#code vein lore

[kyouzen]

[Q.01-01-87]

[khyiratw]

ᴏᴄ ʀᴀᴍʙʟᴇꜱ ᴡ/ ᴇᴍᴀ <3

ʏᴇᴛ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ʀᴜʟᴇꜱ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ɴᴏᴛ ᴘᴏꜱᴛɪɴɢ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴀ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʙɪᴏ ɪꜱ ᴜᴘ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴏʜ ᴡᴇʟʟ. ɪ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ᴛᴀʟᴋ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʜᴇʀ ꜱᴏ ʙᴀᴅ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴋɪʟʟɪɴɢ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ɪɴꜱɪᴅᴇ. <3

ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴍʏ ᴄᴏᴅᴇ ᴠᴇɪɴ ᴏᴄ, ᴇᴍᴀ, ɪꜱ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴘᴏᴛʟɪɢʜᴛ! ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀ ꜱɪʟʟʏ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ʙᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴜɴꜱʜɪɴᴇ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴍᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ-ᴜᴘ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ ᴀᴘᴏᴄᴀʟʏᴘᴛɪᴄ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴏꜰ ʙɪᴏ-ᴇɴɢɪɴᴇᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴠᴀᴍᴘɪʀᴇꜱ! ᴡᴇʟʟ, ᴇxᴄᴇᴘᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ʙɪᴛ ᴍᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ᴀ ɢɪᴠᴇɴ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇ. </3

ʙᴜᴛ, ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴡᴇ ɢᴇᴛ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ ɪᴛꜱᴇʟꜰ, ɪ ᴅᴇᴄɪᴅᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏʟʟᴇᴄᴛ ᴜᴘ ᴀ ꜰᴇᴡ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ɴɪᴄᴇʀ ꜱᴄʀᴇᴇɴꜱʜᴏᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ɪɴ-ɢᴀᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜱʜᴏᴡ ᴏꜰꜰ! :ᴅ

ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ ʜᴏᴡ ʟᴏɴɢ ɪ ꜱᴘᴇɴᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ɪɴ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴅᴇᴛᴀɪʟ ᴏꜰ ʜᴏᴡ ꜱʜᴇ ʟᴏᴏᴋꜱ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴘʀɪᴄᴇ ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴀʏ ꜰᴏʀ ʜᴇʀ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ꜱᴄʀᴇᴇɴꜱʜᴏᴛꜱ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇʀ ʜᴀɪʀ ᴄʟɪᴘꜱ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ʟᴏᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴠᴇɪʟꜱ ɪɴ ᴄᴏᴍʙᴀᴛ. :')

/// ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ɪɴᴛʀᴏ \\

🩸 ʜᴇʀ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ɪꜱ ᴇᴍᴀ ᴋᴜʀᴏᴋɪ (恵満 黒木), ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴏᴄᴄᴀꜱɪᴏɴᴀʟʟʏ ɢᴇᴛꜱ ꜱʜᴏʀᴛᴇɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴇᴍ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴀʟꜱᴏ ᴜꜱᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴇɴᴛ ʙʏ, ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ɪꜱ ꜰᴜᴍɪᴋᴏ (富聖子).

🩸 ʜᴇʀ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ɴᴀᴍᴇ, ꜰᴜᴍɪᴋᴏ, ɪꜱ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴀɴ ᴀʟɪᴀꜱ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴇɴᴛ ʙʏ ᴡʜᴇɴ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴇɴᴛ ʙʏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴘꜱᴇᴜᴅᴏɴʏᴍ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴏʀᴛꜱ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ꜱʜᴇ ᴜꜱᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴊᴀᴘᴀɴᴇꜱᴇ ᴘᴏᴘ ɪᴅᴏʟ. ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ꜰᴜᴍɪᴋᴏ ꜱᴇᴘᴀʀᴀᴛᴇᴅ ʜᴇʀ ᴘʀᴏꜰᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴᴀʟ ɪᴍᴀɢᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪꜰᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜᴇʀ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟ ʟɪꜰᴇ.

🩸 ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱ ᴊᴀᴘᴀɴᴇꜱᴇ ʙʏ ʙɪʀᴛʜ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴍᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀꜱᴇᴀꜱ ᴀꜱ ᴀɴ ᴀᴅᴜʟᴛ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ ᴡʜʏ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ.

🩸 ᴇᴍᴀ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴛʜɪʀᴅ-ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ʀᴇᴠᴇɴᴀɴᴛ, ᴍᴇᴀɴɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ɪᴍᴘʟᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ʙᴏʀ ᴘᴀʀᴀꜱɪᴛᴇ ᴅᴜʀɪɴɢ ᴏᴘᴇʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ Qᴜᴇᴇɴꜱʟᴀʏᴇʀ ʙᴜᴛ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ʀᴇ-ᴀᴡᴀᴋᴇɴ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ʀᴇᴠᴇɴᴀɴᴛ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ɪᴛ ʜᴀᴅ ᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ.

🩸 ʜᴇʀ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴄᴏᴅᴇ ɪꜱ ᴍᴇʟᴏᴘᴍᴇɴᴇ. ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ɪꜱ ᴅᴇʀɪᴠᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴇᴇᴋ ᴍᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʀᴀɢᴇᴅʏ, ᴀ ᴍᴜꜱᴇ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡɴ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴛɪɴɢ ꜱɪɴɢɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ʜᴀʀᴍᴏɴʏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱʟᴏᴡʟʏ ꜱʜɪꜰᴛᴇᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʀᴀɢᴇᴅʏ.

🩸 ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ɴᴏ ᴛᴇʟʟɪɴɢ ᴇxᴀᴄᴛʟʏ ʜᴏᴡ ᴏʟᴅ ᴇᴍᴀ ᴛᴇᴄʜɴɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ɪꜱ ɴᴏᴡ, ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ 22 ᴡʜᴇɴ ꜱʜᴇ ᴅɪᴇᴅ.

🩸 ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʀᴇᴠᴇɴᴀɴᴛꜱ, ᴇᴍᴀ ʜᴀꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀʏ ʟᴏꜱꜱ. ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴠᴇʟʏ ᴀᴡᴀʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ɪᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪꜱ ᴀ ʙɪᴛ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇʜᴇɴꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴛᴏᴡᴀʀᴅꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ɪᴅᴇᴀ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇᴅɪꜱᴄᴏᴠᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ʟᴏꜱᴛ. ᴀʟᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ᴇxᴘʟᴀɪɴ ᴡʜʏ, ꜱʜᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʜᴀꜱ ᴀ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀɪᴇꜱ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ʟᴏꜱᴛ ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴛɪᴄᴜʟᴀʀʟʏ ᴜᴘꜱᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀʏ ʙᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴏꜰꜰ ꜱᴛᴀʏɪɴɢ ʟᴏꜱᴛ.

🩸 ᴇᴍᴀ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴜɪꜱ' ɢʀᴏᴜᴘ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛᴀᴋᴇɴ ɪɴ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ʙʏ ʟᴏᴜɪꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴀᴋᴜᴍᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ʜᴇʀ ᴀᴡᴀᴋᴇɴɪɴɢ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ʀᴇᴠᴇɴᴀɴᴛ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀᴏᴜꜱʟʏ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏꜱɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇʟʏ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀɴʏ ʟᴏꜱᴛ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴛᴡᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅɪᴅ.

🩸 ꜱʜᴇ ᴘʀɪᴍᴀʀɪʟʏ ᴡɪᴇʟᴅꜱ ᴀ ʜᴀʟʙᴇʀᴅ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇᴀᴘᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴄʜᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏꜱᴛ. ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛʀᴏɴɢᴇꜱᴛ ᴏɴ ʜᴇʀ ᴏᴡɴ, ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀɴ ᴇxᴄᴇʟʟᴇɴᴛ ʙᴀᴛᴛʟᴇꜰɪᴇʟᴅ ꜱᴜᴘᴘᴏʀᴛ ᴛʜᴀɴᴋꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇꜰꜰᴇᴄᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴄᴏᴅᴇ.

/// ꜰᴜɴ ꜰᴀᴄᴛꜱ / ᴛʀɪᴠɪᴀ \\

🩸 ᴇᴍᴀ'ꜱ ᴄᴜʀʀᴇɴᴛ ʜᴀɪʀ ᴄᴏʟᴏʀ(ꜱ) ᴀʀᴇɴ'ᴛ ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴀʟ, ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇʀ ʜᴀɪʀ ɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴜᴄᴋ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀʏ ɢɪᴠᴇɴ ʜᴇʀ ɴᴏ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴏʀꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ʜᴀɪʀ ɴᴏᴡ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀ ʀᴇᴍɴᴀɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ɪᴅᴏʟ ᴅᴀʏꜱ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴅʏᴇ ʜᴇʀ ʜᴀɪʀ ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ᴏꜰᴛᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ʜᴇʀ ɪᴍᴀɢᴇ ꜰʀᴇꜱʜ. ʜᴇʀ ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴀʟ ᴄᴏʟᴏʀ ɪꜱ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ʙʀᴏᴡɴ.

🩸 ᴡʜᴇɴ ꜱʜᴇ ᴀᴡᴀᴋᴇɴᴇᴅ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ʀᴇᴠᴇɴᴀɴᴛ ꜱʜᴇ, ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ��ᴇᴠᴇɴᴀɴᴛꜱ, ʟᴏꜱᴛ ꜱɪɢɴɪꜰɪᴄᴀɴᴛ ᴘᴏʀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀɪᴇꜱ. ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ꜱʜᴇ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀᴇᴅ ʙᴀꜱɪᴄ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʜᴇʀ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ ɴᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ (ᴊᴀᴘᴀɴᴇꜱᴇ), ʜᴇʀ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀʏ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ (ᴇɴɢʟɪꜱʜ) ᴡᴀꜱ ʜɪᴛ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏ ʜᴀʀᴅ. ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ ʜᴇʀ ᴀᴡᴀᴋᴇɴɪɴɢ, ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇʟᴇᴀʀɴ ɪᴛ. ᴇᴠᴇɴ ꜱᴏ, ꜱʜᴇ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ꜱᴛʀᴜɢɢʟᴇꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɪᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛɪᴍᴇ, ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ ᴛʜᴇᴍꜱᴇʟᴠᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʀᴏɴᴜɴᴄɪᴀᴛɪᴏɴ. (ʏᴇꜱ, ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ᴍᴇᴀɴ ꜱʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅꜱ ᴜᴘ ᴘʀᴏɴᴏᴜɴᴄɪɴɢ ʟᴏᴜɪꜱ ᴀꜱ ʀᴜɪ Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ᴏꜰᴛᴇɴ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴀᴘᴏʟᴏɢɪᴢᴇꜱ ᴘʀᴏꜰᴜꜱᴇʟʏ ᴀɴʏ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴꜱ.)

🩸 ᴀʟᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴀɴ ɪᴅᴏʟ ᴄᴀʀᴇᴇʀ, ꜱʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ɴᴇᴄᴇꜱꜱᴀʀɪʟʏ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ɪᴛ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴘᴜꜱʜᴇᴅ ɪɴᴛᴏ ɪᴛ ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ʏᴏᴜɴɢ ʙʏ ʜᴇʀ ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ꜱᴛɪᴄᴋɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɪᴛ ᴀꜱ ꜱʜᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ᴏʟᴅᴇʀ. ꜱʜᴇ, ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴜʀꜱᴇ, ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴅᴏᴇꜱɴ'ᴛ ꜰᴜʟʟʏ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇxᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ꜱʜᴇ ꜱᴜꜰꜰᴇʀᴇᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴄᴀʀᴇᴇʀ.

🩸 ᴇᴍᴀ, ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛʀᴀɢɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ, ᴅɪᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ʜᴇʀ ʙɪʀᴛʜᴅᴀʏ ɪɴ ᴀɴ ᴀᴄᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ʀᴇᴠᴇɴᴀɴᴛꜱ ᴡʜᴏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ꜱᴜꜰꜰᴇʀɪɴɢ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅᴛʜɪʀꜱᴛ. ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ, ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛ ᴛʀᴀɢɪᴄ ɪꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟᴇ ꜰᴀᴄᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪᴛ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ʜᴇʀ ʙɪʀᴛʜᴅᴀʏ. ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴛʀᴜʟʏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇꜱ ɪᴛ ᴛʀᴀɢɪᴄ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴄᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴛ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴘʀᴇᴠᴇɴᴛᴇᴅ ʙʏ ɴᴏɴᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʜᴇʀ ᴏᴡɴ ꜱɪꜱᴛᴇʀ, ᴡʜᴏ, ɪɴꜱᴛᴇᴀᴅ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʟᴘɪɴɢ ᴇᴍᴀ, ᴄʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴛᴏ ʟᴇᴛ ʜᴇʀ ᴅɪᴇ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ꜰᴇᴀꜱᴛᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇQᴜɪᴠᴀʟᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅᴛʜɪʀꜱᴛʏ ʜᴏᴜɴᴅꜱ ɪɴ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ ʙᴏᴅɪᴇꜱ. ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴡᴏʀꜱᴇ? ʜᴇʀ ꜱɪꜱᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇɴ ᴛᴜʀɴᴇᴅ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡɪʟʟɪɴɢʟʏ ɢᴀᴠᴇ ᴜᴘ ʜᴇʀ ꜱɪꜱᴛᴇʀ'ꜱ ʙᴏᴅʏ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʜᴏꜱᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ʙᴏʀ ᴘᴀʀᴀꜱɪᴛᴇ; ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇᴀᴘᴏɴ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴏɴɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴏᴘᴇʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ Qᴜᴇᴇɴꜱʟᴀʏᴇʀ. ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴜʀꜱᴇ, ᴇᴍᴀ ᴅᴏᴇꜱɴ'ᴛ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪɴ ʜᴇʀ ᴄᴜʀʀᴇɴᴛ ꜱᴛᴀᴛᴇ.

🩸 ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ɪᴛ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ᴇᴀꜱʏ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ ʟɪᴠɪɴɢ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ʀᴇᴠᴇɴᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴀ ᴄᴜʀꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ɪᴍᴍᴏʀᴛᴀʟɪᴛʏ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀɪᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴɪᴛʏ, ᴇᴍᴀ ꜱᴇᴇꜱ ɪᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪᴠᴇ ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ʟɪꜰᴇ. ꜱᴜʀᴇ, ꜱʜᴇ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇʟʏ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ ʜᴇʀ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ ʟɪꜰᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴀ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ʟᴇᴅ ᴀ ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ꜱᴀᴅ ᴏɴᴇ, ꜱᴏ ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟʏ ᴀʀɢᴜᴇ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛ ᴀɴᴇᴡ.

🩸 ᴅᴇꜱᴘɪᴛᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴜʀʀᴇɴᴛ ꜱᴛᴀᴛᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴠᴇɪɴ, ᴇᴍᴀ ᴛʀɪᴇꜱ ʜᴇʀ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ᴀ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴠᴇʟʏ ᴘᴏꜱɪᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴀᴛᴛɪᴛᴜᴅᴇ. ꜱᴜʀᴇ, ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ ꜱᴄᴀʀʏ, ʙᴜᴛ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʀʏ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ, ʀɪɢʜᴛ? ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ᴘᴏʀᴛʀᴀʏꜱ ᴏᴜᴛᴡᴀʀᴅʟʏ ᴀɴʏᴡᴀʏꜱ. ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴꜱɪᴅᴇ, ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ��ᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴡᴏʀʀɪᴇᴅ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀᴛᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ᴀꜱ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴇʟꜱᴇ ɪꜱ. ꜱʜᴇ'ᴅ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ɴᴏᴛ ʙᴜʀᴅᴇɴ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ ᴀɴʏ ꜰᴜʀᴛʜᴇʀ ʙʏ ʟᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱʜᴏᴡ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ.

🩸 ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʀᴇᴠᴇɴᴀɴᴛꜱ, ᴘᴀʀᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴍᴀ'ꜱ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀʏ ᴠᴇꜱᴛɪɢᴇꜱ ᴄᴀɴ ʙᴇ ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ. ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴘɪᴇᴄᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀʏ ᴄᴀɴ ᴏɴʟʏ ʙᴇ ᴄᴏʟʟᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴠɪᴇᴡᴇᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀ. ʜᴇʀ ᴏʟᴅᴇꜱᴛ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀɪᴇꜱ ᴄᴀɴ ᴏɴʟʏ ʙᴇ ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ɴᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴅᴇ ᴠᴇɪɴ'ꜱ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ, ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴀʀᴇ ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴠɪꜱɪᴏɴᴀʟ ɢᴏᴠᴇʀɴᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴏᴜᴛꜱᴋɪʀᴛꜱ.

🩸 ᴀꜱ ʜᴀʀᴅ ᴀꜱ ɪᴛ ᴄᴀɴ ʙᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴄᴜᴛᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀᴛᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴠᴇɪɴ ɪꜱ ɪɴ, ᴇᴍᴀ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴠᴇʀʏ ʜᴀᴘᴘɪʟʏ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ɢᴇᴛ. ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ꜱᴜᴄʜ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴀᴄᴄᴇꜱꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴀꜱ ʜᴏɴᴇꜱᴛʟʏ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʜᴇʀ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇᴄɪᴀᴛᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴍᴏʀᴇ. ᴘʟᴜꜱʜɪᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴜᴛᴇ ᴀᴄᴄᴇꜱꜱᴏʀɪᴇꜱ ꜱʜᴇ ᴍᴀɴᴀɢᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴏʀ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀᴡɪꜱᴇ ɢᴇᴛ ʜᴇʀ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴏɴ ʜᴇʟᴘ ʜᴇʀ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ʜᴇʀ ɢʀᴀꜱᴘ ᴏɴ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ.

