Possessed Berdly Theory:

Theory about how Berdly can still work after the Snowgrave route.

As we all know, Kris is possessed. And by killing.... Leaving an unconscious Berdly body in the library, we might open the possibility for something else to control it. It might be our goner vessel, second soul... There are options. With also might explain a few things with Kris.

But. Will that not change the weird router even further. As Toby said, Only One Ending, whatever that means.

Well, I think. In the end, even if Kris is possessed, they still can't change... that much. The same could apply to Berdly. Both of them still need to follow the Script of the Game (khe khe Gaster) That opens a lot of possibilities.

We are the only ones that know, maybe a little different sprite for Berdly. Maybe with each chapter, we make another possessed character to make an army. But also, that would show Another similarity, between Berdly and Kris, both Blue Person, Blue Bird puzzle... Gamers.

The meta existance of The Script characters move through is hinted several time. Mostly by Ralsei in Weird Route. And by a pure fact. It is still a Game - made by Gaster, Toby, Whoever.

Game need to move on. So GOD. Might force it, by walking Bredly like a Corpse. Maybe white or covered eyes. Well. To just show that we the Player know about Something With Berdly.

This might open a possibility that the same happend to Kris. Kris died... in a fountain, maybe. And then got possessed by the red heart. Honestly I think Berdly will be possessed by The Vessel, but Chara as second Red Soul would be also Cool, so I count two.

And the next might be Jockington.

Moss Theory:

What if Moss is more important than we think. What if eating Moss will be more important. Be a Moss Knight. Moss foreshadow that Plants don't change in a Dark World. Moss didn't change nor into a turn Darkner, nor into a Fantasy Food. Despite being a Un-Animated Object.

Yeah I've been thinking about Mold. Cos Why specificaly Moss, if not just for shit and giggles, classic Toby joke. And when I think like that about this. Moss is susspicialy close to Secret Bosses. So one of my ideas was. What if Strange Someone that drive them insane, accidently took Moss with themself to a Dark World, he got it stick to their shoes or something, and it start spreading. So from where and who could walk on a moss and spread it in a Dark World? Idk.

But Moss being a Forshadowing that Plants... like Flowey don't change into Darkners. But stay Itself like a Lightner. Might be a Intensional play by Tobey. Plants even as a Un-Animated Object are Alive. Maybe even have Determination. There is this thing with Plants called Forced Flowering where Plant Determin Enough grow to survive and pollinate. We will see in Chapter 5. I Hope. Asgore. I'm watching you.

Moss is a Lightner and It's kinda funny.

Mike Jack (Card) Theory:

This is a play on Chess Theory

And It's more of a Collection of observations

I didn't see anybody point out that Mike by a shorten version to a common name of Microphone

Mike - Microphone - It's Cool

Got me Thinking. What Microphone end with... Jack. Specificaly Audio Jack. Or aux jack. The cable, the point is there is a Plug. And a weird thing is Microphone and a Cable and a Jack are part of a Object. Can Mike and Jack be in fact a One Darkner. And by some Miracle making Card Theory true, and not Chess Theory, even with Mike as a Pointed Chapter Boss. King, Queen, Jack... Audio Jack.

Jack - Audio Jack - Also a Common name like Mike. Might be a Trope in this Chapter.

But even if not. I think Old Cables might be Important Character still. If you old enough you remember the old TV cables you had to make consols work 🔴🟡⚪. You know the ones. The ones Nobody Uses Anymore. A Abandoned Object. Like Joker, and Email. Old RCA Cables as a Chapter 3 Sercet Boss sound Cool. And Kris's House TV is Pretty Old. Actally All Mike Jack and RCA might be part of one Charakter. A Amalgam of sort.

I also got few smaller for humor theories:

– Like 7 Souls being reference to 7 Chakras. Chakra - Chara. You can easly see the point.

– Pluey actally being Real and being the Vessel Head turn Darkner.

– Kris being The Hand of The Knight. That's why they Blue. Blue Attack. Cause The Knight is Papyrus

– I also believe Noelle Angel Theory... I should do a bingo or something.

