#data harmonization process

[aamerajj]

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[saad1505]

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[avinashkumar1202]

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[jungkoode]

THE 25TH HOUR | O9

“𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋”

“We’re designed to fit,” he says, and you don’t know if he means your powers, your patterns, or the way your hand doesn’t shake in his.

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 6,7k

content: reality anchors, the quantum physics are quaking, yoongi being bossy again (and hot about it), elevator scene tension 10/10, jumping across buildings like it's casual (it is NOT), spatial distortion flirty edition, golden tendrils 2.0 (they touched... physically and emotionally??), temporal signature matching (yes it’s hot), someone finally says “we’re designed to fit” and i screamed, drone murder attempt ig, jungkook makes a dramatic entrance and is so annoying about it, team regroup ft. unexplained powers and too many secrets, portal time but make it traumatic.

— author’s note

KAY. LISTEN.

I know I say this every chapter but THIS ONE. this one fried several neurons and may have permanently altered the molecular structure of my spine. I started with “hm what if they walked through a reality anchor” and ended with “what if they synchronized their temporal signatures mid-freefall and touched tendrils in public like absolute whores.” I don’t know what to tell you. I blacked out. This is between me and my caffeine addiction now.

Let’s talk about the jump scene. Yes. You clocked it. That moment where Noma is calculating the distance and Yoongi says “don’t think, just need” and then she LAUNCHES HERSELF INTO THE VOID? Yeah. That may or may not have been deeply inspired by Neo’s rooftop jump in The Matrix (1999, my beloved). I am a massive Matrix nerd. That whole visual of someone standing on the edge of a building, trying to defy the physics they were born into, and being told “your mind is the thing in your way”? It’s been living rent-free in my frontal lobe since I was 13 and thought trench coats were peak fashion.

Because this chapter is, like, extremely about trust. And control. And the horror of not understanding what’s happening inside your own body. It’s about Noma confronting the fact that her mind—her beautiful, precise, analytical mind—is what’s limiting her. And Yoongi, who already knows, who’s BEEN like this longer, who knows what it’s like to break through that threshold and feel the laws of reality tilt around your perception, he’s just THERE. Guiding her. Softly threatening to reset time like a feral little guardian angel.

Also… let’s not ignore the fact that she destroys a drone with her brain and he’s like “cool. moving on.” Sir?? She just folded metal into origami. But okay go off I guess.

AND THEN THEY SYNCH TEMPORAL SIGNATURES. don’t even look at me. I wrote that and sat there like “huh. interesting. so that’s what soulmates sound like in science fiction.” I had to go walk around the block. I made them fit on a molecular level. I made their body chemistry harmonize. Why? Because I am unwell and this is my therapy.

Anyway. Thanks for reading I love you all. Scientifically.

— read on

ao3

wattpad

Reality Anchors are alive.

No one ever told you that part. No briefing, no memo, no research paper had ever mentioned that these imposing structures breathe.

The anchor in front of you rises 37.2 meters from ground to apex, its surface composed of quantum-stabilized alloy that shouldn't—couldn't—pulse like that.

Yet it does. Every 7 seconds, a wave of molecular adjustment ripples from base to tip, disturbing air molecules in concentric patterns that register against your skin at precisely 0.3 pascals of pressure.

Fascinating.

Your retinas register the faint blue luminescence emanating from seams in the structure-temporal energy bleeding through containment fields. 

It feels like reality itself is being compressed into a more efficient configuration.

"Mesmerizing," you murmur, cataloging the observable data. "The quantum-stabilized glass panels are oriented at exactly 73 degrees to maximize temporal field distribution. And the energy consumption must be—”

"No."

You blink, neural processes stuttering at the interruption.

Agent Min has stopped walking and turned to face you fully, his stance registering as 37% more rigid than his baseline.

"I didn't say anything," you point out, tilting your head 12 degrees in genuine confusion.

"Didn't have to." His eyes narrow by approximately 0.3 centimeters.

"Then what are you saying no to?"

"You know what."

"I genuinely don't." Your brow furrows, creating a 0.4-centimeter depression between your eyebrows. "It seems statistically improbable that you could accurately predict my thought patterns without established baseline data."