ᴀꜱ ᴜꜱᴜᴀʟ, ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴀᴍʙʟɪɴɢꜱ ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ɴᴏᴡ! ɪ'ᴍ ʜᴏɴᴇꜱᴛʟʏ ᴜɴꜱᴜʀᴇ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴇxᴀᴄᴛʟʏ ɪ'ʟʟ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ꜰᴜʟʟ ʙɪᴏ ᴜᴘ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇ. ɪ'ᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴜʀʀᴇɴᴛʟʏ ʜʏᴘᴇʀꜰɪxᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ᴄᴏᴅᴇ ᴠᴇɪɴ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴜꜱʜ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴛᴀɪʟꜱ ᴏɴ ʜᴇʀ ʙɪᴏ ᴡᴏʀᴋᴇᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴜʀꜱᴇ, ᴡʜᴇɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ɪᴛ ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ɢᴏ ᴜᴘ, ɪ'ʟʟ ʙᴇ ꜱᴜʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ʜᴇʀᴇ!

ᴀɴʏᴡᴀʏꜱ, ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ɪᴛ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴛɪᴍᴇ! <3

[code-pain]

So. Did we ever get an explanation about why the protag was able to accept the queen’s blood without going crazy?

[Spoiler]

They're going crazy at the scene after draining queen's blood, but skip that because I know this is talking about protagonist being successor, What's on my mind is because the protagonist is already stronger than Revenant in general, like what Karen said.

But yes, this makes it even more questionable how strong protagonist actually is because the blood relic itself is already very strong and dangerous, the possibility of getting a frenzy really fast is big, there's a theory that protag actually have more than one relic.

But for the moment I think this is just because the protagonist is stronger than revenants in general, they're literally got stab on their chest twice, 1 in protagonist vestiges cutscenes Karen mentioned that protag heart is damage and able to wake up two days later after that, and the second one being the mercy kill from jack and somehow able to respawn years later(big plot hole I hate it sm)

We never even got actual explanation(?) on how they got the relic, because aurora mentioned that there's something have to do first to get the relics and also "successor selection" being something mentioned canonically in the game (loading screen), and I still believe that protagonist not actually getting the blood relic from draining queen's blood, because if yes does that mean they actually already have special power?

Only revenants with a high enough compatibility are chosen to become Successors, and even most of them eventually succumb to corruption that transforms their bodies. Thus, a tempered will is also vital for keeping relics under control.

[foxx-yo]

Some lovely in-game shots of Boss!

A little lore about her, she happened to be doing the same job before she met Io. Killing the lost and having a whole crew behind her that was always calling her 'Boss', it stuck as you heard. It does make Boss a bit older than most of the others within the base.

[snoozyrobin]

Lore Flashbangs in my Code Vein OC Lore

Because I've been getting autistic about this game and my oc again I'll throw in some out of context OC lore about Shade because I find it fun. And a ref so you can see them :0

-Taken from their parent when they were a child by the government -Personally victimized by Juzo Mido -Their upper body is mostly scars -Gives everyone nicknames, specifically ones like "Yakky Boy" for Yakumo -Slept through the entirety of Queenslayer -Woke up in the Howling Pit to Coco with a Shotgun/ -Has a literal rabid mode they can't control -Can't ride a bike or swim, can walk in heels -Bit into a Blood Bead from the side -Ironically their parents are both canonically alive -Has most of their memories but doesn't realize it

And most importantly... -More scared of Rin Murasame than the Hunter.

[syluses]

big girls don’t cry

𓍯𓂃 self aware robot! caleb x female reader

(wc: 9.5k) ✦ summary: after your brother passes, consumed by grief, you take to the internet to order a synthetic version of him. afterward, it’s impossible to throw him out. (or: alternatively titled the trojan horse)

✦ content robot! caleb, past engineer! caleb, au where EVER deals in robotics, non-evol au, 18+ nsfw/smut, mildly dubious consent, angst, grief, mental instability, bad coping mechanisms, robot pseudocest?? robot sex, mind games, moral grayness all around, dark/yandere undertones; this fic can have multiple interpretations, pregnancy

✦ sidenote have yall ever seen that episode of black mirror? ‘be right back’? basically this: the girl’s boyfriend dies so she orders an incredibly realistic, intelligent robot to replace him. they’re identical in personality and appearance, and yet… 👀 ANYWAYS ( ⸍ɞ̴̶̷ ·̫ ɞ̴̶̷⸌ ) i have a set plot for this in my head, but i left it a lil vague so ur allowed to think of it in ur own way 🤎 if u wanna know the ‘canon’ tho.. u can absolutely ask me. the lore is so deep its traumatizing :,) anyways hope u enjoy <3 ty for 1k btw!! take this as a lil celebration treat 🥳 it took so much out of me but i think i really vibe with it heheh

He’s perfect. Nigh on.

For the first few days since his arrival, since hauling him off the foot of your porch and into your living room to unpack him- heart tickering in your chest all the while, trepidatious- you’ve just stared. Reached out your hands to hover, ghosting over the broad blade of his shoulder, his chapped lips, the slight jut of his cheekbone.

His hands, as big and weathered as you remember them (but gentle, always gentle), hang limply by his sides.

You don’t dare slip your smaller ones in them.

All of the theatrics, yet you don’t press his- its- button, either.

No, you don’t even touch it after the initial unpacking, wrenching your fingers away as soon as they get too close. As soon as they get too tempted by hope and the wish that this hunk of metal was more than just a replica of your late brother. Half of you thinks it might burn if you get too comfortable; and you won’t get comfortable— underneath the solidified layers of grief and- you have trouble saying it aloud, but bitterness- there’s still just enough common sense to keep you from taking the leap. The leap from mourning to insanity.

It’s hollow. You know that much. A nothingness enwrapped in a steely chassis full of wiring and code too technological for you to understand, all covered by a synthetic skin suit as the pretty bow on top.

And you know- what with your emotional state- that if you could peer inside, strip it down to the framework and just… take a moment to look, that you’d vomit. It’d be too much to bear, being forced to reconcile with the fact that he really is gone— and in response to it all, you’ve blown your savings on an eerily-realistic, glorified doll of him with wires for veins.

You’re trembling when you stiffly prop him against the far wall, limiting contact as much as possible, and step away, keeping your eyes on him all the while. It. Not him. Not Caleb- that’s not your fucking brother, just a disgusting, soulless fascimile of him—

But as you stand back on your feet (with the coffee table in between, just in case) to get a good look at him, like a real, proper look, your breath is taken.

The thing: He’s not just a passable carbon copy, you realize. Admittedly, he’s…

Identical.

(He’s Caleb.)

All the oxygen gusts out of you in a breeze.

You lift a shaking hand over your open mouth and choke as silent tears spill from your lashline, blurring your eyes on the way down. Wetting your knuckles as they shake wildly.

You’re crying. Of course you’re crying. This is- you can’t do this. You just can’t.

Racing upstairs, retreating to your bedroom to slam the door as if the devil himself was on your tail, only then do you drop your hand and fully sob.

It’s pitiful, really. Wretched noises that resonate from deep in your throat, your spirit wrecked as you curl up on the floor and make yourself into a ball.

Darkness comes outside, the space around you muting itself in grey colors. The puddle beneath your cheek is moonlit. You sniffle and relocate, but you don’t even bother to tuck the not-Caleb robot in its special container, no- you just settle beneath your blankets and pray it’s all a bad dream you’ll awake from come tomorrow.

Tomorrow: you’ll send him off. Return him.

You don’t care how much money it costs- for all you care, it’s paltry, it’s replaceable. And it is replaceable, that’s the bleak truth: that android stood motionless by your couch, despite having a face so familiar it’s painful, has no emotional value whatsoever. There’s no depth to it. No substance.

A skeleton built by rods. Artificial flesh modeled around thin, colorful cables and circuit boards.

I mean- he’s no better than the stapler on your desk, or the toaster on your kitchen counter. Better yet, a crumb on the floor.

A nothingness, you think again. Prettily encased in smooth, sun-speckled skin and that cottony loungewear (that still retains his smell) you could hardly part with when the online form requested his attire.

He’s perfect, nigh on, you’ll give the company who forged him that much credit, because they sure followed his pictures to a T. It looks just like him; so much so you couldn’t even bear to look at him for more than ten minutes before bolting, the emotional response so violent.

But the problem is that he’s not real. He’s not your Caleb.

✦

It’s hard to throw him away when he looks like that. When he bears the likeness of your late, beloved older brother.

Yes, you want to stuff him back in his box and return to sender, but when it comes to courage, you lack the backbone necessary to carry out your decisions.

You tiptoe down the stairs to see him again and sputter.

He’s too real, you decide in a heartbeat. Too real.

Shutting your eyes as tears begin to pour anew, lunging forward with blind intent to cache him away in the elaborate box he came in, you get to work. And you get to work quickly. You can only bear to look at it- that heartless caricature of your gege- for so long until you feel something in you, your last fragile piece, begin to fracture.

After the explosion, all you had left of him were the memories. Not an explanation, not a goodbye, not even a body. What remained of the boy you were fostered with was ash and a puerile, yet no less beloved locket with its edges burnt copper.

Now, you have something exponentially more physical and intact, unsullied by the reality of what was.

So for a moment, yes- sue you and your heart for hesitating- but it’s a hard task to seal him away.

Agonizing, really.

His arms are stiff by his sides but you feel the skin; the lump of muscle in his forearm, the bump of his elbow. The only thing that keeps you from giving into the puffed-up illusion of his being real and alive is the coolness beneath your fingertips. The unnatural, icy feel to his otherwise mortal skin that reminds in a voice, condescending like all things out of reach, see? that’s not Caleb. And you’re insulting him by thinking that it could be.

You’re halfway done nudging him towards the box (careful, despite your frenzied, fluttering heart; afraid to damage his likeness) when you trip over your own feet navigating the narrow space between your table and the couch.

It’s unthinking, the way you grab him- arms flying out to steady yourself with his broad shoulders.

In all your scrambling- something clicks. Gives under your fingerpad.

A button.

With mute horror, you watch his eyes light.

…And you can see it too, you know, registering in his gaze as it settles over you and takes you in— a blip of mirth that quickly warps into worry at the look you give him. You must appear no different than a deer in headlights.

For several seconds, you simply stand there, your palms clamming up where they dig into his shoulders, and gawk as Caleb— not-Caleb’s— expression turns to one ready to comfort.

Familiar, painfully.

The stiff hands at his side are spurred into motion, lifting to cradle your cheek while the other helps ground you by the small of your back.

“Meimei?”

No, no- don’t say that, don’t say that, internally, you have to shoehorn down all your grief as it bubbles up, and harden your face to keep from crying all over again.

…Although it’s more or less obvious you had been. The puffy eyes rimmed in red, the certain wisp of defeat to your brow and the exhaustion written all over you is clear as day. It leaves nothing to ponder.

He sounds disturbed by it all, the sadness about you that lies thick as a coating of paint. Commiserative to a fault. Lassoing you to his firm chest as he burrows your head below the dip of his chin.

He goes, “What’s wrong?” Then, “It’s okay, I’m here. I got you. Just let it all out.”

And the world around you staggers to a fall.

✦

It was very difficult to get rid of him as he stood still; when you could convince yourself he was just a startlingly realistic statue.

It’s all but impossible when he begins to move, and speak, and smile at you.

You don’t get close enough to press his button. You’re not quite strong enough to apply the distance you probably should, though, so when he takes a step forward, you take one back- but you never run.

It’s a weird limbo you’re caught in. Do you leap into his arms? Do you… Do you toss him out the door, after all? Leave him to the elements to chip away at his body; the rain to erode his fleshy outer shell?

But no. How could you do that? He-

He fucking looks like Caleb. It feels more sinful to rid yourself of him, now that he’s… on, than to indulge a little bit in the idea that he’s still alive and breathing.

If Caleb was still alive, you wonder silently one morning with no small amount of hurt, would he hate you? For whatever the hell it is you’re doing now?

You can’t even blame Gideon, not really. Without his persistent messages, and all the links he sent you of articles revolving androids and how they can help the user cope with grief, you’d have been none the wiser to the concept, sure- but at the end of the day, you made the choice to get one.

A chunk of your savings and an unprompted, fat check from Caleb’s best buddy— you decided to throw that at some futuristic company (well, not ‘some’: both men worked there- albeit they always kept their work very hush (you did catch whispers of a promotion, though, before the accident)) and one of the many services they provide.

Gideon, over the course of some months, was all but pointing you at their website, promising it would help. He’d be there to clear any confusion, in any case; hey, how neat did a walkthrough of the site from a bonafide EVER engineer sound?: Just one of his probes.

It was only two weeks back, however, when he paid an unsolicited house call, wordlessly wrapping you into his broad chest, that you caved to them.

You think about the scene while you sit at the counter and sip from your mug.

Your home smells richly of coffee, just brewed, and bacon as it sizzles. Eyeing not-Caleb with a pang of unease— not fully able to snuff out that feeling of uncanniness even as some days pass peacefully— you offer a small smile when he glances up at you.

Beaming just as he was the day before. Beaming like nothing is terribly wrong.

(To be clear, something is.)

You… can’t help but feel like you’re being monitored when he stares.

Yes, it’s a silly fear, you know that. The company your late brother worked for wasn’t exactly open with all the scientific grounds they made breakthroughs on, but he always promised that their means were lawful. Caleb wasn’t one for lies- so your doubts were soothed. So as hush-hush as EVER is sometimes, you’re fairly confident they wouldn’t ship out mass batches of faulty or otherwise rigged products.

Anyway- you suppose the weird intensity in its eyes isn’t all that off-putting when you take into account the very real personality it was formulated from.

When the pancakes (your favorite: banana chocolate chip; information he apparently already knew) turn an appetizing shade of gold, he shimmies them off the pan with a spatula and onto a plate.

That plate- loaded tastefully with bacon, a scoop of rice, and eggs with a ketchup smile painted over its face- slides before you. But though your belly growls, you don’t eat. Not right away. Wherever the culinary arts are concerned, your older brother has always excelled. Growing up, maybe you even exploited him a little for it- but he never did anything he didn’t want to; sometimes it even seemed like Caleb enjoyed sticking his neck out for you.

He pats his hands over his too-small apron (not that he minds it), frowning.

“What’s wrong, Pipsqueak? Does… Does the food look alright? I haven’t made somethin’ for you in a while, huh…?”

Oh no, the food looks fine.

It’s just that you’re the only one eating it.

And maybe it’d be better to keep that thought to yourself: part of you is just over the moon to have him standing in your kitchen with you after months apart— but it doesn’t matter that you keep your mouth shut, because Caleb reads your mind anyway.

He’s at your side in a blink, hushing away the tears that bead at your eyes out of nowhere.

“Hey, hey… No cryin’, okay? I’m just not hungry this morning, Meimei- but that doesn’t mean I won’t sit with you and talk while you eat. C’mon,” he squeezes your hand where it lies on the counter, smiling lightly.

It takes everything in you not to flinch away from the touch.

“Wouldn’t want your breakfast goin’ cold now, would we?” Pulling out the barstool beside you, he sits.

You don’t ask him to, but Caleb picks up your fork and embodies one of the several memories you have of him spoonfeeding you as a child.

“I can feed you. Just like the good ol’ times. Here, you gotta open your mouth first,” His smile strengthens when your lips, as if by habit, part. Your lashes flutter shut when that first bite touches your tongue- syrupy hotcakes and fluffy scrambled eggs- and for that you’re glad because you don’t have to see the way he marvels at you as you eat.

It’s not good for your heart.

“So? What does Pipsqueak the number one food critic have to say about my dish?” He shines, “Does it taste as good as it looks?” You can’t help the breathless laugh that escapes- the scene too nostalgic to simply idle away with indifference. You wear all your emotions on your face, anyway; you’re not fooling anybody, least of all Caleb.

“Even better,” you murmur with the barest of smiles. He presses another spoonful to your lips and you giggle.

Violet hues glitter with delight. You’ve said practically nothing to him this whole time, and he’s been patient- weirdly patient, almost- but the joy in his gaze is palpable now.

Sometimes, though, you can almost swear you see something in his gaze shift. Tuning itself like a lens. He blinks and it disappears.

“…But I will say your presentation could use some work. It’s a 7 out of 10.”

Caleb, still holding the utensil out, uses his other hand to prop his chin up. He smiles fondly as he regards you. As you’ve gotten older, it’s like every time you see the brunet, he looks at you like he’s taking you in for the first time all over again.

“Yeah?” He encourages. “Enlighten me, oh Pipsqueak- what must I do to earn those three extra points?”

“The ketchup smiley face was all lopsided,” you explain in a quiet voice, having a hard time fully immersing in this lie unraveling before you; beautiful as it is. As much as you might ache to.

This isn’t a good idea. You know that.

Still…

Maybe… maybe just a couple of conversations with him can’t be too bad, right? I mean, it’s only a fraction of what Gideon was expecting of you (lounging around together to chat, game nights, and even public outings), but to him, it’d be a start. For you, though, it’s a stretch. An exception.

You should limit interaction with not-Caleb.

You know this, and yet—

Glancing back to him, you try and fail to hide a coy smile with a napkin. “Next time, keep a steady hand, and you’ll be a perfect chef in no time. Maybe not as good as me, but, y’know…”

He chuckles, brows lifting. “Oh yeah? Then expect surgical precision from me tomorrow morning. Chef Caleb won’t let you down again!”

An intense sadness slips through the momentary happiness you were allowed. It nags at your chest.

You blink rapidly, giving a feeble, light sound before looking away.

You’ve never let me down, Gege, you don’t say, taking your fork from the clasp of his big hand (much to his dismay) to prod at your plate.

It was me who failed you.

✦

Not-Caleb looks like Caleb, yes.

He acts like him, too.