[escapedaudios]

You know, the way you use music in your work really sparks my own feelings about music, and the memories/emotions I see and feel when I listen to it. Early 2000s R&B, pop, and rap specifically. And I don't make audios, but if I did, I'd want to incorporate the sound of that era into my audios. And now that I'm done with my thesis statement, lmao, I wanted to ask if there are any specific era of music you'd want to incorporate into more audios going forward? Any specific genres?

The original draft of My Greasefire Life (back when it was called Fickburger) took place in the 90s. 90s-era hip-hop by Snoop Dogg, Nate Dogg, and Warren G featured heavily in the soundtrack. When Fickburger became My Greasefire Life, I changed it to modern times because I wanted to throw in a little modern satire (ex: Lexi being a minor influencer on TikTok and Instagram reels, therapy speak getting thrown around, etc). I still want to set a slice of life story in the 90s someday, I'm a big fan of old school hip-hop and I want to work that into something someday.

I'm looking to compose a little music myself, with the help of some friends. There's a series I've been cooking called Clay and Sky, and the whole thesis of that series is that you are not immune to propaganda. The music in that series is supposed to invoke the seductive, exciting side of fascism, as the two protagonists don't realize they're aiding in the rise of an evil militaristic dictator until it becomes all too obvious. The villain's theme is inspired by Hell March from Command and Conquer.

His theme music is going to integrate stomping marches as the base rhythm, and the metallic sound of industry. The feeling of purpose, power, and influence of a charismatic leader blinding the protagonists to their participation in the rise of an evil and destructive political power is going to be baked into the soundtrack. When the protagonists change sides, I want the music that felt inspirational in the early chapters to feel intimidating and frightening instead of rousing and exciting like when they first appeared.

Clay and Sky won't be out for a LONNNG time. Partly because I need the script to be perfect (the themes are much more challenging to write than anything else I've written) but also because I need the soundtrack to be perfect before I start production.

I also want to repurpose some music from the Warhammer 40k games into another series. It's tentatively titled "Dark Queen". It's a corruption arc with a dark ending. It focuses less on romance and more on the estrangement between two platonic friends when one of them (the listener) changes her mind about a promise she made for the greater good to seek power.

I want this song to play at her turning point. Early on in the story she's "corrupted" by a man who isn't exactly evil, but more of a rougeish free spirit who teaches her to break rules and put herself first. When she finally finds her way and becomes empowered in her evil path, she becomes the corrupting force, leading both herself and her love interest into absolute evil. I think Warhammer 40k games have excellent music for that kind of theme.

This song would also work great while she's alone with her increasingly dark thoughts. That series will feature a narrator, in the style of Baldur's Gate 3, who will narrate the listeners internal thoughts and emotions to them when implied dialogue won't work. She'll have many moments of silent contemplation as she evolves from altruistic good, to free-spirited rebellion, all the way to enormously powerful and completely selfish evil.

[dominimoonbeam]

To The Edge - 6

This work is mine and I do not give consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted without my permission. I am sharing chapters as I work on this story but it is copyrighted material that I plan to rework and publish when completed.

story tags: scifi romance, hijinks in space, rogues learning to trust, violence, blood, guns, death, explicit language, so much kidnapping,

Works organized and easily found over on the patreon. <3

TO THE EDGE - CHAPTER 6.

Rory woke up slowly, disoriented and achy with a prevailing sense of being in danger flagging in the back of his foggy mind. Still…not the worst way he’d ever woken up.

“What…” he coughed, swallowed, and blinked at the room around him. His bridge. His ship. And his bounty standing there with their back to the stars, watching him. “Oh shit.”

He tried to get up from his seat, legs spasming and boots kicking at the floor, but he stayed seated. “Did you…Did you duct tape me?” He looked down at himself, squirming against the thick straps of silver. “Stardust, this is like an entire roll of tape. You couldn’t just cuff me or—”

“You could get out of them, but you probably don’t have a trick for getting out of duct tape,” they said simply.