His mouth twitches—suppressed micro-expression, 0.7 seconds in duration.

"Were you or were you not thinking of using a little detour to satiate that insane curiosity of yours?"

Your silence registers at approximately 3.2 seconds. 

Longer than optimal for casual conversation.

"Exactly. No."

"I find your anticipation of my mental processes presumptuous," you counter, eyes returning to the reality anchor when the uppermost floors shimmer slightly—a temporal distortion effect that standard human vision would filter out. “And I do not appreciate it.”

"Get used to it," he says, resuming walking at a pace 7% faster than before. "You will."

You match his stride automatically.

"The probability of you developing accurate predictive models of my cognitive patterns seems—”

"Already developed," he interrupts, checking his modified Chrono-Sync Watch with a quick glance. "Seventh time you've tried to investigate a reality anchor. Always the same pattern."

This statement contains multiple logical inconsistencies. You've never attempted to investigate a reality anchor before. Your security clearance wouldn't permit it.

Yet your temporal analysis centers don't flag it as a falsehood.

"How would you know that?" 

He doesn't answer, instead gesturing toward the adjacent tower—a colossal structure of similar materials that rises at least 100 floors into the artificially blue sky.

"Travel spot is somewhere in the upper levels," he says, eyes scanning the building's facade. "We need to access it through the anchor first."

You process this information, calculating optimal routes.

"Why can't you pinpoint the exact location?" you ask, question emerging from your analytical centers. "Your previous statements implied familiarity with the network."

His jaw tightens by approximately 4.3 newtons.

"Travel spots shift position by 0.7 meters every 73 minutes," he explains, voice roughened. "Quantum uncertainty principle applied to spatial coordinates. Prevents CHRONOS from establishing fixed monitoring."

"That seems inefficient for a resistance network," you observe.

"That's the point." He checks his watch again—third time in 7.3 minutes. "Inefficiency creates unpredictability. CHRONOS systems are designed for pattern recognition."

You approach the base of the reality anchor, where a standard-looking entrance is monitored by temporal signature scanners disguised as decorative elements.

"How do we bypass security?" you ask, noting at least three visible monitoring devices and calculating a 94.7% probability of additional concealed systems.

"We don't," he says, reaching into his jacket and extracting what appears to be a standard CHRONOS identification card. "We walk in like we belong."

The card in his hand triggers your pattern recognition— holographic security features match authorized maintenance personnel credentials.

"Falsified identification carries a minimum penalty of 73 days in temporal isolation," you note automatically.

He almost smiles—left corner of his mouth lifting 0.2 centimeters.

"Only if you get caught."

He approaches the entrance with casual gait, and you follow—still processing the anchor's structure. 

The quantum equations rippling across its surface follow a pattern that suggests...

"I told you to stop analyzing," he murmurs, voice barely audible at 17 decibels. "Your temporal signature fluctuates when you're thinking too hard. Makes you detectable."

You attempt to modulate your thought patterns, an unusual exercise that creates a 0.3-second lag in your cognitive processing.

He swipes the identification card through the scanner, which responds with a soft tone at exactly 432 Hz—the standard confirmation frequency.

The interior of the reality anchor is even more fascinating than its exterior.

The lobby appears standard-neo-minimalist design, temporal-stabilized plants arranged at mathematically significant intervals—but your enhanced perception detects the subtle wrongness of the space.

The air pressure is precisely 0.7 kPa higher than standard atmospheric conditions. 

The lighting pulses at a frequency of 7 Hz, which is imperceptible to normal human vision but clearly designed to reinforce temporal compliance in visitors.

"Maintenance elevator is on the left," Agent Min says, guiding you with a subtle gesture. "Don't look at the central column."

Naturally, your eyes immediately flick toward the center of the lobby.

The sight momentarily overloads your visual processing. 

A column of pure temporal energy rises from floor to ceiling, contained within quantum-stabilized glass. The energy moves in patterns that defy standard physical laws—simultaneously flowing upward and downward, existing in multiple states… at once?

"I said don't look," he hisses, fingers closing around your wrist to redirect; not enough to cause discomfort.