You spend the span of the next few weeks trying to scrutinize him; hours spent on the couch, his hand in yours while you grill him. You treat him like a bug under a microscope. Prodding for answers to questions you’re sure his programming must miss- interrogations built on memories so old they’re near ancient. Just blurry wisps in your mind.

Not-Caleb remembers some better than you.

Puts you to shame with his mechanical replies detailing scenarios you’re missing fragments of.

What’s Caleb’s favorite fruit?

I like apples, Pipsqueak.

And what’s my favorite food he’d make for me?

Easy-peasy. You still love those boneless chicken wings, don’t you? Although, that braised pork I make for you comes as a close second, doesn’t it?

Am I your real sister?

And you’d never ask the real Caleb such a thing. You’re only doing it now because it’s one of the most personal things you could possibly make a query of. His response would be very telling.

Life before you met him all those years ago is no more than a fuzzy glimpse, and you never minded all that much: so long as you had Caleb, nothing else, nothing before, mattered. All throughout your childhood, people didn’t know the difference anyway.

Far as they knew, you were family.

Which… isn’t wrong, per se— but it’s not biological. ‘Real.’

You, Caleb, and Gran were obviously aware of that. To you it was always a beautiful thing: a tale of rebirth, in a way, or a second chance, as a young girl found a new place to call home with a warm guardian and a brotherly figure. They’d stabilize her and bring warmth to an otherwise cold beginning.

Caleb was never spoken for on that front.

You… didn’t see eye to eye on all things. Oh, that much is true.

Sometimes you were convinced that he wanted nothing to do with the assumption that you were his little sister (albeit, you were never sure why). At others, it was like he was furious you were only bound to him in name and not blood. He saw it as an attack on your close bond.

…But Not-Caleb surely doesn’t know all his nuances. Not like you came to.

So you’re expecting a pause. A minor glitch or even a malfunction as the robot scours his database.

Got him, you almost think to yourself— then swiftly take it back.

The face of the android sat at your side falls, much to your surprise, into a small frown.

And the truth must be coded deep in the bulwarks of not-Caleb’s artificial brain: your and Caleb’s respective origins. The answer is no. No, you’re not his real sister.

…But your real Gege would lie and say yes, absolutely you are—

“‘Course you are,” Not-Caleb goes. And he does it with as much passion behind it as you’d expect.

You’re startled into silence.

He scoots impossibly closer and loops an arm over your shoulder, tucking your head to his jaw. Seamlessly, he pecks your hairline, saying, “You’re my sweet little Meimei. You’re priceless to me. Now no more pickin’ at me, okay?” He suggests in a light tone, rubbing your shoulder. “You’ve been questioning me all evening- look, it even got dark out. Let’s get you to bed-“

“I- I didn’t say I was tired-“

“You didn’t have to. I could tell you were startin’ to get sleepy, Pipsqueak,” he looks down at you and smiles- a reassuring, yet no less playful smile- and for one moment you cant breathe because fuck it’s him. It’s really, really him. “Your drooping eyes were a dead giveaway. Hm... I guess that big dinner we had put you in a food coma, huh?” He chuckles.

We. Funny, that. You recall the feast being one-sided.

Nonetheless.

Without prompting, he sweeps you off the couch and walks you up the wooden stairway. The old steps creak underfoot. He does it all effortlessly, though, arms as strong and capable as you remember.

You loop your slimmer ones around his neck.

With great hesitance, you lend a part of yourself to this illusion.

This beautiful, near unbelievable, oh-so fragile illusion that Caleb is not dead.

When you reach your bedroom, you don’t send him off to the guest room like all the nights before. No, when he carefully sets you down, you watch him, motionlessly, as he tucks you in and plants a chaste kiss to your forehead. When he turns to go- “don’t let the bed bugs bite”- you snatch his hand, half terrified you’ll blink and he’ll be gone, and flash him a look that silently pleads.

Stay.

The brunet’s lashes flutter, brushing over his cheekbones where the lamplight makes them shine.

He opens his mouth.

Pauses, then closes it.

“Stay. Please, Gege,” you breathe, on the cusp of shattering all over again. It’s become more manageable over recent days, this unresolved cluster of emotion inside you, but it’s times like these that make you feel blindsided by it.

You innocently add, “Like when we were kids.”

Oh, you’d go back to then if you could.

His long fingers, loose in your hold, flip to swallow up your hand. He stoops over to turn off the light.

His voice shakes ever so slightly, “Okay.”

Then, he clambers into bed with you and reminds you of just how small it is, how much he does not belong, but you’ve never felt more at home when he pulls you to his chest and- dutifully ignoring the quiet beneath your ear, the absence of a pulse- you cling to him.

Maybe it’d be a little weird, the proximity, what with your grown age and the fact that you were no longer children cuddling during thunderstorms…

It’s not like you’re hanging off him like he’s your lifeline for any nefarious reason, though- and it’s not like he can hold any judgment anyway. He’s… He’s not really Caleb. He’s not even a person. Just a sentient robot that resembles him to a shocking degree and soothes that ache in your chest- just by a smidge.

…And yet when he looks at you, suddenly, tilting your jaw up so he can admire what he sees in the darkness- your stunned expression lit faintly by the moon- it’s like he’s reading this in his own way.

His interpretation? you realize in a shaking breath?

He’s no longer holding his little sister, but a woman.

It’s in his eyes, rippling as he exhales deeply (all artificial, albeit you don’t dwell on that for long) and thumbs over your lip.

A boyish kind of wonder lifts his brow as he stares, cheeks slightly flushed.

Your heart bangs in your chest. Like gunshots punctuating the silence. It grows to be unbearable. This is weird, and wrong- the way he’s looking at you. But you quickly chalk it up to a malfunction.

It’s all a fluke, technology fucking up in a way that reminds you of humanity’s shortcomings and how far they can only go.

Finally, you’ve found the fault in its design. The place where Caleb and not-Caleb differ.

You know your beloved older brother like the back of your own hand, so when his eyes flutter (flash, almost) and he lurches forward to clumsily press his lips to yours— you label the action for what it really is.

An inaccuracy.

Perhaps, you think as you close your bleared eyes and let him, the only. Because the rest of his program is perfect. Infallible.

The scene unfurling is foreign- his big hands cupping your cheeks as he kisses you like his life depends on it- but as he shifts you beneath him and hovers atop, that signature softness remains. Really, as his fingertips reach for your shorts—

(A blip of something mechanical in its fiery gaze, almost as if it’s trying to rectify itself; the shortest of pauses—)

It’s all that grounds you.

“Caleb,” you moan, or cry. You don’t know. Just that when he helps you out of your panties to go down on you, digits delving inside your tight hole after he wets it with his tongue, your heart sings for him.

You don’t push him away. No, even as the humanoid sullies your late brother’s image with all his sinful hungering, you can’t break yourself free. Never find it in you to.

Because it doesn’t matter what he treats you as. You realize belatedly, with no small amount of horror, that you don’t even care how many flaws Not-Caleb has. He could have a million for all you care, you’re already too far gone- writhing underneath him as he holds your legs open and feasts- to pretend you have any right to feel offended.

And if the real Caleb was here, he’d hate you: an echo in your skull, sneering. He should, but-

“There, Meimei, ngh…” a hot tongue (no longer as cold as he was in stasis) laves along your folds. Mauve eyes look up to you with reverence, glittering in the dark.

“Just like that. Moan, say my name- I’ve been waiting for this for so long…”

You wear ignorance like a blindfold. Shutting your eyes and ears.

A fluke. His hardware stalling.

His hair woven in your fingers feels like velvet. Soft, silky; hanging over his brow as he eats you out- skillfully, might you add. Albeit his passion wins out by just a touch against his expertise, clumsily plunging his two middle fingers into your pussy.

“You taste so good, so sweet- mmph- I’ll take care of you, okay?” He mumbles in between lewd squelches.

In both physical and moral terms, there is not one thing about this that isn’t filthy.

Y-You know that, but…

“Don’t worry. I’ll- ah- I’ll make sure you feel real nice. I’ll make you come as many times as you want. I’ve been… dreamin’ of this for years now… I won’t mess this up, okay? I’ll do whatever it takes until you’re shaking.”

-but this is all you have left of him.

Hazily, you glance down to him, cheeks aflame, and barely succeed in asking, ��C-Caleb- h-how are you even gonna-? You-“ you choke on the words you need to say. With a mite of dry humor, you think right then that you’re short-circuiting just as bad as him (because he is).

“Are you capable of it?”

Of fucking you? Of pinning you down and throwing your ankles over his shoulders to better plow you into your creaking, old mattress?

His brow twitches slightly. Voice ragged, he makes an agreeable sound, pressing a kiss to your clit so adoring it’s almost funny when his finger bends sensually inside you. “Are you doubting my abilities, Meimei? I’ll have you know I’ve been practicing this moment in my head for—“

No. You slam your eyes shut and drown it all out.

His words become a white noise. No different than the steady whir of the air conditioning as a cool breeze gusts beneath your door, cooling your forehead where it beads with sweat.

A- A glitch, you quietly decide. Even long after he’s made you cum thrice (twice on his fingers and tongue, once on his thick, flushed cock), you hold staunch to that.

It’s all just a fluke.

✦

When the sun rises, you wake with a start to a phone ringing- yours- and swallow a lump of unease at the figure lying beside you (your Gege, a voice in your head reminds: you silence it).

Prying off the solid arm around your waist to gingerly exit the room- still half-naked- you piously ignore the cum caked to the inside of your thighs. Yours, it must be. You don’t focus on the confusion, either, the ask of just how the hell last night was possible and why you let your emotions get ahold of you.

(Because you love him. And maybe, just maybe- in your own weird, admittedly morally-grey way- you can cobble together a sense of normalcy with him. At least just for a little bit...)

As you head to the living room downstairs, you tap your phone and lift it to your ear.

“G-Gran,” you say as greeting, smoothing your hair back, still quite ruffled over… recent events. Ruffled and ashamed.

Very.

But- while he looks like Caleb, he’s not in reality. That… malfunction last night is a blatant proof of that. You only got on your back and let him have his way with you because you’ve missed his touch so much that you’d quite literally accept it in any form.

If sex or his lips battling against yours- his whispered vows, as seemingly heartfelt as they were errant to Caleb’s true character- is all you’ll get of him, then so be it.

In your own way, messed up as it is, it’s almost like with his android, you get a chance to reconcile with the loss.

To say goodbye.

Because before that package arrived at your doorstep, you didn’t have the luxury of one.

A familiar, aged voice sounds over the line. “Hey, dearie, oh- I didn’t wake you, did I? You sound tired.” She’s one to talk, you think to yourself- but not with malice. Truth be told you’ve worried for her as of late.

It’s been lonely for you both, you’re sure, but even though she only lives on the other end of Linkon, you have trouble making the drive. You haven’t dropped by in a couple weeks.

There’s a few different reasons.

It’s hard to pretend you’re fine when you’re not, for one, that what happened with Caleb- the abruptness and lack of conclusion, the confusing aftermath of it all- never did. You try your best to plaster on a smile and be strong in your grandmother’s presence, but that’s easier said than done. Especially when that old house of hers is jam-packed with photos and tokens of your past with him— painful reminders whenever you do visit.

The newest excuse for not is guilt.

Frankly, Gideon is the only one who knows what’s going on. Hah- no surprise, being he was the main reason for your even ordering not-Caleb.

But Gran doesn’t know.

You haven’t told her about him. And after last night, what with your own release still dried to your legs (which wobble slightly; he was every bit passionate and then some), you don’t think you ever will.

She might actually slap you across the face, taking your willingness to believe in such a lie as an offense against her grandson’s vibrant character.

…If she found out what happened- that you opened your legs for him and moaned- she might go into cardiac arrest.

You didn’t… want that to happen, definitely not- I mean, you didn’t even have the time to prepare. But yes, you did let it.

And curse yourself for wanting your brother back, but—

“No, it’s fine, Gran,” you glance over your shoulder to the staircase. Finding it empty, you let out a breath. “Is something wrong? It’s… It’s early.”

—you’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel a little fucking blissful to wake up to his face again, just like back when you were inseparable kids.

She sighs on the other end, “no, no,” she starts. You think you hear a TV in the background; something to fill the silence you leave her to sit in. “Nothing’s wrong, my dear. I just… I haven’t seen you in a bit. I miss your face, Y/n. How are you doing?”

Like a dart to a board, guilt lands its mark.

You shouldn’t fluster at such a simple question, but you do. Not just because it’s so direct and genuine, but because a big hand rests over your shoulder and suddenly Caleb is there, standing behind you.

You straighten up from where you’re propped against the wall and quickly lift a hand to silence any words he may speak.

“I-I’m well, Gran. Sorry, just- I’ll visit soon, I promise.”

“I’d like that,” she murmurs. You’re aware of how much she means it and close your eyes with a wince. A broad palm, as if sensing your inner turmoil, rubs your shoulder soothingly.

You rub the bridge of your nose and don’t look.

“What’s… What’s been keeping you?” She broaches after a beat. Laughter from the television fades in and out over the speaker.

For a second, you freeze. You freeze because you fear she might know.

All for naught: “You’re getting enough sleep, right? I don’t want you overworking yourself. I know you’ve had a lot on your mind, sweetie- oh, God knows we’ve both suffered all these months without Caleb, but that’s no reason for us to fall apart either-”

You sigh shakily and bite down on a cry.

“Yeah, I know. But I’ve been better, Gran, okay? I…” Shiftily, you wet your bottom lip and give a half truth- as if that can relieve you of this weight. “I was talking with Gideon a little; he’s…. he helped me.”

She sounds pleasantly surprised. “Oh? Good, good. What about?”

Nosy as ever. Not that you’re complaining. It’s good to know someone cares- someone… real.

You swallow your unease. “He was just talking to me about his job and stuff. EVER... He told me he was finally getting that raise or whatever, so he’s doing well... I- I was prying per usual,” you joke to lighten the mood, “He, uh… he tells me more than Caleb ever did, so…” (And when his name started to feel like a sin to say, you don’t know.) “So, you know. I was just curious. He was checking in on me, too…”

Warm breath fans at your ear, fingers closing around your shoulder as he peppers kisses at your neck insistently- and you shudder. Clasping the phone tighter (because it suddenly feels unstable in your hands), you shrug off (not)Caleb for just long enough to say,

“Gran- I- I gotta go. Uh- someone else is calling me,” and to preclude any probing on her end- or extra guilt on yours- you add, “I’ll visit tomorrow, okay? I promise. I’ll- I’ll be there. I love you.”

A voice timidly mirrors it back, and then a big set of hands is taking the phone from you and ending the call.

You turn to him with a notch in your brow as he pockets it in the sweats he must’ve hastily thrown on after finding the bed empty.

“Caleb-“

You start, and his lips press to yours.

With some encouragement- hushing you between kisses, knuckling down your cheek affectionately- he shepherds you back upstairs, to your room.

“Nuh-uh, just let me take care of you, pretty girl, ‘kay?” He murmurs, smiling. You could die in peace to it, you think hazily as he lies you down— because the last mental screenshot you took of him before the accident was his handsome face crestfallen after you’d said something scathing.

To your defense, at the time, you thought he’d deserved it. Maybe he did. It’s hard to remember, but whatever the argument was about, it must’ve been stupid. Not worth it.

And… he’s not Caleb, he’s not, you know that, but…

“Lie back. It’s… It’s just you and me here. I want you to know that. And everyone else-“

(Gran, you realize he must mean; Gideon and all the other familiar and unfamiliar faces both at EVER.)

“None of it matters now. Just focus on me. On Caleb.”

(And how eerie is that? You muse with a whit of your rationale. The rest, as it withers, perhaps only does so for the sake of your own sanity.)

The whole world as it stands: nudged away to oblivion at his behest.

“O-Okay,” you give.

He’s not Caleb. But if this is your best- only- shot at reconciliation, then you’ll take him with arms open.

…

When he’s done priming you, he clambers on top and you experience a repeat of last night.

Deja vu, as fresh as a wound reopened, makes your mind lag a few increments behind reality. But when he starts to slow down, thrusts growing sloppy- it feels oddly real, and, head a bit clearer than last night, you register that.

…But it’s your release that stains the sheets. Steadily trickling from your hole, slicking his hips. It only makes sense that way; he might fuck like a human, but that’s all inherent to his program, you’re sure, built to please- and ultimately, he’s made of metal. Rods. You think you can feel them when you grab too tight, that hardness.

He leads you to the proverbial end of the cliff, and you survey the bottom one last time before- geronimo- you make that final leap.

When not-Caleb comes, he shudders in your arms.

Yet you swear… You swear something inside him, behind his lidded eyes, deeper in-

It’s like it shutters.

A flash. Brief and jarring, for a moment so bright it’s like your eyes have been virginal to light all along.

Just a malfunction, you decide with a spent sigh, sweaty in his solid arms as they make a cage around you, eager to sleep until noon.

Maybe you’ll mention it to Gideon next time he drops by.

Maybe he would know how to fix it.

✦

The days that follow after are foggy and empty. Like a moratorium of everything that once breathed in your life.

You wreathe not-Caleb’s neck with that beloved apple-shaped locket like he’s earned it.

Knowing nobody ever could.

✦

Gideon knocks, one afternoon.

You send him away. Or- Caleb does.

At that, you feel the need to remind him of who he is: the people he cares for, his career path, how he operated as a person before the incident in his suite in Skyhaven.

Caleb stops you short, a palm dwarfing the back of your own, and says I know. I just don’t want my buddy interrupting our time together, Pipsqueak. Can you blame me for wantin’ it to be just you and me?

You stop going out.

He doesn’t let you- not really. I mean, he doesn’t explicitly declare these rules over you, but it’s in the strange glint in his eye- the one that makes you shut your mouth and purse your lips- when he stops you at the door and suggests you stay.

Says it’s better that way. Says he worries whenever you go. Says to take him with you instead if you really must.