“You’re really making me regret showing you how to get out of those cuffs. Really, I regret ever taking them off of you. I should have sedated you and strapped you to a damn cot until we—”

“Too late for that,” they interrupted. “But that’s not a bad idea… Any chance you’ll—”

“What? No. I’m not telling you where the sedatives are.” He wriggled in his seat again, getting nowhere. At least his side didn’t hurt anymore. He was sure he’d be waking up to that sharp burning pain from the stun gun. Really, he should be…  “Did… Stardust, did you put the burn gel on my taser burn?”

They took a step closer, a flash of worry on their previously amused expression. “Does it still hurt?”

Rory sighed, shaking his head. “No offense, but you clearly have no idea what you’re doing. What’s your plan? Where are we going?”

Stardust perked up and flashed him a smile. He hated how impossible it was not to reflect that joy. “I’m getting away,” they announced.

He laughed. This was definitely the strangest kidnap rescue he’d ever dealt with. “Away where?”

Stardust shrugged.

“Is this a rich kid running away from home situation?” he asked, still trying to twist a hand free of the tape. They’d really done a good job taping him into place. “If you wanted attention, you already got it.” The bounty their family had put out for them was substantial. Every hunter, mercenary, and pirate would be looking for this Primer. “Don’t scowl at me like that, I’m the one taped to the fucking seat here. I saved you from pirates—”

Stardust snorted. “Like you did it out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Okay, yes, I did it for a paycheck, but I still did it!”

They crossed their arms and raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“How about you let me take you to the drop off, collect my bounty, and then you can steal a ship from one of your cousins. Hell, you can blow up your cousins for all I care, just leave me out of it.”

They turned and looked down at the control panel, checking something. He seriously hoped they didn’t break anything… “I should have taped your mouth,” Stardust mumbled.

“Hm… This is your first time kidnapping someone, isn’t it?” he asked and saw their smile from the side of their mouth.

“Knowing as much about my family as you do, that could be a great story, right? You can tell everyone else out here the story of how a Solinoh kidnapped you.” They turned toward him, sharing that smile. “Are you honored, Cosmic?”

Rory laughed darkly, shaking his head. “No, I am not honored to be your first.”

Stardust shrugged, smile shrinking but not completely gone. “I’m saving your life. You should at least be grateful.”

“Saving my life?” the question burst from him. “I’m sorry, but that’s not coming across. Did the pirates scramble your brain? Is this a Stockholm thing?”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, there’s that classy mouth again…”

They rolled their eyes and walked past him, out of sight.

“Wait…Where are you going?” He struggled against the tape even though it was useless. “Don’t go back there. Stay out of my stuff!” He kicked and thrashed. “Fucking…duct tape!”

Rory forced himself to stop, closed his eyes, and dragged a deep breath. “Ship.”

The quiet hum of space and engines answered him.

“Ship, initiate audio commands. Code seven five nine delta three.”

Quiet.

Rory groaned through clenched teeth.

Stardust walked back onto the bridge, wearing a pair of his boots that were definitely too big.

“You disabled my codes?”

The Solinoh grinned, shoving hands into the pockets of those sweatpants he’d loaned them. He should have left them in their nasty blood-crusted clothes and locked them in the storage room until they reached the drop off. “You were out for a while. I had plenty of time to poke around, Rory Antilla. You should upgrade your security or have backups for this possibility.”

He was going to strangle them when he got loose. “Yeah… No, you’re right,” he said, sarcasm dripping off his words. “I really should have had audio enabled before you stole my ship from me. Live and learn, you know, assuming you don’t crash the ship and kill us both.”

They curled their lip at him, like he was the one being childish. “I told you. I’m saving you. You should be thanking me.”

Rory snapped a harsh laugh. “Saving me? This is you saving me? Fuck, Stardust, I’d hate to be on your bad side.”

A streak of bright light rolled across the window, spilling into the cockpit.

The ship’s automated voice chimed, ‘Docking protocols initiated.’

Rory strained his neck to try to get the right angle to see out the window. “What? Where are we docking? Stardust, there’s nothing out here but a couple of sketchy stations and criminal outposts. And just to be really damn clear, I don’t mean your family’s style of criminal element. This isn’t the luxury casinos and planetary resorts side of the galaxy.”

Stardust sighed, annoyed. “I think I’ll manage. I’ve heard about Styx. It’s an independent trading outpost.”