"What is that?" you ask, unable to fully suppress your curiosity despite his warning.

"The anchor point," he says, voice tightening as he guides you toward the maintenance elevator. "Direct connection to the Master Clock. Looking at it too long causes temporal vertigo in most humans."

You save this information, filing it under high-priority data.

"And in non-humans?"

His steps falter—0.3-second hesitation.

"In Outliers," he corrects quietly, "it can trigger awakening."

The maintenance elevator requires another scan of his falsified credentials. 

As the doors close, enclosing you in a space of approximately 2.3 cubic meters, you notice the absence of standard temporal monitoring devices.

"Why aren't there cameras?" you ask, scanning the ceiling corners where monitoring equipment would typically be installed.

"Reality anchors generate too much temporal interference for standard surveillance," he explains, pressing the button for floor 30. "Creates blind spots in their system."

"That seems like a significant security vulnerability," you observe.

His mouth quirks again.

You don’t know why you’re starting to find the gesture attractive.

"Why do you think we're using it?"

The elevator ascends at precisely 3.7 meters per second, which you note is faster than standard civilian elevators but slower than executive transport. Your inner ear registers the acceleration, adjusting automatically.

"The travel spot," you begin, mind working through the problem. "You said it's in the upper levels of the adjacent tower. Why can't we access it directly?"

He leans against the elevator wall, posture relaxing by approximately 7%.

"Security protocols," he says. "The tower has standard monitoring. The anchor doesn't. We cross through the anchor's 30th floor-maintenance level, and then we use the connecting bridge to access the tower."

"And after that?"

"After that, we find the travel spot." He checks his watch again—fourth time in 12.7 minutes. "It should be somewhere between floors 90 and 97."

You calculate the search parameters.

"That's approximately 7,432 square meters of potential location space," you note. "Seems inefficient."

"I'll narrow it down once we're closer," he says. "My temporal sense can detect the quantum fluctuations at closer proximity."

The elevator slows as it approaches floor 30, and Agent Min straightens, resuming his alert posture.

"When we exit, walk like you're supposed to be here," he instructs. "Maintenance personnel check this level every 73 minutes. Current interval gives us approximately 47 minutes before the next sweep."

"Understood," you confirm, automatically adjusting your posture to match standard CHRONOS maintenance staff parameters—shoulders back, gaze forward, movements economic and purposeful.

The elevator doors open to reveal a stark corridor illuminated by temporal-stabilized lighting. 

Walls are lined with quantum-reinforced panels marked with mathematical equations that your pattern recognition identifies as temporal field calculations.

Agent Min steps out first, fluid and confident. 

You follow, checking every detail of this restricted environment that few civilians ever see.

"Don't touch anything," he warns, leading you down the corridor. "Some of these panels are directly connected to the temporal field generators."

You resist the urge to examine the equations more closely, focusing instead on maintaining the appropriate walking pace and posture.

"The connecting bridge is 23 meters ahead," he says, voice low. "Once we cross, we'll need to take the service stairs. The tower's elevators are monitored."

"Stairs?" you query, calculating the energy expenditure required to ascend approximately 60 floors. "That seems—"

"Necessary," he interrupts. "Unless you'd prefer to explain to CHRONOS why we're accessing restricted floors."

You concede the point with a slight nod.

15 degrees downward, 15 degrees upward.

As you walk, your mind continues processing the reality anchor's structure, the equations on the walls, the subtle vibration beneath your feet that suggests massive energy manipulation occurring somewhere below.

"You're thinking too loud again," Agent Min murmurs, not turning to look at you.

"That's not physically possible," you counter automatically.

"Your temporal signature disagrees," he says, tapping his temple with his index finger. "I can feel it fluctuating."

This statement contains another logical inconsistency. 

Standard humans cannot detect temporal signatures without specialized equipment.

Yet once again, your temporal analysis centers don't flag it as a falsehood.

"How—" you begin.

"Bridge is just ahead. Stay close."

But the bridge…

It’s not offline. It’s gone.  

You stare at the empty space where reinforced glass and temporal alloys should’ve formed a secure pathway. 