Progressively, you’re drifting farther and farther out from shore. Mentally-speaking, you’re going off the deep end. But exiting your house hand-in-hand with your brother- the man the town declared dead in an email you couldn’t bear to finish reading- as he stares at you like a lover, is, no matter the ache, something you can’t quite bring yourself to do.

It’d make this illusion just a smidgen realer. You’d never wake from this dream if other people saw it- saw him- and therefore made his presence more solid in your mind. (Not to mention the disgusting assumptions they’d make- none exactly wrong.)

You’ve been so consumed by grief lately, though, that the knowing of your imminent breakdown can’t stop you from making other bad choices.

So when the brunet altogether bars you from going out in public for the fear that something bad will happen to you (nonsensical; not that he sees the flaws in his arguments), insisting that groceries can be bought online, Gran can be checked up on over the phone, etcetera—

Yeah, you bend to it, alright? Sue you. Of course you bend. It’s all you know what to do anymore.

Gradually, though, the unexpected charm of not-Caleb begins to fade, and you’re left with a possessive form of the brother you once knew. A man desperately clawing at straws, hellbent to keep you at his side, clingy and insecure and, frankly, sometimes scary.

As the inaccuracies build, you’re not sure for how much longer you can overlook them.

The only reason you even tolerated him originally was because he was passable. More than that, even- he was perfect. A dead-ringer for Caleb in both appearance and personality.

But this-

This isn’t Caleb. No longer. It never was.

You don’t believe it for a second.

You heave a soft sigh. Anything louder than a breath brings the chance that he’ll overhear from where he stands in the kitchen and come zipping over, no doubt ready to fret and question you. If you value your time alone- rare as it is these days- then you’ll stay silent.

It’s a near impossible task to separate yourself from him. It was a small miracle in itself that you managed to break away for half an hour or so- but even that was begat by a lie. It seems the only real way to rid yourself of the overly doting, obsessive older brother (even if just for a few minutes) is to give him another demand. This time, it was an ‘I’m hungry’ that finally earned you some peace and quiet.

It’s a little sad, but lately you treat him more or less like a jacket after entering a warm home: you’re eager to shrug him off because the climate has changed.

The climate has changed.

He- He’s changed.

He’s growingly insane and yes, while the irony of that observation isn’t lost on you (considering you’re the mad woman who bought a human-like robot as a replacement in the first place), you still can’t help but feel alarmed as the signs of wrongness don’t cease but worsen.

You think about pressing the button. Turning him off, sending him away.

Hell, maybe you’d just dump him in the communal trash receptacles out back. Leave him there in a human-shaped bag for the garbage men to come and squint at before hauling away like junk.

…Because he is junk, right? No different than a crumb on the floor, you’d once said.

Perhaps you’ve lost it.

The section of your brain responsible for caring must’ve shut off, though, because it’s currently hard to feel much of anything.

…But there, like a soft stirring (or the voice of God as it whispered to Elijah)- you can sense it. That feeling is reminiscent of a survival instinct, or a watered-down version of it to tired nerves, breathing down the back of your neck where hackles rise—

What are you doing here?

The dream begins to fissure in real-time when Caleb (not-Caleb, you harshly remind yourself) cheerfully patters into the living room where you sit, helpful as ever, and his eye flashes as it settles on you. No different than a camera would.

The food looks delicious, per usual- you’d expect nothing less of your brother or even the robotic copy of him- but as nausea churns in your belly and you jolt upright, slapping a hand over your mouth as you run to the bathroom, nothing can save your appetite.

You shakily lock the door- but he’s knocking in an instant, worried.

You always did melt at his bleeding heart. Too often, men, especially the bigger of them, fell under the persuasion of apathy. Yet your gege was always different, always sweet, always gentle and patient and- yeah, okay, sometimes he was a touch mean, teasing to a fault- sometimes to the point of tears on your end as he quickly tried to right his wrongs- but he was preciously yours.

And he was real.

Dammit, he was fucking real-

He was alive and emotionally tangible in a way that this awful fucking hunk of metal is not and never will be—

“Pipsqueak-? Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Let me in. A-Are you not feeling well?” His words crack when you say nothing, dutifully ignoring him.

“Y/n… Let me in. Please-! don’t leave me alone, don’t go.” His voice becomes ragged, raw, the longer you don’t answer. Boyish in its vulnerability. “Stay- Stay here with me.”

By God your soul splinters down the middle. But you don’t answer. You- You can’t.

You throw your lunch up in the toilet and then your back against the wall, sliding down it with your hands over your ears like a child.

You don’t care, if he’s shouting and beating at the door, on the brink of hysteria like you’ve heard only once or twice when he was a boy too soft for his own good- you don’t care- you don’t care—

You sit there until he short-circuits out and thuds to the floor.

You flinch when he does.

Only then, however, do you tiptoe out- careful lest you trigger some internal response from him- to quickly pull on a hoodie and put your hair up, locking the front door behind you.

You don’t know for how long he’ll be conked out, but if luck is on your side, it’ll be for long enough to run to the local corner store and buy a pregnancy test.

You know you’re losing it, the little sanity you had left after your brother passed— misreading a common cold for a veritable child swelling in your womb.

It’s laughable: using your sleeve (another old piece of his clothing you ‘borrowed’, never to be returned) to dot away the tears at your lashline, you do laugh on the short trek to the convenience store.

But if not a reminder that you really are going crazy, losing control, then at least it’s just an opportunity to get some fresh air for a bit, right?

(…You also know that the first step to regaining back said control is to say goodbye to not-Caleb.

As it stands, though, you’re just-

You were never ready.)

✦

Two pink lines.

The thing clatters to the bathroom floor, and you along with it.

You sink to your knees and the white walls surrounding you feel more like an asylum than a space in your own house- because yes, you must be delusional. This is the final nail in the coffin.

But this- this can’t be right. It’s impossible. In the strictest sense of the word it’s impossible!

Heavy feet traipse in the kitchen; the livingroom; the hall, searching for you with faint, candied beckons of your name.

You rub your face as if to feel the color as it seeps from your complexion, and tell yourself that you’ve positively lost it as you thoughtlessly choose one of the corners to slump into, hyperventilating.

You’ll- you’ll send it back to EVER... You’ll send it back and forget and move on. You’ll move on. You’ll stop grieving, you’ll squirrel away your fraying, final memories of Caleb like you did all those precious photos in that old shoebox in your closet.

You’ll-…

A breath. The fan whirs.

The faucet, going full-blast, sputters, effectively drowning out the sounds you make as air becomes a tricky thing to intake; thick enough to choke on.

You’ll throw yourself into the fifth stage of grief then crawl out the other side of it if that’s what it takes to undo this fucking reality you’re lost in-

“Pipsqueak?” A hand on your shoulder.

Broad, big. A little weathered.

But gentle always. Gentle always. Just like you remember. Just like when Caleb meant Caleb; not the big glorified toy that walks and acts like him as an admittedly convincing, yet ultimately faux locum.

Your heart stills, hanging pendant in your chest. You swing from that uncertainty. By God you’d beat that handsome face in- oh, but by God would you kiss it, too.

The door sways on its hinge by splintered fragments, creaking behind the brunet.

Timidly, you lift your head over your shoulder to meet his eye where he towers behind you, violet hues softening with concern. They drift lower, honing in on the little item by your knee, wayward.

He coos immediately, enveloping you in his strong arms.

The feeling- it’s not exactly like that of the one you’d get while swimming in a hot tub, engulfed in its steaming waters, but it’s not too far off either. You let him hold you, unseeing as he all but sings in your ear, and restore the warmth to your bones.

Like a dead thing, or prey, you hang limp in his firm grasp. Terribly uncertain.

“Shh…” he croons, and you only realize a belated moment later that you’re crying. Hard and ugly.

He pets down your hair, ever the comforter, and as you press your head against his barrel chest it’s almost like you can hear a faint whirring in lieu of a heartbeat- speedy but low.

Unreal. Unreal. But then how-?

Perhaps you’ve lost it.

“We’ll figure it out together, honey,” you think it’s a barely concealed smile you register at the crown of your head, pasting down a kiss. “But no more cryin’, okay? I can’t stand to see you like this… Let me draw you a bath, hm? I’ll light some candles and we can talk about it. But don’t be scared. This is… such good news,” and then he laughs- a boyish, marveling little laugh that digs deep into your heart and twists.

The button, between his breastbone, just out of reach, glows faintly through his shirt.

For a moment you’re ready to press it like a player would on a game show— with urgency— but you blink and see those two pink lines searing themselves into your conscience.

Defeatedly, you shut your eyes. But you don’t shut him off.

✦

With Caleb preparing dinner, you’re able to slip away one evening for long enough to call Gran.

For worried friends and relatives, your voicemail box is becoming quite the hotbed- but among them, your grandmother is the priority.

Propping yourself by the sliding glass door, you brush back the curtain and look out to the small, cookie-cutter yard as you accept the call. Not without a shaky breath to prepare you, though; it’s been over a month since your last visit, and while your calls haven’t been quite as behind, you still wince a bit every time her contact pops up.

You want to tell her.

If not about Caleb, then at least the small bump forming beneath your oversized lounge shirt. There’s excuses for it- ones to be frowned upon, yes, but they’d be believable nonetheless. Obviously, a pregnancy is not something as simple to hide as a robot you can turn on and off and, if needed, stuff in the coat closet until the coast is clear.

You want to tell her. But-

You purse your lips, answering, “Hey Gran.”

The tone of her voice, frazzled and barely holding together, sends a chill down your spine.

“Y/n- where have you been? Is everything okay? I’ve been- I’ve been calling all afternoon.”

You digest that information with a quirk of your brow, scanning across the lawn outside, and a thick swallow.

There’s the voicemails, sure; it was only two nights ago you were poring over them all and holding back tears of guilt. But this afternoon? It was quiet- almost blissfully so, spent curled up to Caleb’s chest on the sofa as you watched an old favorite movie and he happily fed you fruit-flavored candies from his hand every so often.

Nobody called, let alone multiple times. You’re sure of it.

“Gran- what? No, I’m fine. What’s wrong?” You start, tossing a nervous glance behind you, internally grateful that Caleb’s absent humming while he chopped veggies was too distant for the phone to pick up.

She blusters out, apropos of nothing, “Is he there with you?”

Something in you stills.

“Y/n- is he there with you?”

An abnormal rush of blood to your ears and a murmur of your heart as you stand confused. The fingers curled around your phone case jitter.

You hold it closer to your ear.

“What? What are you talking about? I-Is who here with me?”

Does she- There’s no fucking chance- does she know?

How?

Chest thumping, your pulse fluttering in the column of your throat as it bobs uncertainly, you begin to wonder to yourself if this is the time you come clean, lay all your sins out like cards on a table. Make the confession.

Push has come to shove, you think. And fuck if you know where all this is coming from on her end, if Gideon told her or she just miraculously put two and two together or-

An exhale on her end, shaking on its way out.

“Were you not told? Dear-“ she broaches, louder, more firm— and this is just milliseconds before the world as you know it- the one you freed of your hands and let reshape itself around a delicate delusion- buckles at the knees. It’s right before you do, too.

“They found him. They found Caleb.”

That breath, right afterward of her telling you, is like the first one after drowning.

Your eyes widen as you break the surface.

His- His body. The tinny footage they dredged up from the area showed he entered his home, but after the explosion, there was no sign of him, no ash no corpse no nothing— So you don’t know how the hell they managed to recover his pieces, let alone after they already ran clean-up crews through the charred infrastructure and hosed it down- but you’re hysterical at the news.

You were cruelly forced, all along, to just assume he’d been burned to nothingness.

So you don’t even care about the how. How it’s possible or how this is happening after several months of white noise and hurting on your end— you don’t care.

You were made to come to terms with his death, and you did, at most, acknowledge it- but evidently, you could never quite accept it.

…If this is your final chance to say goodbye- even if it just means peering over a metal table in the morgue as he lies disheveled, hardly recognizable under a sheet- so fucking be it.

You’ll say goodbye if it kills you.

“What-? Where- where?” Your tone reflects as much, urgent as you stagger over to the sofa, nearly tripping as you reach for the jacket slung over the arm.

“I-Im coming,” you croak out, words failing you as the velvety carpet feels like mud beneath your bare feet- hard to walk across, every step making you feel like a baby taking its first ones.

One second you’re navigating a truth so unbelievable it’s near violent as it barrels into you; in the next, you’re collapsing under the weight of it, too caught up in your own scrambling for your keys and the door to even think of not-Caleb.

Gran goes to timidly say something, but your ears are shot and you quickly interject, “Let me get dressed- I-I’ll be there! Is he at the morgue?”

“Oh, no, honey,” she quavers out, “He’s alive. The town just messaged me; they made a mistake with his death certificate- they’re revoking it as we speak. He’s in Skyhaven.”

The phone drops to the floor.

And then that, too, gives way beneath you.

…It’s good a helping hand is there for you, then. Shouldering your weight without prompting- fretful as he confiscates the device, no different than a teacher with an unruly student, swiftly disconnecting the call.

It tuts in your ear, but- more sober than you’ve ever been- you can only note the sympathy practically dripping from its tone for what it really is: the upshot of its near immaculate programming as it mimics your considerate gege to a T.

Not-Caleb noses against your nape and sighs.

Mutely, you wind a hand, tottering, uncoordinated fingers and all, behind your back to grope along his chest—

He easily gathers both your wrists in his palm, “hey now,” turning you around. He lifts your knuckles up for a chaste kiss, watching you intently all the while.

A cold weight settles over you, soaking you through like meat left overnight to marinate. From the kitchen, stirfry sizzles in the pan. A few moments more of it and the smoke detectors will fire off.

…He just leans in to peck your forehead though, deaf to the sirens you hear wailing in your head, having mastered the art of playing dumb long ago.

He murmurs, as cloying as cake frosting, “C’mon, Pipsqueak, let’s go eat. Dinner’ll be done in just a sec. I made one of your favorites. After that, we can sit around the couch and brainstorm some more names for the baby- what d’you think?”

Flukes, malfunctions, glitches— no; Not-Caleb, you realize right then, ceasing to blink as you stare at its prototype through the shifting lens head-on, was never flawed.

“…But you’re not leavin’, not to him.”

The real one was.

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

QUESTIONS&ANSWERS HERE

[reformhim]

The Jersey Makes The Man

It was just another uneventful Saturday for Noah—casually perusing the newly opened vintage thrift shop downtown. He was the kind of guy who got excited over coding bugs, collectibles, and obscure game lore, not athletic gear. But something strange pulled him toward the back of the store, past bins of old cleats and battered helmets.

There, hanging from a rusted metal hook, was a crimson and gold jersey. The number “14” was stitched boldly on the chest, and despite its age, it shimmered like it had just come off the field. Noah didn’t even like sports. But the moment his fingers brushed the fabric—thick, cool, and humming with invisible energy—his breath hitched.

He bought it and couldn't wait to try it on, unsure why he cared so much.

Upon returning to his home, he immediately undressed, walked over to full length mirror, and slipped it on over his narrow frame, the world swayed. His legs buckled, hands gripping the sides of the mirror as a tingling warmth surged through his spine and chest. His torso expanded, pecs pushing against the snug fabric of the jersey, shoulders widening. His arms bulged with muscle, freckles dotting thickening biceps. Red hairs sprouted rapidly across his forearms and calves, then spread up his thighs and chest in thick, bristly tufts.

Noah’s jaw cracked with a pop, growing square and strong, filling in with a thick ginger beard. His nose sharpened, lips puffed into a confident smirk. Strands of his brown hair began turning fiery red, swept into a tousled jock cut that looked like it belonged under a football helmet.

His glasses cracked and slid from his reshaped nose. He stepped on them, bare feet widening, arches flattening into strong, athletic soles. He groaned—not from pain, but from the delicious, almost erotic rush of testosterone flooding his veins.

Memories shuffled like flashcards. The spelling bee champion? Faint and silly. A new wave crashed in: sweat-drenched scrimmages, roaring stadium crowds, locker room jokes, slapping towels and smirks exchanged under hot showers. His name wasn't even Noah anymore—it was Chase. Yeah. Chase O’Connor. Star midfielder. Campus god. Straight-up stud.

He looked at himself in the mirror, cocky grin spreading. “Damn, I’m hot,” he said, voice now a deep, raspy timbre.

He remembered Noah. The awkward loner. The virgin. The one who used to jerk off to pics of handsome jocks online.

But Chase didn’t care.

Why would he? He was the fantasy now. The jersey clung to his now muscular chest, matching the low-slung gym shorts hugging his meaty thighs. He cupped his hefty bulge with pride, giving himself a wink.

“Time to show the world what I’ve got.”

*A big word of thanks to @rowdy317 for this story inspiration!

[dreamingmoonlight]

Heart of the Memverse, Veins of Order.

TASK M4NAGER!

(…name is a wip. Read its lore below the cut.)

Task M4nager came about from the ambitions of two differing entities. The conquest for Order and an unchanging world, coupled with the need for validation, the want to be acknowledged for SOMETHING by both their peers and their lovers.

But Four got a lot more than what he was bargaining for, that’s for sure.

Task M4nager is, in essence, the worst parts of Ramiel combined with the personality of Order merged to make one being. A scorned and slighted dictator, rejected by everyone.

But it wasn’t always like this.

TM was originally created by Marina as a sort of automated admin panel, able to keep the Memverse up and running without the constant need for organic oversight. TM was in charge of almost everything from the nodes, to the Spire, to even the things that spawn within and so on.

It also acted as a security system, preventing malicious viruses from entering and damaging the code. And it was *supposed* to prevent the exact circumstances that resulted in Order’s manifestation.

But it didn’t do that, did it? This failure in logic resulted in TM completely crashing and becoming basically inoperable.

You would think this would be a good thing for Order, but no actually. Despite its overriding of the system, TM was still above it in the hierarchy. And if TM hasn’t operated in a while, the Memverse’s code will start to rot and tear itself apart. The solution to this plight? The consciousness of a living being. With that, there would be no error since TM is now, well, alive.