Rory swung his head the other way to stare at them. “Wait. Wait, wait. You can’t go on that station alone.”

“Yeah?” they asked, only half-paying attention now that their attention was focused on the console. “Why not?”

“Well, for one, you look like an escaped prisoner. Someone will probably scoop you up, thinking no one will miss you, and sell your ass to a skin ship.”

Stardust shot him an appalled look that he’d never seen on anyone born outside the Prime. “You’re gross.”

“I’m not being gross, Stardust, I’m being real!” panic was leaking into his voice now, fists curled and arms twisting at the duct tape bindings again. They were going to get themself killed.

“I’ll be okay,” Stardust pressed again, picking up one of his pistols off the console and waving it at him on their way past, toward the docking door, out of sight.

“Oh, you think my gun will be enough to keep you safe? You spoiled fucking shit! You’re going to get yourself killed and you know what, that’s fine! But you can’t leave me stuck to this damn chair. I’ll either starve to death here or, worse, someone much more competent than you will steal my ship and then it’ll be my sexy ass on a skin ship!”

They scoffed loudly, so he’d hear them over the whirring of the station umbilical connecting them to the dock. “You all think you know what you’re getting yourselves into. You and those fucking pirates… You see me and see a payday.”

“I don’t know you any better than the pirates? Star—”

The door opened and because they were barefoot he couldn’t hear them walking of the ship, but when the door whooshed shut again he knew they’d gone. “Fuck!”

Rory dragged a few breaths, fists still balled but arms going nowhere. “Ship,” he tried, voice even. “Ship, I know you can hear me.” Hear him, sure. But he also doubted it registered anything he said. Still, he had to try. “Ship, override command, return control, code… Oh shit. What was that code…”

[redfoxwritesstuff]

A Misdemeanor Of The Heart (Chapter 5) Human!Alastor x Reader)

Rated Adult Chapter Trigger Warnings: Alastor is a little shit.

AN: Reminder- Double update this week, See you Friday. Updates will now be every Friday!

Now with Audio by Nyx Productions, read by the lovely @nyx-umbrakinesis. Want to revisit the land of Misdemeanor but don't have time to sit and read? Maybe it's your first visit and you want the whole experience? Let Nyx read you a story: Part 1, Part 2

Masterlist AO3 KoFi

“It’s just up here,” Laurence said, glancing over his shoulder to find his dinner guest lagging behind. He needed this loan and yet dinner wasn’t wasn’t off to a great start if he couldn’t at least keep the man’s attention long enough to get to his office. He just needed you to not fuck up somehow when bringing ice up or finishing dinner. 

“A lovely wife you have, Laurence. It’s a shame for her to be married to a man so eager to offer her as collateral,” Alastor said, as the stairs creaked with each step he took. 

“Nothing but a jest, Mr. Moreau.” 

“Of course,” Alastor said, doing nothing to cover the fact that he didn’t believe Laurence had said it in jest for a minute. 

“We’ll let her finish up fixing dinner while we-”

“See to business. Yes, yes, that’s fine.” 

Laurence shut the office door as Alastor stepped inside, sealing them off from the wonderful aroma of fresh bread that permeated the lower level of the home. What a shame, Alastor thought.

You had invited Alastor to make himself at home when he came into the house, so he did just that. Rather than sit in one of the overstuffed chairs across from Laurence’s desk, Alastor walked around the small office, eyes taking in little details as they ran over trinkets and notes.

“Is Emma a pet name for your darling wife? Such an illogical choice.” Alastor turns from the calendar, eyes running over the desk.

Laurence laughed nervously. It was clear to Alastor that he didn’t enjoy having someone he couldn’t control in his space. “Oh well, you know how men are.”

“And how is that?” Alastor asked, cataloguing every bit of information he could about who Laurence was and what kind of man he really was. 

Laurence gaped, fishing for the correct answer in his small brain. Alastor wasn’t playing by the typical male script he was used to dealing with. Dreadfully dull, Alastor thought. He couldn’t come up with a slight excuse to cover his affair? Men’s desire to run around on their partners never made sense to him. 