Only support beams remain, jagged edges still glowing from whatever energy weapon severed them.  

Agent Min’s eyebrows do something statistically improbable—contracting inward by 0.9 centimeters while the skin between them folds into three distinct creases. 

You’ve never seen his face execute this particular combination of micro-expressions before.  

“They altered this sector’s infrastructure,” he mutters, more to himself than you. 

His left hand twitches toward his Chrono-Sync Watch, aborting the movement halfway.  

You pivot toward the window, retinal sensors catching a faint outline-maintenance door, 3.2 meters left of the destroyed bridge. 

Beyond it: a sheer drop, then the adjacent tower’s western face. 

Your mind calculates the distance before your ethics committee can veto the idea.  

“We could jump.”  

He doesn’t immediately dismiss it. 

That’s how you know things are bad.  

“Distance?” he asks, joining you at the window.  

“14.7 meters horizontally, 3.3 meters vertical elevation differential.” You tap the glass, triggering a subconscious visualization overlay. “Structural analysis indicates the target building’s exterior has adequate grip points for—”  

“For me,” he interrupts. His breath fogs the glass near your fingertip. “Not for you.”  

You tilt your head, analyzing his profile. “You’re suggesting I remain here while you—”  

“I’m suggesting you stop suggesting suicide vectors.” His jaw works, a muscle ticking at 2.7-second intervals. “There’s another route. Has to be.”  

You let him pace—eight steps toward the elevator, twelve back—before interrupting.  

“Average human long jump record is 8.95 meters. My enhanced musculature could theoretically—”  

“Theoretically splatter across sixty floors of neo-Brutalist architecture.” 

You frown. “We’re only thirty floors up.”

“From the anchor,” he says. “The tower’s foundation sits two levels below base-grade. It drops into a full infrastructure pit—ventilation shafts, temporal gridwork, CHRONOS substation access. You fall here, you don’t just hit pavement. You keep falling.”

He gestures down through the glass.

“Sixty floors straight into the sector’s hollowed-out gut. Like getting thrown down a well lined with concrete and death.”

How does he even know all that?

But before you can let curiosity get the best of you again, he stops mid-stride, pinning you with that look again. The one that makes your internal processors skip. 

“But—”

“No.”  

You frown, press your palm against the window, feeling the tower’s vibration through the glass. 

“Then you go first. Anchor a line. I’ll follow.”  

He’s already shaking his head. “Temporal energy doesn’t work like that. Can’t manifest solid constructs without—”  

“Without triggering every sensor in the sector. Yes.” You turn from the window, meeting his glare. “So, again, that leaves one option.”  

For three seconds, the only sound is the reality anchor’s low-frequency hum. 

Then he swears—a creative combination of English and technical jargon your language centers can’t fully parse.  

The maintenance door handle feels colder than ambient temperature suggests. You’re calculating wind shear variables when his gloved hand covers yours, halting the motion.  

“If we do this,” he says, voice stripped to its raw edges, “you follow my instructions exactly. No deviations. No calculations mid-air. Understood?”  

You nod, the movement precise. 

15 degrees down, 15 up.  

He releases your hand to grip both shoulders instead, leaning in until his mint-and-ozone scent overrides the tower’s sterile air. 

“When you jump, you don’t think about falling. You don’t think about distance. You think about needing to be on that ledge. Your entire existence becomes that single purpose.”  

You open your mouth to request clarification on biomechanical feasibility—

“No.” His fingers tighten. “No questions. Your body knows how. You just have to stop overloading it with doubt.”  

The paradox registers immediately. 

“But without understanding the mechanism—”  

“Understanding comes later.” His thumb presses into your collarbone, exactly where that freckle hides beneath synthetic fabric. “Surviving comes now.”  

You glance past him to the abyss. 

He opens the door.

The wind’s howling at 37 knots now, whipping hair into your eyes. 

“Probability of success?”  

He doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Sixty-eight percent. If you focus.”  

“And if I don’t?”  

For the first time, his face contracts—a fractional widening of pupils, a minuscule catch in his breathing rhythm.  

“Then I’ll reset time until you do.”  