The MV however, wasn’t open to the public yet. So Order couldn’t just pluck a random sanatized octo or something for it. But there was….a few beta testers.

Eight/Hephaeus, Acht, Pearl and…

Ramiel. Agent 4.

Out of all the potential choices, Ramiel was the most mentally malleable. See, over the past few months, he had been feeling more and more overshadowed. I mean, how could he not? Artemisa, Hephaeus, and Neo 3 had all basically saved the entire world at one point in their lives. What had Ram even done compared to that? Save a stupid glorified catfish? Hell, he didn’t even save Callie, MARIE was the one to shoot those shades off and bring her to her senses. He felt so….inadequate compared to everyone else. And it ate away at his ego, badly.

Because the MV kept tabs on its users mental states at all times, Order knew this all.

One day while Ram was finishing up recording his combat data for use in the Parallel Canons, Order came to him with a proposition.

That if he joined its cause, he would have everything he ever wanted. Recognition…

Ramiel, not in the best mental headspace, and not really knowing what he was getting himself into exactly, took it up on its offer.

Ram proceeded to have his little squid soul ripped from his physical body and transported into the Memverse, where it was planted into TM.

And thus, Task M4nager was born.

That’s about it.

Thanks if you actually took the time to read all this!

[forsaken-headcanons]

Yippee! A place to yap about Exploiter / Past 7n7!

I think young 07 swore like hell. Just a small show of power, that he isn't bound to any Roblox filters. It's kinda dumb, but hey, 07 is in his what. late teens - early 20s? He's allowed to be childish still. (On the flipside, current 07 doesn't swear at all, and doesn't even like using substitutes for swearing. He figured he should stop after CK copied him swearing.)

07 didn't immediately stop hacking / exploiting when he got CK. I think it took him a few years to actually stop. Part of the reason he didn't stop was, well, he'd already been doing it for years. There's really no point in suddenly stopping, kid or not. Then I think it grew to a desperation thing. A time before he stopped and started to leave that. When he thought it was the only way to help himself and baby CK, since he didn't know how to do much else.

Back when Kidd was really young, I think 7n7 used to read a Lot of parenting books. Some he obtained normally, some he stole, some he just. seemed to be in possession of. He read enough to the point that he could quote the basic ideas each shared. Hell, there was a point he could probably write his own book, or argue with people about it. (He had a lot to say about some the books, since they seemed like pure bullshit to him. Never did.) In that same vein, he went to a few different parenting classes! They. went. They weren't bad, but they definitely weren't the best.

Since he was a hacker, 07 knew the most random people that you'd never expect him to know. Most of the time it was one off conversations, or knowing a guy that knows a guy. People knew his name, he knew theirs kinda ordeal. (Current 7n7 mentions that he knows people off handly because of this. Mostly whenever another exploiter or hacker is referenced, or if a specific hack / exploit is referenced. Though he's also aware of random users that the others talk about. He just knows about a ton of people.)

There was a time 7n7 only spoke in coding phrases and leetspeak. He thought it was funny and cool, and then became a habit. He mostly kicked it as he got older, but still does it periodically in a cabin. (Sometimes it's bad enough, that only the admins can get what he's referencing, and even then, it can be iffy.) c00lkidd picked this up from him.

And another 7n7 hc that isn't quite past 7:

7n7 would definitely have been the house that every kid wanted to spend time at when CK made it into middle / high. The one that people stayed at when they had no other place. Which 7 was happy for, that he could be safe! But it is kinda hard when you're a single dad who's already struggling to care for himself and Kidd.

(Anyway, thanks for reading my yapping. I'm just so abnormal about 007n7 and hope everyday for lore about past him. Either with baby CK or pre c00l time.)

I love exploiter 7n7 so much. Especially after he got c00lkidd and tried to straighten up his act.

[tisthenightofthewitch]

Metal’s messiah has officially returned - and his name is Tobias Forge.

Walking into the light, a robed, long-haired man steps out from his seat, arms-outstretched to the crowd before him, sparking a deafening round of applause. ‘Jesus has returned!’ shouts a corpse-painted nun. On this (un)holiest of Easter weekends, the O2 arena finds itself transformed into a biblical fever dream, as throngs of vestment-clad glitter-covered devotees await the arrival of their true idol of worship, Tobias Forge, the frontman of visionary occult party-rockers Ghost.

It’s been three years since the clergy’s last “ritual” in London, with 2022’s critically-acclaimed album Impera heralding their previous tour cycle. Now ushering in a new era - one manifested by a metallic new wardrobe and plenty of purple - unlike their last appearance here, tonight’s performance arrives unusually ahead of the release of their latest offering, Skeletá, giving fans the rare chance to experience multiple new tracks before the rest of the world.

That sense of exclusivity is amplified by the evening’s phone ban, which sees fans forced to lock away their devices in sealed Yondr pouches. Though it certainly feels like a dystopian move - can’t we really just ask gig-goers to abstain from filming? - the payoff is undeniably worthwhile.

Undistracted by the tempt to film, the room buzzes with transfixed glee, as Ghost open the set with the entirely new Peacefield, a glossy 80s-coded anthem that lands somewhere between Journey and Kiss. Expanding on the retro tenor is the recently-released Lachryma, Forge decorating the fist-pulling ballad with actorly poses and marvellously camp crooning. Later, Skeletá’s first single Satanized arrives with its galloping offbeat riff, initiating larger movement from the audience, before its lovably ridiculous chorus ignites crucifix-like stances and joyous exclamations of 'blasphemy, heresy!'. The final new track, Umbra, is utterly synth-drenched and neon-coloured, the venue’s lights casting the stage in a deep purple hue to match.

Coupled with the band’s new look - the nameless ghouls forming a troupe of bejewelled top-hatted skeletons and Forge evoking some kind of modern-day, satin-suited reiteration of Death, and the Skeletá era already feels a lot slicker, even sexier. The set is also mostly kept minimal, Ghost’s logo fixed above the stage in an arrangement of lights, before inflated church pillars and digital stain glass windows portray epic, evangelical scenes that further emphasise the religious and ritzy mood.

For most of the set, Ghost dip into their older, heavier hymnals, the majority of songs played from Meliora such as Cirice, Mummy Dust, He Is, Majesty, Devil Church and Spirit, their darker, doomier natures filling the arena with thunderous drum thumps and booming bass lines that feel as though their vibrating deep into your bones.

Meanwhile, Forge flaunts around the stage, skipping and rocking, his devilishly thespian bravado an ever-transfixing sight, as confetti and bursts of air explode out for that final theatrical punch on closing songs Mary On A Cross, Dance Macabre and Square Hammer.

Though the night was missing most songs from the much-loved Impera, with the upcoming Skeletá album seemingly carrying on its 80s vein, Ghost are band that needn't rely on the excitement of newer releases or fan-filmed footage on social media. Instead, they’ve created a sacred - and superbly-fun - world of their own, one run by its own rules and enchanting lore, and after performances like tonight, it feels like a privilege just to be let inside.

Metal’s messiah has officially returned - and his name is Tobias Forge.

Ghost setlist: O2 Arena, London – April 19, 2025

Peacefield Lachryma Spirit Faith Majesty The Future Is A Foreign Land Devil Church Cirice Darkness At The Heart Of My Love Satanized Ritual Umbra Year Zero He Is Rats Kiss the Go-Goat Mummy Dust Monstrance Clock

Encore: Mary on a Cross Dance Macabre Square Hammer

Metal Hammer

[kyouzen]

Answering oc asks from previous reblog

Undercut because some parts are pretty sensitive, and may contain spoiler

Tag<⁠(⁠￣⁠︶⁠￣⁠)⁠> @quixoticmirror

Wound: Luciel will bury and hide all types of his wounds, worse wound he ever experienced is probably both mental and emotional. Seeing the bodies of his family scattered on the ground because of the Horrors and Lost, and how he is a victim of SA when he was still human, he was still haunted by that memory. (This part of Luciel story never I really publicly say due to Luciel story still not fully final)

Ghost: Himself, more precisely "The Angel", so this is actually part of his lore in the past before the Queenslayer operation. After experiencing trauma from the events he experienced after reborn as a revenant, and how hard it is to live as a revenant he slowly lost his humanity completely. Here he is no longer "Kiyoshi" and becomes Nameless he kills and hunts both humans and Revenants to survive and steal from them (because GEN-1 there's no Bloodbeads) and from this he was given the title "The Angel"

Random fun fact and why he called The Angel, is first because of the halos and his appearance in general and second because at some points he actually still give mercy (mostly to children, he'll often let them go of even give his supplies or protect them, doesn't matter if they're human or revenant, all because he sometimes see himself in them)

Skin: He is struggling really bad, but he doesn't know how to deal with them or have difficulty understanding it, even though he doesn't remember (based on the canon Protagonist story because they lose their memories) He always had nightmares about it but he just dismissed it as just a "dream", he is a failure, a monster, and a nightmare in its time.

More story to add as details: Luciel lost all his memories because he keeps killing himself again and again (after the death of his family) until there's nothing left, and that's why he actually "nameless" because he doesn't remember his own name, until in Queenslayer Operation he named himself "Luciel" (which name was actually given by a child he saved, unfortunately that kid is dead (⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧ ehe) so... Luciel actually been wondering about his past, but at the same time if he get his memories back it'll be a nightmare for him.

His lore is still not final, some parts are probably change later

But this is the current/newest version, but I'm keeping how his whole family is dead 🙃 and basically, the current Luciel is like a whole new person, until the story I write about outside the redmist he found another vestige of his, and it's just past when he's in middle school and here he finally understand that "familiar" feelings he feels from Louis, because Louis is actually his childhood friend

[cheesycatz]

Local Cryptid Spamton EX

Spamton didn't just control the NEO suit; he fused with it. NEO was completely reliant on the wires, so their combined being compressed into the Dealmakers after the bossfight. As Spamton, in his puppet form, tried to recover, NEO used any energy he had to grow back into their combined form. Horrified about his body changing against his will again, Spamton used the last of his energy to try and heal himself, resulting in NEO compromising his brain function in an attempt to continue growing. He shambled around like a feral animal as he grew larger, forced onto all fours from the weight of the wings dragging behind him. While he does eventually recover, he already gained a reputation as Castle Town's cryptid.

Or: Peeled Spamton NEO (Lobotomized Edition)

more art and 8k word lore dump below

LORE

Today's vocabulary terms (These WILL be on the test)

Pin feathers: also known as blood feathers, they are the undeveloped feathers that appear on baby birds and adult birds when they molt. Each pin feather is covered in a protective keratin sheath that resembles a quill. Once the feather has matured, the sheath can be broken off, allowing the new feather to unfurl. Pin feathers have a blood supply that they lose once they develop into full feathers. A damaged pin feather can cause heavy bleeding.

Flight feathers: The longest and stiffest feathers that make up the outer tips of a bird's wings (and tail, but that doesn't apply here). Birds can't fly without them.

Preening: The act of cleaning and rearranging a bird's feathers. Preening also includes the process of breaking sheaths off of matured pin feathers. Preening can be a group activity, especially to clean areas that a bird may have trouble reaching. It's generally a relaxing process for a bird, especially when done by someone else.

Content warnings:

body horror, transformation horror, many mentions of blood, amnesia, general blorbo suffering idk

Now reading “Some Assembly Required”

NEO's intended lightner user would've been able to freely enter and exit the suit at their will. However, because Spamton’s a darkner, and therefore made of the same darkness as NEO, his code combined with the body itself when he entered the disk. Spamton initially couldn't move after the disk was inserted into NEO. His code—organs, bones, fur, muscle, anything available—was spread and warped in order to rapidly fill the incomplete metal husk around him. The wires, acting as a bottomless source of magic power, burrowed into his body, reforming his veins, and allowed his code to stretch and intertwine with NEO's own, creating a new being entirely. Spamton and NEO, two incomplete messes of code, came together to form a new being, a conglomerate of flesh and metal: Spamton NEO.

Spamton's magic yield was far too low to support such a drastic size increase, so this new being was almost entirely reliant on the artificial power source of the wires. Spamton NEO fired off powerful attack after attack at the Heroes of Light, each a combination of NEO's and Spamton’s own magic. As the turns passed, he could feel the heavy strain in his weak, rapidly developed limbs, but, with the wires, he could do anything. Driven mad by his desperation to escape the only thing keeping him running, he wouldn’t acknowledge the way his feathered wings drooped and the way his arms and legs swung limply, even despite the assistance of the wires. Unaware of their true purpose, Spamton NEO was ecstatic to find only one wire left. It was the thicker, central one, which traveled under his skin and through his spine. It was the only reason he wasn't fully paralyzed yet. And so, when the final wire was cut, he collapsed to the ground within an instant, shaking the earth.

Without the wires, NEO was completely reliant on Spamton's magic capacity, and he would've been too weak to move even if he hadn't been using countless attacks. Most of NEO'S code purposefully became dormant so they wouldn't die. The tiny puppet, now heavier with his new code, was strung up with vines in an attempt to wake him up. He managed a small moment of clarity, enough to accept what must be his death, but even that was too much exertion. Fully prepared to die and serve the lightners, Spamton collapsed into an even smaller form: the Dealmakers. 

As a pair of glasses, Spamton couldn't feel or perceive anything. He was left on the nightstand of Kris's room in the castle, oblivious to the outside world. Eventually, he stirred, unceremoniously reappearing in his puppet form and falling onto the plush carpet, gasping like he had just been held underwater. A sharp pain stabbed through his chest as he fell to the floor. He awkwardly shuffled until he was against the bed, breathing heavily. Where the hell was he? He'd uploaded himself onto the disk, hadn't he? This clearly wasn't the basement. Had Kris bailed somehow? He struggled to ignore the deep ache coming from his chest, as though his very SOUL was itching. He partially unbuttoned his dress shirt, trying to scratch at it, but his blunt plastic fingers did nothing. He felt a seam across his chest that was not supposed to be there, then, a click, and suddenly his cracked soul forced its way out of his chest.

Normally, Spamton's soul forcing its way out would result in a giant bloody hole in his chest, but there was nothing but a small opening hidden under his shirt. Spamton tugged on his soul's chain, forcing it to look at him. It was then that he noticed a disk forcefully lodged into his SOUL, clipping through its eye socket. THE disk. How did this happen? Did the transfer process go wrong? Spamton immediately tried to pull the disk out, but the pain that shot through every nerve in his body stopped him. His own SOUL angrily nipped at his fingers and retreated back into his body, The painful itch worsened, and Spamton passed out again. 

Spamton slowly adjusted to, well, whatever happened. The blue coloration of the bedroom he woke up in reminded him of his room in the mansion, so Spamton tried to escape as quickly as possible. He soon realized that it wasn't actually the mansion, but he didn't particularly enjoy being in a foreign castle, either. After a daring escape (hugging the walls and stopping to take a break every 10 seconds), he was weary of the unfamiliar darkners outside. He essentially returned to being homeless as he tried to adjust to this new environment, more focused on avoiding people than attempting to sell anything.

Fortunately for Spamton, Castle Town was a little less capitalistic than Cyber World, and the Card Kingdom darkners weren't prepared for tiny puppets rummaging around in the trash. His only plan was to hopefully see if NEO had been brought here. If the disk was here, then surely the suit itself had to be somewhere, right? He hoped to find it and make it take its damn disk back, or, better yet, take him. In the meantime, Spamton kept trying to remove the disk, but any progress was reversed by severe glitching fits that made him pass out everytime he tried to yank it out. He wanted to bide his time until he could get more information. He also wanted to bide his time in hopes that the perpetual headache and static covering most of his vision would dissipate on its own.

But, something started to…change. The random panel allowing his soul to pop out should've been a dead giveaway, but Spamton wasn't exactly fully aware of his surroundings at this point. Eventually, while scratching at his furiously itchy neck, the shot nerves in his fingers finally registered that there was now fur growing out of his neck. He tried to forcefully rip it out, but the uselessly blunt tips of his fingers had no grip. The strands he did manage to pull out were colored a dark black, lacking the greasy, matted texture of the rest of his hair. The first new growth he's had since his fur and skin had fallen off 20 years ago.

Spamton panicked. After being transformed into a puppet, unrecognizable from what he had once been, the idea of anything more about his body changing against his will scared him. He hated being a puppet, but at least his body had stopped warping at a certain point. Now, though, something was wrong. It wasn't his addison fur growing back; the hair was just as black as his once-dyed-but-now permanently dark hair, forcing its way through his plastic exoskeleton rather than skin. No matter how many clumps he ripped out, it seemed to just grow back. He could feel it spreading, tickling his chin and spilling against his collar as the strands grew longer.

The fur got worse, but Spamton did his best to ignore it, just as he did when he was turning into a puppet. He continued trying to pull the disk out of his SOUL, but that was getting more painful by the day. Spamton also continued to search for NEO, now with the hope that it might reverse whatever was happening. Once long black claws split open his fingertips and new digits wiggled their way out, though, he could no longer ignore it.

The fur wasn't the strangest thing. He did have it as an addison, even if it used to be white. And, he did once have blunt, chewed claws, but not these shiny 2 inch long black talons. Somehow, he could feel that they were only the beginning. He really needed to find NEO; he knew from experience that no doctor could fix a supernatural transformation like this. NEO was the only hope he had when he was turning into a puppet, and it was the only thing he could pray to now. At least it was easier to tear open garbage bags now that he had miniature knives growing out of his fingers.

The fur continued to spread. Trapped underneath his clothes, it became tangled as Spamton ignored it out of spite. An ache, different from the one plaguing his SOUL, spread across his body. He could hear his plastic frame creak as something he couldn't identify slowly grew. One night, curled up inside of the small cave he had started living in, his jaw cracked open and formed new joints at the cheeks. This couldn't be traced to puppet feature or an addison feature. This was something horrifyingly new. As much as he wanted it to be just another nightmare, he was left with no other choice than to adapt to the tender muscles that now attached his mouth to his face. 