“Was there a reason we must abandon the hostess?” Alastor finally settled into a chair, leaning back and crossing his legs. This may be Laurence’s home ground but Alastor made it clear who really had the power at the moment.

“This is men’s business…” Laurence tailed off at the soft tap tap at the door. 

You did not enter this space, Alastor filed that away as well. He turned, watching you as you passed Laurence the tray with ice-filled glasses, hands trembling.

Were you terrified of your husband? Or was it pain? Perhaps illness? No, not illness. You flinched too much for it to be something as simple as poor health. Plus, there were the marks on your wrist. Did you think you were clever with the bracelets and the sleeves? 

“It’ll be just a few moments while I draft up the contract,” Laurence makes a show of pulling out a large typewriter case from the shelf to the left of his desk. It was clearly expensive, just as many other items in this insufferable office. 

Alastor finished his glass of whiskey in one quick drink before setting the glass down directly on the solid wood desk. When Laurance frowned at the glass set exactly two inches to the left of the coaster he had ever so blatantly requested Alastor use to protect the desk surface, Alastor simply smiles back at him. 

“While you set to that task, please do excuse me.”

“Is something the matter?” Laurence stood slowly. 

“Not at all! I’m simply off to the washroom.” 

Alastor let out the breath he felt like he had been holding forever as the door clicked shut behind him. The washroom was lit by gas, Alastor noticed, not electricity like the office and living room had been. 

Why would the Latimer household only update part of the house when adding electricity? Looking around the washroom, he saw new pipes. The home was plumbed. Upgrades had been started but stopped. Why? 

Humming as he went, Alastor continued exploring the small room. Everything was bright white, and he hated it all. The warm wood tones of the rest of the house were far better suited to his own taste.

Spotting the small glass vial on the sink, Alastor picked it up and opened it. The smell made him cringe. Medicinal and strong. Laudanum, if he had to guess though, the label was ripped from the bottle in places. Who did it belong to and who were they hiding the contents of the bottle from?

Alastor had taken it before and never been a fan of how it had made his head feel. 

Sure, he had a bottle on hand in his own medicine cabinet but his was covered in dust and nearly new. This vial was clean, fresh and nearly half empty. Who took it? Was it you or Laurence that took it often enough for the vial to be fresh? 

Stepping out of the washroom, Alastor looked first at the closed office door. The click click click of the typewriter behind the door gave away how slow of a typist Laurence was. At the rate he was going, Alastor could type the contract four times over before Laurence would finish the first copy. 

Hell, he could draft it by hand faster than the keystrokes were coming from beside the door.

Instead of rejoining Laurence in the office, Alastor kept walking down the hall. He was mindful of each step as he descended the stairs, avoiding those he had noticed squeaked under weight. 

Laurence was eager to offer his wife as collateral, but clearly didn’t enjoy it when Alastor paid her any attention. Though Alastor shot down the offer at Mimzy’s, it surprised him that Laurence didn’t offer those same terms again. Instead, it was his car Laurence was drafting the contract for. 

Alastor had no trouble finding the kitchen. He moved through the house silently, leaning against the doorframe as he watched you work. Your back was to him, allowing him the freedom to watch you without reservation. 

If Mimzy was here, she would tell him how he could have this, whatever this was. He wasn’t so sure that it was something he ever wanted. He knew it was something he could have, and he likewise knew it was something he didn’t need. But did he want the domestic life?

It hadn’t worked out so well for his mother. If people were talking about him, though, that wasn’t in his favor. Could he trust a meek little woman in his space, keep her happy and entertained enough that she wouldn’t run around town being a gossip? Would he be able to find someone who would look the other way and believe it was animal blood that stained his clothes?

As he watched you in his thoughts, you worked the loaf of bread out of the pan. Thinking you were alone, you held your injured shoulder stiffly, using your body to brace it as you moved. When you shifted it wrong, you gasped softly in pain, muttering softly under your breath a reminder that the meal needed to be perfect. 

You dropped the loaf into the bread slicer contraption, then braced the end of the box against your apron covered front and slowly sliced through the loaf again and again until the loaf was leaning forward, sliced into neat sheets of bread sitting in a sea of crumbs. The rich smell of beef gravy was thick in the kitchen, hearty and welcoming. 