The words register as raw, hovering between you for a few seconds before he finally turns toward the void.  

You watch him leap—no hesitation, no visible calculation. Just pure intent translated into motion.  

He makes it look effortless.  

And then it’s your turn.  

The wind screams. The city sprawls below, a mosaic of blue-lit grids and shadow. 

You psych up the variables: air density, potential updrafts, the exact angle of your target ledge.  

Then you stop thinking.  

You launch, and the world narrows to wind and numbers.

For a moment, there’s no sound, no up or down. Just velocity and the impossible distance between you and the ledge. 

Adrenaline floods your system, not sharp but heavy, like a stone pressed to your sternum. 

You’re aware of your own mass, the drag of your body through air, the way your limbs cut a path no algorithm could ever predict.

Agent Min is already there, turned halfway, eyes tracking your arc. His mouth moves—maybe a warning, maybe your ID number—but the rush drowns it out. 

You think of the other side. You need to reach the other side. 

The imperative is simple, absolute. 

Not crossing means plummeting. Not crossing means becoming a data point in a CHRONOS incident report.

You make the mistake of looking down.

Thirty floors up, the city is abstract. 

Cars, people, light—all reduced to static. 

The void is real. 

You feel it in your teeth, in the way your stomach seems to invert, in the cold sweat prickling your palms. 

Your calculations fracture. The ground is coming up fast.

You look up. 

Agent Min’s silhouette sharpens against the skyline, mint hair a streak of color in the blue haze. His eyes widen—first time you’ve seen that particular fear. 

He’s reaching for something, or maybe just reaching.

You’re falling.

The world tilts. Air roars past your ears. Time dilates, then contracts. 

You’re aware of every heartbeat, every useless attempt your muscles make to grab onto empty space. 

The ledge is gone. The city is too close.

Then—discontinuity.

You’re upright. Feet planted on solid ground. Breath caught in your throat. 

Your hands move before your mind does, fingers flexing, checking for fractures, for blood, for any sign of what should have happened. 

Everything responds. No pain. No missing time.

Agent Min spins, posture radiating pure stress and panic. 

His face is a study in shock—mouth open, eyes blown wide, like he’s seen a ghost.

You blink. He blinks.

Your heart is still racing, but your body is whole. You’re here. You made it. The numbers don’t add up, but the outcome is undeniable.

You’re alive.

Agent Min’s gaze darts between your left and right pupils, rapid assessment mode engaged, as if he’s scanning for damage or data.

“Damn it, Noma,” he mutters, voice rough and frayed at the edges. “Holy hell.”

His hands clench into tight fists at his sides, knuckles whitening under the strain. 

You note the micro-tremor in his fingers-2.3 hertz, consistent with suppressed impulse. 

He exhales, a controlled release of 1.7 liters of air over 3.1 seconds, then drags a gloved hand down his face, smearing frustration across his features.

Before you can catalog further, a mechanical whine pierces the air-high-pitched, 17 kHz, consistent with a CHRONOS surveillance drone. 

Agent Min’s posture shifts instantly, weight forward, arm half-raised to shield or shove you aside. 

“Watch—”

You tilt your head back, a reflex, not a decision. 

There’s a sound—metal crumpling, like foil under pressure—and the drone’s frame twists mid-flight, folding inward at impossible angles. 

It drops, a lifeless heap, 4.7 meters below the ledge.

He stares at the wreckage, then at you. 

“Well. Alright then.”

Your mind is already running diagnostics. 

“Did I cause that?”

He lets out a long, resigned breath, shoulders dropping by 1.2 centimeters. 

“Yeah. You did.”

“How?” 

Your spatial awareness logs are blank—no memory of intent, no record of action. Yet the evidence is undeniable: twisted alloy, a perfect collapse. 

You flex your fingers again, searching for a trigger, a mechanism. “Was that a manipulation of spatial configuration? A localized distortion field? I need parameters.”

He steps closer, mint and ozone cutting through the sterile tower air, but his expression is all weariness. 

“We gotta move, Noma. Now.”

You plant your feet, shifting your center of gravity to counter his subtle pull. 