It quickly became apparent that the aches he was feeling were a sign of change. His jaw ached, and then it formed new joints. His feet ached, and then claws matching his fingers split them open. His gums ached, and new teeth grew in. His spine ached, and now the tail he lost 20 years ago was starting to grow back.The fact that the ache in his upper back had done nothing but grow worse without anything actually popping out was getting deeply concerning. Whatever was causing the changes, it must've been corrupting his code. He's heard of Cyber World darkners with code so corrupted that tumorous limbs grow out of their body, and the idea terrified him. Could something like that even be cured? Who would actually bother to help him?

It was only a matter of time before the things starting to twitch under his plastic skin broke free. The sickening feeling of something scraping from inside, of being trapped in an ever enclosing box, desperately trying to push against the advancing wall. Spamton curled up in his empty cave. He missed his dumpster’s pillow; all he had now was dead moss. Unaware that he even could control them, the two things trapped under his back tried to flex with each heartbeat of pain. Eventually, two sharp hooks finally cracked through the thinning layer of plastic, and the rest forced its way through. Thin plastic bones, now exposed to the cold air, shakily wrapped around their owner. Spamton passed out with the new pair of bloodied, featherless wings shivering against his tattered suit.

When Spamton woke up, it didn't take him very long to notice the highly sensitive wing bones twitching behind him. And, with his now concerningly flexible neck, he could see them in full detail. Spamton didn't recognize them as wings. Once he found enough water to clean the blood off with, he saw that they were pure white and ball-jointed, just like the rest of him. Well, except for the tiny black spines already growing out of them: pin feathers. He mistook them for more hair. Convinced he had somehow grown a pair of malformed arms out of his back, Spamton was becoming desperate for any sort of cure. He had tried to find NEO using what little energy he had, but Castle Town was dense, and he didn't know where to start looking outside of the castle he was definitely not allowed in. Was it ever going to end? Was he doomed to mutate into an unidentifiable mass of broken code? 

Spamton started picking at the lengthening pin feathers. It was clear they weren't hair, but he didn't want to think about what else the protrusions could possibly be. It had been just a day, and they were already all over the wing bones. Of course, he ended up breaking one, causing black blood to immediately start pouring out. He panicked as he failed to stem the bleeding, eventually trying to summon a healing spell. Static buzzed in his vision as he coughed out a tiny cherub. It was covered in so much of his own blood that it couldn't fly. He pressed the weak thing against the wound, hoping his healing magic would just work already! The cherub finally attempted its only job, and the migraine stabbing into his eye socket grew exponentially as the tiny angel disappeared, leaving a drying bloodstain. Spamton collapsed onto the ground.

(2)

NEO was as unfinished and buggy as the man who merged with it, and it was never designed to execute a task like this. It had been draining all of Spamton's magic reserve in an attempt to reform Spamton NEO again. The healing spell had used up the already extremely little supply he had, and NEO decided to sacrifice part of Spamton's mind for the sake of maintaining its rate of progress. Now forced into power saving mode, Spamton lost most of his ability to think. He began to operate on emotions rather than solid thought. Perpetually hungry from the constant drain of his body growing, all he did was scavenge, eat, and sleep. Anytime he digested something, he curled up in pain as NEO immediately used any energy he gained to continue growing. He had no ability to regain his mind until the transformation ended.

Spamton mostly relied on the instincts he had gained from living on the streets for so long. He avoided any darkners he saw, and would react violently if approached in an attempt to hide his severe weakness. This led to the first cryptid allegations. His glowing eyes (glasses), scruffy body, and extremely distorted yet humanoid face made him stand out to both Cyber World and Card Kingdom darkners. And so, his existence had become a rumor shared between a few. He wasn't a feral animal, but his mannerisms and the fact that he could barely speak even if he tried made him seem like one.

Because Spamton's recent memory had been compromised, he didn't remember what was happening to him and assumed he was just sick. He neglected his fledgling wings as they sprouted down feathers and grew larger, not registering that they even existed outside of angrily scratching at the itchy pin feathers. Because he never exercised them, the weak wings began to limply drag behind him. When the flight feathers grew in, they quickly became shredded from being dragged against concrete. He broke many pin feathers in the process, coated his wings in a layer of sticky blood. While he disliked the heavy “blanket” he thought was covering his back, Spamton decided to mostly ignore it. It wouldn't fall off no matter how hard he tried. Eventually, his increasingly top-heavy build forced him to start crawling on all fours. He became disoriented as the world around him seemed smaller and smaller and his tiny cave, lined with bloody feathers, had turned from an easy fit to a shoulder-scraping doorway. 

As Spamton grew larger, other darkners actually started to fear him. His limp wings made him look much bigger despite the fact that he was perpetually hunched over. Staticky, heavy breaths came out of his voice box as his throat reformed to accommodate NEO's white energy spitting abilities. With his claws and fur, most darkners assumed that he was some sort of beast rather than an actual person. He growled and blindly swiped at anyone that got too close to him, eventually resulting in a blurry photo of his shadowed form making it to the first page of Castle Town's local newspaper. Although his nose and glasses were the only thing that could be made out, Swatch instantly recognized who the “cryptid” was. Though, they naturally assumed the witness account was a bit exaggerated. 

Castle Town was small, and it would only be so long before the two encountered each other. One night, a swatchling taking out the trash was unfortunate enough to find a half-transformed Spamton eating out of the dumpster. Upon recognizing his face, the swatchling tried to enact the usual dumpster puppet removal protocol, but Spamton had nearly doubled in height already and was difficult to scruff. He scratched the swatchling during his wild thrashing, causing them to drop him. He slammed against the dumpster, crumbling into an unresponsive pile of fur and feathers.

When Swatch was called to the scene, he was understandably baffled by the fact that this… thing was Spamton, but the man's head and clothes were clearly attached to it. The lightners had informed Swatch about what had occurred in the basement. From his own personal investigation, Swatch surmised that NEO had been completely destroyed after the fight, as he found no remaining evidence of its existence. And, hearing that the only remnant of Spamton himself was his off brand glasses, Swatch assumed that the man had died alongside it.

Clearly, Swatch's hypothesis was incorrect. And, somehow, Spamtom was even less recognizable as the addison he once was. But, with NEO gone, and an entirely different café under Swatch's management, he wasn't technically required to forcefully remove Spamton from the premises anymore. Swatch really didn't like the guy, but they weren't cruel enough to leave a heavily injured and unconscious man on the concrete.

As a feathered darkner himself, Swatch was appalled by the state of the wings Spamton apparently had now. Covered in a strange mess of adult feathers and dark gray down, tattered fluff shed from his wings like spores. Swatch tried to coax Spamton's wings into folding shut as they half carried / half dragged Spamton inside, but they remained limp, showing the lengthened upper arm portions of the wings and the sharp hooks sprouting at each wrist joint. Every bird-like aspect of his new form was warped, like a failed replica made from memory.

Did Swatch mention that Spamton was covered in his own blood? They were going to have to sanitize the entire building after bringing him in. After half a stack of disposable rags and possibly an entire bottle of disinfectant, Spamton was mostly clean (can't be too sure when his hair and jacket are the same color as his blood), aside from his wings, which appeared to be the source of the majority of the damage. The base of each one was caked in a layer of dried, flaking blood, revealed by two relatively small tears in the back of his jacket. Swatch couldn't imagine shoving feathers through holes that small; no wonder Spamton's wings looked like they had been put through a wood chipper.

The group of fretful swatchlings hovering around them cooed in concern at the sheer amount of broken pin feathers, but Swatch wasn't generous enough to spend several hours preening the monstrosities hanging from Spamton's back. He figured that he should remove the loose feathers, lest their swatchlings had to sweep more crusty Spamton-colored fluff off the floor. As Swatch removed entire clumps from the wings, the muscles underneath twitched in response, but couldn't muster much movement. Well, at least Spamton's wings weren't completely paralyzed.

Eventually, Swatch's persistent touch was too much, and something moved in Spamton's chest before shoving its way past his lapel. It was Spamton's SOUL, cracked and corroded nearly beyond recognition (how was this guy even still alive?), with a very familiar disk lodged through it. Two smaller, disk-less copies of his SOUL popped out, taking turns glaring at them. Oh. That was where NEO went. NEO would explain the fact that his heart(s) could just pop out now. It kind of explained the wings, but all these feathers, claws, and fur must be connected to Spamton himself. Swatch raised their palms and stepped back as the main SOUL snapped at them, the chain rattling noisily. Swatch didn't know how NEO would've reacted to a darkner attempting to use it, but this was definitely not his first guess. Apparently pleased with their submission, the cracked hearts disappeared back into Spamton's chest.

Spamton slumped forward, falling off the bar stool Swatch had placed him on. They half expected him to still be unconscious (did he have a concussion from hitting the dumpster?), but a staticky groan confirmed that he was awake. Swatch tried to question him, but the only response they got was some sort of growl. Spamton shakily rose to all fours, his wings forming a ragged cloak behind him as they dragged. He frantically looked up at the flock of swatchlings around him through pink and green lenses, steam billowing from his jaws as he produced garbled sounds. Spamton charged through the still unlocked back door, clipping his wing on the way out and ripping out another massive chunk of dead feathers. 

Swatch no longer assumed that cryptid witness account was exaggerated. The fact that Spamton hadn't produced a single decipherable word was, for Spamton, a sign that something was very wrong. He had acted like an injured animal. Swatch decided to inform Prince Ralsei about the situation, who was surprisingly relieved that Spamton had been found. Apparently, Spamton had somehow transformed into a pair of glasses, then went missing just a few days later. Ralsei was interested in giving him a room in the castle, since he had technically agreed to help the Heroes of Light.. 

Swatch kept an eye out on behalf of the prince, but it would be a while before they saw him again. Spamton didn't really remember that he had even been there, instead just mindlessly wandering across the streets in search of food. As he got larger, gaining more and more of NEO's strength, the cryptid allegations got worse. He hadn't physically hurt anyone, but if how easily he punched a dent in a dumpster was evidence of anything, he could. The feathers he was leaving behind by now were far larger than could be explained by any normal darkner species; finding the biggest, least damaged feather of Castle Town’s Cryptid was a fun challenge for some darkners. There was plenty to go around, as Spamton was constantly molting and growing more feathers as his body grew. 

Mentally, Spamton hadn't been able to recover. He thought he was still in Cyber City, and was distressed about not recognizing any landmarks. But, with the constant hunger that plagued him, he didn't have time to dwell on it. He still despised the weighted blanket that dragged against the ground and forced him to crawl on all fours. But, he got a migraine anytime he contemplated why the “blanket” was physically stuck to him, or why he could feel how itchy it always was, so he stopped bothering. He was frustrated that his little cave had shrunk; only half his body actually fit in there anymore. The dumpsters here were weirdly small, too. The darkners in general were like… half? a third? of what they were supposed to be. The distress from that thought also gave him a migraine. The shredded remains of his suit were the only bedding he had other than moss and his own feathers.

Of course, Spamton wasn't the only secret-boss-turned-item up and about. Jevil enjoyed joining the heroes of light as the DEVILSKNIFE, but did poke around Castle Town a bit. He was genuinely too tired after the fight to enact too much violence, but not tired enough to not take joy in harassing Spamton once he found him. Jevil hadn't seen Spamton since his big shot days and was very curious about his new near unrecognizable form. Spamton wasn't opposed to slapping Jevil out of the air but wasn't coordinated enough to land a hit. When he got too tired to swat at Jevil, Spamton would (attempt to) ignore Jevil while he played with Spamton's wings. 

Swatch did coincidentally meet Spamton again. They had noticed increasingly large feathers showing up in the streets and on the local news (they did find it hard to believe that someone had actually found an 8 foot long flight feather), but assumed that it was just Spamton's wings developing, not the rest of him. So, Swatch was admittedly startled when he witnessed a much larger Spamton neck deep in their dumpster a month later. Spamton's chest heaved with each breath, his neck twisting backwards until he met them at eye level despite the fact that he was currently quadrupedal. His wings, still pinned to the ground, were longer than the building itself. He grumbled something that almost resembled a sentence, then entered a violent coughing fit, leaking an unhealthy amount of steam. Swatch decided to go back into the café and grab some expired leftovers. They did not want to deal with rotting food spilling into the dumpster because of a certain someone currently ripping the bags open outside. Predictably, Spamton ate everything Swatch threw at him. Swatch couldn't make out what he attempted to say, but they could imagine the sales pitch he was coming up with in an attempt to “trick” them into giving him more. At some point, Spamton keeled over as his body processed the nutrients, NEO in the final stages of forming their combined body. Most of what was left was internal, so Swatch didn't really know what was happening and let him be. Even if they could help, they didn't trust Spamton not to hurt someone when he was this large.

Eventually, the transformation was complete. Without its armor, NEO relied on Spamton's code to form as close to a complete version as it could; Spamton EX. Spamton was alone in his cave when he finally regained his mind. It felt like gradually waking up from a deep sleep, groggily coming to his senses. He first remembered what happened before he entered power saving mode, then…the NEO fight. He had merged, he had gained its power, he used it, it was HIS and—the strings. Everything was so heavy, but he was supposed to be free! A shock down his spine, then… nothing. He thought he was dying, but he woke up, still a broken puppet. That—that damn disk! Taking NEO from him wasn't enough; of course it had to corrupt his code in the process, causing… whatever was happening to him.

Spamton tried to get up, but his center of gravity was completely off. His back ached, but it was a normal ache, not the unnatural one that preceded a transformation. The pain traveled further down the—oh, the disfigured arms that popped out of his back. They could shrivel off for all he cared. Spamton forced his eyes to fully open, then froze at the vertigo that struck him as he saw how far away the ground was. His neck twisted in on itself like a snake as he recoiled, which did nothing but make him want to vomit more. 

Spamton pressed against the cold ground, his deep yet shallow breaths disturbing the feathers littered across the ground. Where did he find those? When did he find those? This was obviously a different cave than the one he passed out in, right? He tried to take a deep breath, but was quickly disturbed by the fact that his lung capacity had somehow tripled. Okay, he had definitely transformed more since the last time he was awake, as much as he would love to pretend he was still asleep. Spamton awkwardly rolled onto his side; he didn't think he could handle trying to sit up again right now. Time to assess the damage.

When Spamton looked over his shoulder, all he could see were feathers, the same color as the ones scattered across the floor. He noticed the random spikes sticking out of the limbs, alongside the long hook at the wrist. The arms he grew; they were wings. Nervously, he tried to move them. They twitched, and he could feel that they were alive and attached, but nothing happened. He tried again and again, but the wings wouldn't move. Spamton grabbed the wing's wrist with his hand, pausing at the sight of his jacket-less arm. He tried folding it in and out with his hand, but the wing refused to hold a pose. Spamton could've spent an hour trying to get the things to move, but all they did was weakly twitch. Just that made him feel like he had sprinted across the entire city twice. 

Spamton couldn't sit there forever. He was unfortunately already growing used to the long neck after fretting over his useless wings for so long, but the height was still an adjustment. The best he could manage was a kneel before the weight of his wings would knock him over. Why had he been given the gift of wings if they couldn't even move? Was it some kind of punishment? They were feathered, like an angel…a gift from NEO? A gift that had been blackened, losing all its color because of him. Him and his broken, broken, broken code, managing to corrupt even the wings of a god. A cruel joke. Can't fly to heaven with paralyzed wings.

He was starving, and what choice did he have but to go back to the disgusting lifestyle he was trapped in? Spamton tried to take a few experimental steps, but his legs shook the moment he took his hands off the ground. A plume of steam escaped his jaws from the effort, and he sputtered at the weird, warm taste. Something unidentifiable in his throat moved independently, and—he really did not want to think about that right now, or the faint trails of steam coming from the vents(?) slashed across his ribs like gills. This transformation was far more than skin deep. Distressed at how much easier it was to walk on all fours with his now digitigrade legs, Spamton hobbled toward the town.

Any progress Spamton made getting used to his new height was destroyed the moment he reached civilization. If he could actually stand up, he would've been taller than some of these damn buildings! He hated being a tiny puppet; it was one of the many reasons he wanted NEO, but he hadn't really considered the logistics. Could he even fit in a dumpster anymore? Not that he'd thought he'd have to hide or scavenge as NEO, but…he was still so weak. No armor, no arm cannon, no phone-hands, no bullets—no wires. That was good! He wasn't strung up anymore! Just dragging around broken wings, unable to support his own body weight, limbs strained from trying to crawl for more than a few minutes—he's fine! He doesn't need the strings, he can live without them, he can, he doesn't need them, he's just…tired. 

Spamton lugged his upper body over the edge of a dumpster, shredding open the bags easily. The long claws poking out of his fingertips were a bit more proportional now that the rest of his hands and arms had grown, but just as sharp. Perhaps it was a good thing he had an external layer of plastic instead of skin; he would've accidentally sliced himself open already if he didn't. Spamton ate his fill, but it barely impacted his hunger. He wondered what time it was as he looked for more dumpsters. Without a color-changing sky-grid for him to look at, it could be 3 am for all he knew. Spamton was still learning where the quietest alleys were in this town, so it wasn't surprising that he almost immediately ran into another darkner; something not from Cyber World that he didn't care to identify. God, they were tiny. He smiled at the fact that he had to look down, not up, to make eye contact. Before they could finish fearfully backing away from him (That was a bit extreme. He wasn't even doing anything!), he decided to be productive and ask for the time. 8pm? Could be worse. He asked if the darkner had any kromer, and, after he said several synonyms, they dropped a good amount of it before sprinting away. Hmmm, this could work. He wanted to be feared as NEO, but in a “groveling at his feet” way, not whatever that was. 