You were humming to yourself as you worked. It was a pleasant sound that Alastor found he enjoyed. As you turned to put the sliced bread into the basket, he stepped back out of what would be your line of sight. From where he stood, he could see you as you stepped up to the oven, but you were unlikely to see him. 

He watched as you rubbed your wrist, pushing the bracelets up and running your hand over the dark bruise. Though his eyes were not the best, Alastor could see the clear definition marking where fingers had wrapped around your wrist with more force than was ever justifiable. 

Why did you stay? Did you like being thrown around? He doubted it. You hardly looked like you loved your husband. It was clear as day that you were uncomfortable with him every time his hands touched you. The farce was better executed in public than he had seen in your home, but he saw nothing that told him you held anything close to affection for the man you were married to.

Carefully, you reached out with the towel draped over both hands and grabbed the handles of the kettle. Hesitation had you standing in that position as heat seeped into the fabric for longer than Alastor expected. Surely your hands were getting close to burning.

Then you lifted. The kettle didn’t make it any more than an inch off the iron burners before clattering back down as you cried out softly. Alastor watched as your shoulders sagged and you sniffled. 

You wouldn’t be able to lift the kettle. You wouldn’t be able to pull the meat out of it and put it in the serving dish. Dinner would be ruined, and you were convinced it would be your fault. 

“Allow me,” Alastor’s voice came from the doorway, startling you. 

“Oh, no- It’s fine.” You looked around for Laurence. The last thing you needed was for him to see you inconveniencing his guest. 

“He’s in his office, drafting the contract at the pace of a schoolboy,” Alastor’s long strides took him into your kitchen and to your side before you had a chance to protest more. “You’re clearly struggling to lift it.” 

He took the towel from you as if the kitchen was his. It looked easy as he lifted the kettle from the stove, as if it weighed nothing. You watched dumbly as he looked around to find where you had the trivets set up. The sound of the kettle setting down on the counter snapped you out of the daze. 

“Can I help you with anything, Mr. Moreau?” you ask, trying to remind him of propriety as he scooped the pot roast from the kettle and set the crumbling hunk of meat into the serving dish for you. 

“Alastor,” his eyes flick up to you for a moment before returning to his self-assigned task. “I simply needed a moment of more agreeable company. I find your husband rather dull. however do you put up with him?”

You were not sure what you could say to such a confession. It was improper to speak to a woman about her husband in such a manner. It was improper to be alone together, doing something as intimate as household tasks together. 

Arguing with the guest was improper, but it was also not something you could agree with while remaining proper. You were not even sure if you agreed with it. Laurence was a part of your life. It wasn’t optional, so you had never thought about it. 

Instead of thinking about it, you needed to set the table in the dining room. The dishes were in an overhead cabinet. Reaching up, you opened it easily enough. Plucking up the shallow bowls was something you expected to be doing in private. 

Your shoulder ached, you needed to take a few more pain pills and lift the delicate bowls one at a time to ensure you didn’t drop them. With him there, you couldn’t do that though. It would look suspiciously like you were avoiding using your arm. 

You’d already given away too much with the kettle. 

You tried to keep a smile on your face as you reached up with both hands. Finger tips trembled in front of your eyes. No matter how hard you tried to stop them from doing so, they continued to tremble. 

Grab the dishes in one neat stack. Put them on the counter. Do not drop them. Rest a moment. Carry them to the dining room. How hard could that be? You could do it. You needed to do it. You had to do it.

“Let me get it for you,” Alastor’s voice was soft and low in your ear. 

You hadn’t heard him move, but when you jerked back from him only to have your hip strike his arm. Without you noticing, he had come up behind you and caged you in, resting his palm against the counter on your other side. 

He reached up with his other hand, leaning forward as he picked up a stack of three dishes. Your breath froze in your lungs as his chest brushed against your good shoulder and back. For a moment, you told yourself that he didn’t know. He was just being helpful until he leaned more into you. 

You gaped up at him. Too close. You had never been so close to a man you were not related to outside of Laurence. Sure, you’d bumped into men and let Alastor provide you support as you got up off the floor at the butcher, but this was different. 