Regardless, the fear meant that Spamton was alone as he embarrassingly adjusted to his new form. He had managed to almost stand up with the assistance of a tree, but had no luck on his own. It was getting a little easier to hold a crouch, but walking was out of the question. The wings were as useless as ever. All they did was respond involuntarily to his emotions, which was uncomfortable to experience. The legs, the size, hell, even the tail wasn't the worst to adjust to, since he had one as an addison. But the wings were completely alien to him. He wouldn't be so frustrated if they didn't hurt and itch all the time! He found out that the hard spines growing throughout his wings housed feathers, but only sometimes. If he tried to force one open, it would start gushing blood. He thought feathers would grow in like hair (those damn swatchlings clearly didn't have quills growing out of them like he did!) but, apparently they were far more complicated than he thought. Regardless of their broken, bloodied state, he lost track of time while using his hand to open and close his wings, mesmerized by the way the feathers fanned and folded. As useless as they were, he couldn't bring himself to hate them.

While looking for food late one night, Spamton stumbled upon a familiar café. He couldn't remember ever being here, yet he somehow remembered that it had a lot of food. The dumpster wasn't too out of the ordinary, but food was food. He nearly choked when he heard Swatch's voice. What the hell was feather duster doing here? Unlike everyone else he'd encountered, Swatch was not fazed in the slightest. They seemed curious about the fact that Spamton seemed coherent now, explaining that he had been… growing for at least a month, unresponsive aside from growls and crawling on all fours. When Swatch disapprovingly pointed out that his wings were still dragging, Spamton bluffed about the fact that he physically couldn't move them. He got defensive when Swatch asked if they could inspect his wings. They bribed him with food that was going to be thrown away anyways, and Spamton reluctantly agreed. He promised to crush Swatch if they tried anything, but Swatch was still frustratingly unaffected by the threat. 

Spamton sat outside, since his wings were absolutely not fitting in there. Apparently Swatch was running a new café not associated with Queen, which admittedly relaxed him a bit. His relaxation was ruined the moment Swatch made it blatantly clear that he was only helping Spamton because Spamton’s wings were disgusting enough to be an insult to all feathered-kind (give or take). Spamton glared intermediately at Swatch, folding his arms like a pouting child as they prodded at his left wing. They asked him to try to move it a few times, inspecting the plastic “bone” of the wing as his muscles tensed and relaxed with no wing movement. They were prodding at the ball joint connecting the wing to his back when their finger suddenly dug into the ball joint’s slit. Spamton yelped, and his wing briefly flapped in response, the gust ruffling Swatch’s feathers. Spamton was torn between yelling at him and trying to get his wing to move again. Swatch said that his theory was that Spamton’s wings were underdeveloped. Assuming Spamton hadn't been using them at all in the past month, the muscles had adjusted to their lack of use and never grown properly. Considering how much Spamton had already grown, he could probably get the wings to develop if he kept exercising them. How the hell was he supposed to exercise if he couldn't even move them!? Spamton was about to storm off when Swatch mentioned that Prince Ralsei was looking for him, as he had prepared a room for Spamton in the castle. Who? Wait…that was one of Kris's friends, right? And, technically the ruler of Castle Town, Swatch pointed out. 

Spamton contemplated it for days before eventually deciding to accept Ralsei's offer. He was a bit suspicious of the kid's generosity, but if Ralsei was stupid enough to give even that damn clown a room, Spamton was going to take full advantage of that naivety. He was way too big for the bed (and the room in general), but it felt like heaven. The Castle had food! And showers! It was the first time Spamton had seen his face since… before he met Kris, actually. The green lens was new. The same bright, acid green as the wires. He thought it was a weak connection, but as he washed away the dirt caked in his joints, he could see them. Green veins, trailing through the gaps between his ball joints, spread across his entire body, pulsing with faint light. Leading to the interior of his chest panel, traveling up the chain of his SOUL, and illuminating the broken eye socket of his heart, the socket that corresponded with the green lens. The very fiber of his being had been permanently altered, his own blood traveling through NEO's wires. It wasn't his, no; he was it.

After the topic was awkwardly brought up, Ralsei made him a green sweater. Well, Spamton assumed it was custom made, because it was baggy even for him and had wing holes in the back. He was hoping that it would stop darkners from thinking he was some kind of animal. He was well aware of his “return to fame” as a cryptid, and hoped to move past it. Actually getting the knit sweater on was another ordeal, as his limp wings were not very helpful. He snagged his claws damn near every time he touched it, and tried filing them down to more manageable blunt tips. The claws grew back to their full length the next day. Apparently, NEO didn't understand how hair and nails work, as it regenerated anything he trimmed to its original unruly length as soon as possible.

Spamton was a little more comfortable leaving the castle once he had gotten better at walking. He was still hunched over enough to look like a velociraptor, but at least he was back to being bipedal. His wings were actually getting better! Most of their movement was involuntary (he refused to listen to Swatch’s advice to exercise them), but that was enough to stimulate growth. Each wing joint could actually manage a few degrees of motion. But, they were still constantly itchy and in pain. Spamton tried washing all the dirt and blood off of them, but having waterlogged wings somehow made him feel even worse. No matter how many he ripped out, loose feathers would follow him anywhere he went, since NEO regenerated them as fast as it regenerated fur and nails. 

Desperate (because he completely refused to speak to Swatch), Spamton summoned one of his F1 angels in an attempt to study it. He was a little nervous, considering what happened the last time he produced one, but it came out perfectly normal, if not confused when it saw what its creator now looked like. Spamton made it sit in his palm while he observed the way its pristine wings folded across its back. He gingerly pulled its wings open with two claws, watching how they opened and closed. He was tempted to destroy the angel after it started biting at his fingers in response, but decided to keep it around for observational purposes. He used his hands to manually fold his own wings closed, surprised at how much better they felt. Perhaps he should've expected it, but the tiny angel he kept didn't know how to keep its wings clean, either. The feathers he accidentally plucked out of it showed no signs of regrowing, and the leftover feathers looked progressively worse by the day, so he eventually put the thing out of its misery. 

As one could imagine, learning how to properly fold his wings and making an active effort to keep them from dragging on the ground quickly improved their health. His involuntary twitches became actual flaps. His wings started to naturally bend when he wasn't actively extending them. And, finally, they could support their own weight. He did it! He had fully functioning wings! He could finally fly too—he experienced a new terror—what if he couldn't actually fly? The shredded mess of feathers attached to each wing hadn't actually generated enough lift when he tried to ascend. Even if they were in perfect condition, was it enough?

In the meantime, Spamton tried to go back to selling junk. Capitalism still ran through his veins, whether those veins were green wires or not. He wasn't actively using the fear factor to get more kromer—okay, he might've been taking advantage of it a little bit. These cowards deserved it for treating him like filthy trash for decades! He's finally BIG. Let him enjoy it a little bit! Now he gets to be the one picking up little slimes by the scruff. He found (cornered) some Card Kingdom darkner who made clothes and asked (threatened) them to make him blazer in his size. And, because they weren't some petty addison, he actually (scammed) paid them! He needed something Spamton-y, not just a green sweater. This wasn't the comeback special he had planned for NEO, but he was starting to enjoy it. He always had food and a place to sleep, even if he didn't make any sales. But, he actually was making sales (scamming people)! And he was doing it all by himself, no strings required! What else could he want? He… he wasn't lonely. He doesn't need friends…

For absolutely no reason in particular at all of course Spamton decided to spend some of his new funds at Swatch's café. He just needed to rub it in their face how great he was doing, yeah. After definitely not struggling to fit his shoulders through the doorway, Spamton made the elective decision to sit on the floor rather than try and fit on a chair. He smugly flared his wings (once everyone found an excuse to leave the moment they saw him), but accidentally bashed them into the walls. To Spamton's chagrin, Swatch was not impressed whatsoever. They couldn't understand how he was fine keeping his wings in such a disgusting state. Hey! He washed them! H–his wings are fine! Swatch realized that they were getting nowhere by insulting him, so they asked Spamton if he knew how to preen his wings.

Preen? Spamton just said he was cleaning them! Daily, in fact, with how many loose feathers he had to pull out. Swatch tried to explain that it was more than that. He demonstrated with his own arm, showing how the feathers had to be arranged and layered, especially for flight. Spamton pretended he wasn't highly invested as he finally ordered the drink he came here for. He sat in the furthest corner, frowning as he looked at his own wings. Because his mere presence was driving away customers, Swatch could easily see that Spamton was trying to mimic what they did with their own feathers. They still weren't friends, but they could respect him if he was going to make actually paying for his food a habit. They would hate to see NEO's potential go to waste because of user error.

Okay, fine, he'll admit that bird brain knew more about feathers than he did, and his wings were looking better now. But, god, why did they need so much damn maintenance? He signed up for a mech suit, not this. Alas, now that his wings didn't look and feel like moldy shower curtains, Spamton knew the next step: flight. He summoned another angel to study. The laws of physics did apply to it at least somewhat, so it was a good starting point. He was back on the rocky outskirts of Castle Town, so he really didn't want to fall. He was nervous, but, now that he finally had a full set of flight feathers, it was possible. Probably. He hoped.

He cried the first time he truly flew. He was clumsy, constantly changing altitude, and practically crashed when he tried to land, but it was euphoric. It felt like the sky was where he was meant to be all along. The thought that he could fly straight up to heaven crossed his mind, but he knew he couldn't. He'd suffocate, or he'd run out of energy long before he reached it. But, he got a taste of the sky. Just enough to indulge, more than enough. It was beautiful.

Spamton has settled in the castle. He finds any excuse he can to go out flying, as it's easily his new favorite hobby. The novelty of scaring people into giving him money has worn off, but he'll never not enjoy scamming people out of money. He's still a spam program at heart, no matter how much his code has been changed. Outside of his exterior changes, Spamton kept NEO'S ability to spit white fireballs in the shape of his face, which is the root cause of the steam that leaks out of him whenever he's frustrated or has overexerted himself. He has three hearts, his own SOUL and the two smaller ones from NEO, that support his larger form. And, of course, the wires are now threaded through his body, powered by his own life-force. Spamton is definitely still lonely. Despite all his faux confidence, he's nervous around darkners both new and old, and keeps to himself when he isn't selling something. His life is far from perfect, and his deep-rooted issues haven't gone away, but he's more content, safer, then he ever has been. He just wishes that people would stop bringing up the whole “cryptid” thing. He'd rather forget that ever happened.

END

I hope that was an enjoyable read! Originally, I kind of forced myself to make a Spamton EX when chapter 2 came out, because everyone else was doing it. But, he wasn’t that fun to draw and didn’t have any story associated with him. It took me a while to come up with the idea for a “cryptid” Spamton EX, and even longer to create a story/setup I liked. I didn’t know whether to make him gremlin sized, comically large, or something in between (I think you can tell from the 41 ft wingspan which one I picked). I also wasn’t sure whether he should be completely unaware of his transformation until the end or mentally suffering the entire time. A mutual of mine suggested “why not both,” which led me to the final story here. Hooray! Maximum Spamton suffering!

I did try to make a happy ending, but it's hard to do that with a character like Spamton without making a multi-novel length fanfiction. He’s still very lonely, but he gets to fly so eh, he’ll probably be fine. I choose not to include the addisons at all, since my other AU (Wormton) is so focused on them. And, idk how to feel about the canon addisons considering that they seemingly knew that Spamton was both homeless and puppetified. I at least mentioned Jevil, but I’m honestly not sure how much he cares about Spamton, since all we know is that Spamton hates him and Spamton hates everyone he used to know, sooo… I didn’t plan for Swatch to be as prevalent, but Spamton definitely needed someone who actually knew how to care for feathers. I’m not a Swatch expert, but hopefully they aren’t crazy out-of-character or anything. 

THIS WAS FUN! HAHAHA I LOVE TRANSFORMATION HORROR A VERY NORMAL AMOUNT

[goodbyeyellowbrickcloset]

The Mirror Atlas: An Intro to Taylor Swift’s Reflection

I’ve been fascinated by Taylor Swift’s use of mirrors for a long time and the deeper I look, the more prophetic it becomes. Mirrors in her world are never just props. They’re signals. Symbols. Tools of revelation and concealment. A mirror might reflect a self, or fracture it. It might hide a truth in plain sight... or hold someone else entirely.

Now, nearly a decade after Kaylor, I remain ~unashamedly~ convinced that there is still a story being told. Whether it’s past or present, I don’t claim to know. I’m willing to wait, watch, and listen as it all unfolds. One thing is for sure, it's impossible for me to ignore. When I see a compact mirror in Karlie Kloss’s hand at the 2025 Met Gala, I can’t unsee it. The mirror is a portal—and she opened it on camera.

It’s no secret that Reputation was misunderstood when it dropped. What amazes me is that, even now, most of the fandom still doesn’t seem to get it. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe Taylor only ever meant for it to be revealed in hindsight. And maybe that’s why the rerelease is taking so long... When it comes, it’s going to be just as devastating as the first time watching it go over people’s heads again.

As I explore this, it's important to note that I see the mirror theory and eye theory in the same vein. So, if the visible eye on the Reputation album cover really is Karlie’s (and I believe it might be), then what we’re looking at isn’t just a concept album. It’s lore buried so deep, it’s taken years to even begin surfacing. Yeeeears to really start clicking.

This post is the beginning of a larger project, tracing the moments where mirrors appear in Taylor’s visual storytelling. Not as decoration, but as active participants in the mythos. This is about symbols that shimmer with double meaning—about what Taylor tells, and what she leaves unsaid. These are three mirrors that matter.

We begin in the present, with a mirror held by someone who’s never really left the frame.

1. Karlie Kloss, The Compact Mirror, and Met Gala Moments

On May 6th, 2025, Karlie Kloss posted a carousel of “getting ready” images to Instagram following the annual Met Gala. Her look that night? Glamorous, gleaming, and a little too Reputation coded, especially given who's watching. However, the morning after brought the smoking gun.

In one image, Karlie holds a compact mirror. The reflection shows an eye that doesn’t quite look like hers. It appears softer, rounder. There’s a flash of blonde bangs in the frame.

Peculiar, for sure...

A video in the same post, sped up to near-invisibility, shows nothing unusual at first. But slowed down, the reflection seems to catch the shape of someone else entirely. Some say it’s Taylor. Some say it’s just a trick of the light.

But to those of us watching closely, it’s giving the Call It What You Want Miss Americana clip all over again. Five years going strong.

Even the background audio adds weight. The song playing over Karlie’s video is “U Weren’t Here I Really Miss You” by Cult Member and Mia Martina. Released in 2019, the title alone echoes themes of absence and longing. It’s soft and moody and truly feels like a fever dream. If this was a curated moment, the music choice may be the quietest clue of all.

At the same time, Taylor is currently selling a compact mirror on her official site. It’s etched with the lyric, “Are you ever dreaming of me?” from Delicate.

A lyric about vulnerability, desire, and the terrifying risk of being truly seen. The mirror in Karlie’s hand lives in a video viewed thousands of times. Sure, they're not the same object, but they speak the same language. One asks the question. The other hovers near the answer.

Oh, the compact mirror... This wouldn’t be the first time it's made an appearance in their shared visual universe. In 2015’s Bad Blood—the cinematic music video where Karlie played the knife-throwing assassin Knockout—compact mirrors flash a couple of times.

In one shot, a mirror is held by Selena Gomez's character, Arsyn, and reflects Taylor (her character, Catastrophe) mid-battle. Right after, Arsyn blows smoke off the mirror into Catastrophe's face and she falls, shattering the glass wall behind her. In another moment, Gigi Hadid’s character, Slay-Z, holds a compact that functions more like a weapon than a beauty tool. The mirror isn’t for touch-ups. It’s used to see, to target, to surveil.

For my own entertainment, while we're at it and talking about Bad Blood, I wanted to note what I see as Bad Blood callbacks in two of Karlie's Met looks: 2025 and 2016… go figure.

The Met madness is deep within Gaylor lore and it's something that deserves it's own dissertation. For the sake of chronicling, let's turn our eyes to 2019. On the night of the Met Gala themed Camp: Notes on Fashion, Karlie posted a photo holding a compact mirror with the caption: “Looking camp right in the eye.” It was clever and pointed. For most, it was totally misunderstood. For some, it felt like the photo winked.

Camp, in its purest form, is queer—an art of exaggeration, subversion, and coded visibility. The fact that Karlie chose a mirror to make that statement only deepens the meaning. It wasn’t just a nod to the theme. It was a reflection held up to the gaze itself.

When a motif returns like this: same object, same players, years apart... it stops being aesthetic and starts being intentional. The compact mirror isn’t just a prop. It’s a reflection of things unsaid. When Karlie picks it up in 2019 and again in 2025, we’re not just watching a routine beauty shot. We’re seeing something resurface. A deep portal. A time travel. All the love we unraveled and a whisper that says: I'm still here.

2. Reputation – The Disappearing Act

If there’s an era where mirrors stop reflecting and start breaking, it’s Reputation. The visual and lyrical language of this album is all about distortion, erasure, and strategic self-construction. It’s not about being seen—it’s about being watched. And what better symbol to carry that weight than a mirror?

Let’s start with the cover.

EYE THEORY TRUTHERS, RISE.

The Reputation album cover is a grayscale newspaper layout that blankets half of Taylor’s face. Some believe the visible eye belongs to Taylor, and the obscured one? Karlie’s. (It’s me. Hi.) A theory, sure—but the ambiguity holds. The cover itself becomes a mirror. Or maybe a mask. Either way, it’s hiding as much as it reveals.

I need to make my own Eye Theory deep dive (and I will)... but if you're interested now, there are so many lovely Tik Tok creators that are a total wealth of knowledge :)

Digging into the album, the use of mirrors continues. For the sake of this being an intro, let's touch on a relevant music video from this era.

We’ve already seen the compact mirror show up in Bad Blood, where it’s held like a weapon. But in Delicate, the mirror becomes something more slippery—something emotional. In this video, Taylor isn’t fighting anyone. She’s trying to find herself. And the mirrors in the video don’t reflect a consistent identity. They shift. They vanish. They resist.

Let’s break it down.

00:33–00:36 In the opening hallway scene, Taylor walks with her bodyguards through a grand hotel corridor. She catches a glimpse of herself in a passing mirror, and something strange happens: she and the guards stop, walk backward, then charge forward again. It’s as if the sight of her own reflection interrupts the performance. The self in the mirror is the managed one. The one who turns around? That’s the version trying to break free.

00:44–1:02 In the dressing room scene, Taylor stands alone, making wild faces into the mirror. It’s one of the only moments in the Reputation era where she’s truly unguarded, and it’s with her reflection. She isn’t performing for the world. She’s performing for herself. It’s silly, strange, and a little unhinged. It’s honest.

1:03–1:12 But then, the spell breaks. Three women enter the room. Taylor vanishes. And so does her reflection. The moment she’s no longer alone, the mirror erases her. That is not subtle. That is design.

2:34–2:45 Later, in the elevator scene, a woman stands beside Taylor, smiling, applying lipstick, completely unaware of her presence. Taylor is still invisible. She exists outside the reflection, outside the frame, outside the narrative.

To me, Delicate is one of the most emotionally rich videos in Taylor’s entire visual canon. It’s a meditation on freedom—the kind that only comes when no one is watching. The moves she makes in the video are strange, almost feral. And I think that’s the point. She’s showing us how she behaves when the mirror no longer holds her. When she’s unseen and alive.

There are more mirror moments in Reputation that we’ll get to in the Mirror Atlas, but Delicate stands alone in its depth. It isn’t just a pop video. It’s a reflection of what happens when the reflection disappears.

3. mirrorball – Shimmer, Performance, and Emotional Reflection

If Reputation was about erasure, mirrorball is what’s left behind in the spotlight. It’s one of Taylor’s most quietly devastating songs—soft in delivery, but sharp in what it reveals. This time, she isn’t looking into a mirror or breaking one. She’s become the mirror itself.

In the Long Pond Studio Sessions, Taylor describes mirrorball as a song about performing through pain, about the exhausting need to be “everything for everybody.” She compares herself to a disco ball—beautiful because it’s broken, casting fractured reflections for others to enjoy. “If you break it, it’s just made of a million pieces of broken glass.” That’s the metaphor. And it’s not just poetic—it’s literal.

She didn’t perform mirrorball in a mirrored outfit on the Eras Tour, but that detail only makes her earlier choices more significant. In 2018, at the American Music Awards, Taylor stepped out in a full mirrorball dress. A mosaic of tiny mirrored tiles wrapped around her body. She wore it to accept awards for Reputation, the album that she’s still letting us unravel. The look was bold, but intentional. She showed up shining—reflective, beautiful, unreadable.

In 2023, at The 1975’s concert in London, Taylor made a surprise appearance wearing another mirrored mini-dress. It wasn’t just a callback. It was a performance of an identity. She was stepping into a space filled with speculation, projection, and fantasy—and she wore exactly what the crowd would expect. Not because it was her. Because it was what they wanted her to be.

And that’s what makes mirrorball so devastating. The mirror isn’t something she holds. It’s something she becomes. In the crowd’s gaze, in the fandom’s theories, in the industry’s demands—she reflects, refracts, and never quite settles into her own outline. Even her absence is curated. At the 2025 iHeartRadio Awards, Taylor didn’t attend, but sent a performance clip of mirrorball from opening weekend of Eras. She didn’t appear. The mirror did.

Some may believe otherwise, but to me, this isn’t a song about love. It’s about exposure. About what it costs to be adored, interpreted, and seen only in fragments. mirrorball doesn’t reveal who Taylor is. It reflects who we ask her to be.

And maybe that’s the point. I mean, the last thing we’ve heard from her in months was a clip of mirrorball standing in for her at the 2025 iHeartRadio Awards. Now, there's many buzzing fan theories of all sorts stirring around the 2025 AMAs. If she were to break her silence there, it'd be on the same stage where she first wore that Balmain beauty in 2018. it’s hard not to feel like the loop is closing. The timing is too sharp to ignore.

The End of the Intro, The Beginning of an Atlas

So, given this brain dump, I hope it’s clear that my interest lies in the mirror—not just as a visual, but as a motif woven through Taylor’s body of work. What I've started here is just the beginning, but even with only three moments, the pattern starts speaking for itself.

It’s enough to say with confidence: the mirror isn’t just a flourish. It’s a signal. A portal. A language. And once you see it, it’s everywhere.

This post isn’t a thesis. It’s a foundation. A first pass at something deeper, something still unfolding. The Mirror Atlas will grow—moment by moment, frame by frame—as we trace this reflection through Taylor’s universe.

If you’ve noticed a mirror—literal or symbolic, lyric or live—share it. The comments are open. The story is still being written.

And if you ask me, this mirror trail feels less like theory, and more like an invisible string tying Taylor to… her.

[thegreatyin]

what do you mean this meme went out of fashion circa september 2024. no it didn't. shhh.

anyway OC SMASH OR PASS 💥💥💥💥💥 GO MY BAT 🦇🌹 #MyBat

rules: self explanatory. include physical descriptions or pics, and propaganda. the “other” label can be used for “sexuality misalignment” (ie: oc is femme and you’re gay, vice versa or you aren’t into smashing but a specific thing you wanna do with them like perhaps hug or study them under a microscope idc).

i was tagged by Nobody. i did this By Myself. i am however tagging everyone who sees this for every fandom under the sun. smash your ocs. smash your mutuals ocs. smash everyone's ocs. probably don't smash the scoundrel though they don't deserve it

the first two drawings are by me, and the last two are by @foongle and @queercatboyrights respectively. yes of course these are all equally important reference images what are you talking about

🦇📈 PROS:

The Snugglerrrrrr

when they like someone she really does like them. she is singing their praises to the highest heavens and showering them in more gifts than they can handle

art lover and artist. will write sappy poetry about/for you

can take a head pat and/or chin scritch no problem

smells like flowers 🌸🌹🌺

24/7 cute bat noise asmr

can (and often does) purr so hard her whole body shakes

hedonism 15 if not in gameplay then in spirit

would insist he's dominating in the bedroom but in actuality he's the furthest possible opposite. very suggestible, very collarable.

has more Experience™ than you'd think

extremely sensitive ears. like. elf fetish tier sensitive. you know exactly what i mean by this

okay i was going to dance around their exact sexual parameters because this isn't the blog for that sort of thing but i can't in good faith make this kind of post without mentioning they give head like a world-class olympic champion. no i'm not joking or exaggerating. this is Real Scoundrel Lore.

insists upon ludicrous amounts of aftercare and/or cuddling. this is earnest and goes both ways

can be fixed. maybe. possibly. if you believe hard enough.

🦇❓ NEUTRAL QUIRKS:

>:3

roughly 40-ish, give or take a few years

usually presents vaguely masculine, but occasionally switches it up in the opposite direction. floats vaguely around the androgynous range

a married bat, though their situationship is open and his wife isn't the jealous type

their eyes are violant, meaning they remember Everything they see. everything.

approximately 99.1% human, with an ongoing bat HRT prescription

hopelessly romantic at heart, but very comfortable with flings and/or one night stands

praise and body worship and bondage enjoyer georg

accidentally BPD coded

in modern terms, they would be a genderfluid omnisexual furry

🦇🔫 CONS:

not worth even looking at unless you enjoy being annoyed by your partner

Mr Cards

white on the chessboard, with everything that implies

unironic mr wines stan, with everything that implies

no, seriously. he's hopelessly in love with mr wines. Hopelessly.

can never shut up to save her life. she Will have thoughts and you Will hear them always and forever.

so dumb. just. just So Dumb.

actual comical levels of self-absorbed. like. you know the kind of guy who says "oh my me" because he thinks he's comparable to god? the scoundrel is very very very very very close to reaching that level of awful.

smug. mischievous. often outright mean. will make fun of you and hurt your feelings and feel bad for approximately 10 seconds before shrugging it off and getting drunk on opera music

he's,,, shall we say, disconnected from reality at the best of times. his mind operates on 7777 layers of denial at all times and if you try to remove one he screams and runs away

no seriously he really really really really really wants mr wines carnally

his body is covered in violant veins and marks, to the point where looking at him naked for a prolonged period of time is probably legally classified as a biohazard

refuses to take off his bandages unless either directly ordered or placed under extreme duress. for obvious reasons, this can make smashing somewhat difficult

bourgeoisie :/

[dakusan]

Hai Deku!! Question…can vamps get drunk/high in your universe? Like they don’t consume mortal food so I assume they don’t drink wine…but if their Doll partook…and then they fed….?? If they can, what are they like? Does anyone get giggly, do they get lost in old memories, do they get playful or particularly flirty? What might it do to their control? Do their powers get weird (because inebriated humans definitely preform tasks differently and throwing magic in the mix seems like a wild way to fuck shit up)??

I was watching a Code on my break at work and was having fun watching Jisung get all red after like two sips of beer and needed to ask 😁

HAIIII RIN MY BRILLIANT LITTLE SCIENTIST 🧪🧛‍♀️ this ask is juicy and deliciously chaotic.

let’s BLOOD-GEEK OUT. we’re entering VAMP LORE: INTOXICATION EDITION aka: “what happens when your fanged lover tastes tequila through your veins.”

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🍷CAN VAMPS GET DRUNK/HIGH IN THIS UNIVERSE?

YES. BUT NOT THE HUMAN WAY. Let’s break it down:

1. DIRECT CONSUMPTION: food, wine, edibles, etc.

Vampires can eat food and drink alcohol—but it’s like putting glitter on an empty stomach.

They taste it. They enjoy it. But it won’t nourish, intoxicate, or affect them deeply.

Think: phantom flavour pleasure. Like a ghost licking frosting. Abnormal vampires especially process it too fast for any real effect—unless they want to force it.

2. INDIRECT CONSUMPTION: through blood.

THIS is where it gets interesting. If a vampire feeds from a Blood Doll who:

Just drank alcohol

Is high on a substance

Is sedated, caffeinated, euphoric, depressed, etc...

THE VAMP ABSORBS IT. Not the substance itself—but the state. Their body translates blood chemistry into: - Heightened emotion - Altered cognition - Physical irregularities - Power distortion

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🧠WHAT HAPPENS TO THEIR MIND + BODY?

🩸EMOTIONAL BLEED

Vampires feel what you feel during feeding.

If you’re tipsy and giggling? They get floaty. Lightheaded. Fuzzy in the chest. Think: borrowed euphoria.

If you're high and disoriented? They get dreamlike, loose, maybe even dangerously gentle or distorted.

You’re anxious or tripping? Their fangs ache. Eyes twitch. They might slip control.

🔮MAGIC + POWER EFFECTS (ESP. IN ABNORMALS)

Drunk magic is like giving a toddler a lightsaber.

Bloodstate affects how magic manifests and warps. Examples:

Telekinesis misfires—lifting a couch instead of a pen.

Speed bursts too fast to control, smacking into walls.

Aura projection becomes seductive chaos or terrifying distortion.

Glamour spells flicker—think shifting faces and echoing voices.

Abnormals are especially volatile because their powers are soul-bound. A soul-drunk vampire is a walking blackout spell.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🧛‍♂️WHO DOES WHAT?

BANG CHAN — “THE LEADER”

Abnormal. Control = paper-thin.

Your blood tastes like champagne and midnight. It hits him hard—fast. His hands tighten. His breath shortens. He’s swaying without moving. His fangs press deeper—not cruel. Just needy. Like his body’s fighting itself.

“You feel like summer... and sin.”

The silk-wrapped power he usually holds back? Cracks at the seams. He grips the wall. Fails to glamour. He can see your heartbeat and hear your blood sing his name. He lifts you onto the table and feeds like you're a final meal.

You don’t walk straight the next day. Neither does he.

LEE MINHO — “THE PRINCE OF TEETH”

Abnormal. Hides chaos under velvet.

You drank wine. Danced with someone else. Laughed like sin. He drinks from your thigh. Licks slow. Then stills.

“You let someone else see you like this?” “I wanted you to feel it.”

He does. Too much. Lust coils into jealousy. His glamour breaks mid-feed. His scent floods the room—sharp. Dark. Laced with possession. Your blood made him high. And in his haze, he unravels his restraint.

Your thighs are bruised before you beg. The mirror shatters when you cum. He fucks like your name is vengeance. And when he finally stops? He kisses your pulse and whispers, “Next time, don’t tease me with borrowed wine.”

SEO CHANGBIN — “THE ENFORCER”

Normal. Grounded. Until he's not.

He can't get drunk. but he can feel your joy. Your chemical float. And when he drinks, your emotions crash into him like thunder.

"You were smiling," he murmurs. "I felt it when I bit you."

That makes him gentle. Too gentle. He holds you like he might break something. You. Himself. The world.

But if your blood was laced with lust or THC? He gets quiet. Then primal. Kisses you down slow. Feeds between your legs. Holds you down when you start to float. Because someone has to anchor you. Even if his hands shake.

HWANG HYUNJIN — “THE SIREN”

Abnormal. Magic = melody. Control = illusion.

You were high. Blissed. Your blood? A narcotic dream.

He drinks from your wrist, and suddenly he’s spinning—in your memory. The room tilts. His eyes glass. He moans like he’s coming.

“I can feel the music inside you,” he gasps. “Are you real?”

His illusions twist. Paint drips from walls that were never wet. Your laugh loops in his head like a haunted sonata.

He bites again, deeper. Just to stay in the dream. Your blood turns him into a god losing religion. He feeds from you like art—desperate to keep you on his tongue, until your thighs shake and your mind breaks and the room smells like both of you.

HAN JISUNG — “THE SHADOW WALKER”

Normal. Chaos sponge. Emotions = amplifier.

You had a drink. Maybe two. He feeds—and he’s gone.

Your wine-dizzy heartbeat shoots through him like static. He giggles. Then growls. Then accidentally vanishes. Appears behind you.

“You taste like mischief and pink smoke,” he says, fangs too sharp, eyes too wide.

If your blood is laced with lust or MDMA? He can’t stop touching you. Feeds from your thigh and then your mouth. Then your wrist. Then your soul. His fangs ache. Your moans make him hungrier. He forgets how many times you came. Or maybe—he just wants one more.

FELIX — “THE DREAMER”

Abnormal. Dreamwalker. Too soft for this world. Too dangerous for yours.

You were high. Happy. Humming.

He tastes you and sighs. Like home. Like sin. Like a wish whispered into silk.

“Your blood is glowing,” he says softly. “That’s not possible.” “It is for you.”

His eyes glaze. He dreamwalks on accident. His shadows spill over the bed. His aura pulses in colours you don’t have words for.

You moan. He kisses your temple. You beg. He feeds gently. You float. He follows.

You come apart in a haze of touch and colour. And when you wake, he’s still there—still drinking slow, like the dream never ended.

KIM SEUNGMIN — “THE BELOVED”

Normal. Ice veined. Iron willed.

He feeds with precision. Controlled. Until you’re not. If you’re tipsy, silly, flushed—he feels it. And it pisses him off.

“You let yourself get this loose?” “I wanted to feel free.” “Now you’re mine.”

His fangs sink in mid-sentence. Mid-punishment. Mid-orgasm. He feeds from your thigh with military focus. Edges you three times and feeds again when you whimper. Your blood makes him high on control. He doesn’t break. He shatters you.

YANG JEONGIN — “THE SMILE WITH FANGS”

Special Case: Normal... awakening Abnormal.

He drinks from you, laughing. But then the laughter stops. Your blood shifts something in him. Your chemicals crash into instincts he doesn’t know how to name.

“You taste like a dare.” “What kind of dare?” “One I want to lose.”

He bites again—harder. Deeper. Not human anymore. He fucks like a game. But it’s a test. Your body is the playground. Your pulse is the prize. And when he finishes? You’re shaking. And he’s glowing. Veins dark. And a grin that says he’s starting to like losing control.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🧪SUMMARY: VAMP DRUNK MECHANICS

🧬 They absorb emotional + chemical states through blood.

🔮 Abnormals experience magic dysregulation when under influence.

❤️ Each vamp reacts uniquely based on your state.

❌ They can’t get drunk the traditional way—but through you? Oh, they’re ruined.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

thank you for this absolute banger of a science ask, rin.

may your next sip be shared with a dangerously affectionate immortal 💋🩸

[exhausted-archivist]

Taash (and by extention Vashoth/the Qunari in general) theory I've been yelling about since 9am when the lore dropped and I'm just now moving all my yelling here...

So Taash breathes fire.

Bull talks about how it is a theory within the Ben'Hassrath that the Tamassrans mixed in dragon blood.

Corypheus tells Adaar that their race isn't even a race but a failed experiment.

Old God Baby Keiran mentions that the blood in Adaar isn't their own.

In the comic Until We Sleep, Magister Titus says that dragonfire might be the Vashoth/Qunari's birthright. He is able to use it due to being powered by the blood of Maric Theirin, which the Theirin bloodline has Great Dragon blood in their veins.

Taash isn't a mage, but just an individual who got access to a lost ability that was previously the birthright of her people. Something that was standard.

My big question is how Taash gained this ability?

Is it a rune?

Is she born from a line that was created using specifically great dragon blood?

Is she a reaver and drinking the dragon blood had the side effect of unlocking the ability?

Or did she just eat enough dragon meat?

As far as the Vashoth/Qunari in general, this implies they are a manufactured race, likely one from Tevinter as they captured the Kossith that landed in Thedas and then proceeded to change them. We see in the murals we find in Inquisition that the horned race was in Thedas long before the Storm Age when the Qunari (those of the Qun) landed in Par Vollen.

Koslun speaks of leaving his homeland, and it is a generic description that easily fits Tevinter in its prime, and would explain why the Qunari came from the north when they sailed into Thedas. And why they continued until recently to keep sending ships back there.

A quick aside I have very nervous feelings on this last part, and it will depend on how they write this reveal. Considering the coding and just the general implications of this. Context and execution are definitely going to impact the landing of this.