It was a second really, long enough for you to register the warmth of him. He leaned forward a bit more, smirking down at you as his chest and side pressed firmer against you. 

Torso to torso, you couldn’t feel any of the give that Laurence’s body had but before you could even form a thought about what that meant for Alastor’s body, he stepped back and held the fragile china in his large hands. 

“There you are.” Your heart dropped at the sound of Laurence’s voice. Had he seen? You did nothing wrong, but women rarely escaped the blame when it came to impropriety. 

“I couldn’t help but be drawn in by the lovely aromas of your wife’s cooking.” Alastor laughed, bowls in hand as he carried them to the dining room.

Tag list: @xalygatorx, @catticora, @alastor-simp, @alastorthirsty, @rainydaysmut,  @nyx91, @kaylopolis, @sirens-and-moonflowers, @goyablogsstuff, @honestlyshamelesskid,  @lilith-jae, @yui-onnero, @charlottemorningstarsdarling, @diffidentphantom, @lunarmango  @uhhhimbored   @loveameripanshipperlove, @redvexillum

Tag list open Next?Masterlist

Join us at VoxTek for a Vox themed Hazbin Discord where we talk Vox, Hazbin, writing, reading, art and who knows what else. You may even catch some exclusive sneak peeks at upcoming fics from some of your favorite writers!

[worldgonewrongpod]

Friends! Listeners! We're excited to announce the writers for our next two chapters- and they're some of our favorites in the audio fiction space~

Chapter 3 will be written by J. Gregory Moran, mysterious audio fiction scribe! His chapter will be coming in two weeks~

Chapter 4 will be written by Gabriel Urbina, co-creator of Wolf 359, Unseen, Zero Hours, and Time:bombs!

We've read their scripts, and are SO excited for you to hear them!

[thatrandyalexfroma03]

Bucktommy in space fan fic

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64743883/chapters/166973245#workskin

From Chapter two:

Buck flashed the camera a confident, slightly too-bright smile as he strode toward the observation window outside the med bay. Behind the lens, May adjusted the focus while Ravi followed him with the gimbal, keeping the framing tight,just like they'd practiced.

Meanwhile, back at headquarters, Agent Gerrard was keeping a close eye on things, making sure it ran perfectly with no scandal or PR stunts. 

The instructions had been simple: no contact, no entry. Buck was to stand outside, wave politely through the glass at the soldiers inside, and deliver a short, approved message before heading off for the next photo op. 

Complete with gloves and mask, because the public still feared the ‘Jupiter Flu’

But Buck had never been great with scripts.

He turned slightly toward the doctor at his side, voice chipper but curious. “So, Doctor, these soldiers…are they contagious?”

“No,” the doctor replied calmly. “They’re suffering from long-term radiation poisoning. From their exposure cause by long term deployment to poorly designed space craft.”

“Not at all. You’re in no danger. Though I’d keep the mask on,” the doctor added. “That’s for their protection. Their immune systems are compromised.”

With a shrug, Buck peeled off his gloves and walked over to the scrubbing station like he’d done it a hundred times before. “Right,” he said, rolling up his sleeves and reaching for the sanitizer. “After you, Doctor.”

Back at Central Command, Agent Gerrard nearly choked on his lukewarm coffee as the live feed continued rolling across the giant screen at HQ.

He slammed his hand down on the comms button. “What the fuck is that idiot doing?” he barked, voice echoing through the command center.

Onscreen, Buck calmly opened the med bay door and stepped inside, still masked but very much unaccompanied, walking directly into the room with the sick soldiers—live, unscripted, and completely off protocol.

Gerrard’s voice boomed again, this time into his earpiece. “Cut the transmission. Cut it now! ”

Back aboard the ship, Ravi didn’t even flinch. He tapped May on the shoulder, leaned in, and whispered, “Don’t stop. Keep streaming.”

May hesitated—just for a beat—then nodded and adjusted the angle, zooming in as Buck approached the first bed.

“Sam,” Buck said warmly, squatting slightly to meet the patient’s eyes. Field Ranger Samantha Wright, pale and weary but sitting upright, looked stunned.

He extended a hand, not for the camera, not for optics, but for her . “It’s an honor to meet someone who’s given so much to keep us safe.”

She blinked, then slowly reached out and grasped his hand with trembling fingers.

Back at HQ, the audio buzzed with static and shouting as Gerrard barked orders, frantically trying to contain the PR nightmare unfolding in real time.

[mako-asmr]

~Tickle Monsters~ {Poppy Playtime Chapter 3}

You guys can happily thank @fluffymary for commissioning this audio after one of their lovely stories, I hope you all enjoy (I hope you liked it as well Felix ^^ thanks for the commission, I had fun with it!)

I don't take commissions as often as I'd like, so this was a nice audio to work on! I'll see you chaotic nerds tomorrow ^^

[babyspacebatclone]

Watching UniqueGeese reacting to the Game Theory video on Indigo Park was interesting, especially how much the video got wrong about the reasons Rambley would be evil.

Number one: We have zero evidence Rambley resented Molly and Finley, as the video claimed.

In fact, the source of the biggest piece of “evidence” for Rambley’s “motivation” of wanting to be the only park star blatantly contradicts said “motivation.”

When the player shows the information kiosk the Retro Lloyd plush, we get a rant from Rambley:

“Ugh... I don't get why we even have those. And why did they only make one of LLOYD? Is it because he's the loudest? I CAN BE LOUD TOO! WHERE'S MY LIMITED-EDITION THROWBACK PLUSH?!…”

Interestingly, during this rant Rambley has a lot of visual and audio glitches.

If one tracks the appearance of these glitches through Chapter 1, there is a pattern…

They occur when Rambley appears to be overwriting the existing “script.”

Details supporting that exceed this post, but that hypothesis suggests Rambley is really going “off script” here.

“On script” Rambley isn’t supposed to resent Lloyd this much; we’re experiencing (our) Rambley’s personal feelings about the lion and his popularity.

Wouldn’t that support the idea that Rambley wanted to destroy the other mascots and get all the attention?

No.

Because that’s not all Rambley’s angry about.

“…WHERE'S MY LIMITED-EDITION THROWBACK PLUSH?! WHERE'S MOLLIE'S? WHERE'S FINLEY'S? Give this mistake to a child and they'll cry.”

Rambley’s not angry Lloyd’s getting attention and he’s not.

He’s angry that Llyod’s getting attention at the expense of him and his friends.

If Rambley was a glory hound, he should have been egotistical about the special edition Gold Rambley plush.

Instead?

“Wow, is that a gold limited edition Rambley Plush?! Parents were fighting tooth and nail for those things when they came out! Seriously, our employees had to clean up SO many stray teeth and nails. Hard to believe that there was all this demand for a regular Rambley Plush we blasted with gold spray paint."

He’s bemused at the attention the plush garnered; indeed, he appears to have a mild cynicism about the frenzy “corporation” stirred the public up over cheap merch.

It’s interesting Rambley doesn’t glitch during this section, or when he is equally snarky about the Rambley Cup - this suggests Rambley’s core programming matches these comments.

Rambley the Raccoon - the character - doesn’t care about merch or financial things.

Whatever resentment Rambley has against Lloyd (and there is no argument about that!) it seems completely out of character for a program that gushes about his friend Molly’s “talent” at building - and crashing! - airplanes and is eager to have the player make friends with Finley and his “good heart” to want to hurt Molly and Finley to achieve…. being king of a dead kingdom??

[thesiltverses]

I just finished Chapter 35: The Wise Man Knows the Taste of Rot. I commend you for what has been one of the strongest fiction podcast episodes I’ve ever heard and some of the best storytelling I’ve experienced. This episode is a masterclass in storytelling. The competing scriptural narratives, the pacing, the creeping doubts, the suspense—everything is so well crafted. I kept being reminded of Shakespeare’s more psychological explorations in Julius Caesar and Macbeth, and this episode more than any other felt like something written for the stage was recorded for audio listening. I loved that each conversation’s subtext had subtext. I’ve loved the writing for each episode I’ve heard so far, but this episode deserves a standing ovation.

Thank you so much, I'm really thrilled you enjoyed the episode so much! (It absolutely was a very theatrically-inspired script and blocking)