“Explanation required. Did I alter the drone’s physical positioning? Compress its structural integrity via spatial warp? Or—”

He makes a sound full of resignation. 

“Look, Noma, I l—”

He cuts himself off, jaw snapping shut with an audible click. 

A recalibration. 

“I get it. I do. But we don’t have the luxury of a debrief right now.”

Your brow creases, a 0.5-centimeter furrow. 

“Understanding the mechanics of an undocumented ability is not a luxury. It’s a necessity. If I can replicate—”

“You will,” he interrupts, voice low but firm, carrying a weight you can’t parse. “Just not here. Not with drones sniffing our temporal signatures.”

You glance at the wreckage again, mind spinning through theoretical models. 

No data, no precedent. 

Just a gut—deep certainty that you reshaped reality without conscious input. 

The implications are staggering. 

If you can do this instinctively, what else lies dormant? What are the limits? Energy costs? Detection risks?

He’s watching you, reading the cascade of queries behind your eyes. “I know that look. And I’m telling you to shelve it. We’re exposed.”

“Five seconds,” you negotiate, already cross-referencing the drone’s design against known CHRONOS tech. “If I can isolate the method—”

“Zero seconds.” He grumbles, fingers wrapping around your wrist and pulling you behind him. “Survival first. Science later.”

Your logic centers protest, but the risk assessment aligns with his. 

You exhale—petulant, probably, but you do not care. 

Because whatever you did, it’s a piece of the puzzle. A fragment of who—or what—you are. 

And you’ll dissect it, variable by variable, until the equation balances.

You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until the air shifts.

Up here, it tastes different. 

Thinner. Filtered, maybe. Like someone cleaned it too well, stripped it of anything real. 

The ground is nothing but blur—washed out in streaks of artificial white and synthetic blue haze. Designed to erase depth perception. To flatten the concept of below into something distant. Forgettable.

CHRONOS engineering at its finest.

You step closer to the edge, boots scraping faintly against the metal grating. 

The city is unrecognizable from this height. Not a city at all, just layers of grids and light. Soft pulses of movement that don’t quite feel alive. No wind reaches this far up, only some sort of hum—low, steady, mechanical. 

You wonder if the workers stationed here can still hear it when they sleep. 

If they ever sleep.

You’ve read the reports. Rotating shifts, twenty-hour cycles, neural stimulants to bypass natural fatigue responses. Cognitive degradation flagged as acceptable collateral. Worker retention rate at 37.2%.

In other words: not sustainable.

But great pay.

You press your fingertips lightly to the edge of the railing. Cool to the touch. Grounding, somehow. 

You scan the skyline, calculating angles, distances, escape vectors you’re not sure you’ll ever need but catalog anyway. 

That’s what you do. 

What you’ve always done.

But the sky pulls at you. Quietly. Persistently.

Dark velvet stretched wide above your head, broken only by the scatter of stars. 

You tip your chin back, gaze locking onto a thousand silent points of light, each one burning impossibly far away. 

Data points you can never reach, but something in you reaches anyway.

And there—framed in that endless black—

The moon.

Not in any model you’ve ever studied. Not filtered through facility-grade optics or distorted by atmospheric interference. 

Just… suspended. Brilliant. Whole. A perfect sphere painted in shades of silver and shadow. 

It’s too much, too big. 

Your breath catches again, chest tightening like something fragile just cracked open inside you.

It escapes before you can stop it. A single word.

“Beautiful.”

Soft. Uncalculated.

You freeze the second it leaves your mouth, pulse stuttering in your throat. 

You didn’t mean to say that. 

You never mean to say things like that.

A breath stirs the space beside you. Not yours.

“…Yeah.”

Quiet. Barely more than air.

“…Beautiful.”

The confirmation scrapes against something unsteady inside you. 

You shouldn’t turn. You know you shouldn’t. But your gaze shifts anyway, slow and reluctant, as if giving your body too much permission might undo you entirely.

He’s already watching.

Agent Min.

Not the skyline. Not the moon. Not the impossible stretch of space yawning above you.

You.

And he doesn’t look away.

For a suspended second, nobody speaks. 

Then his eyes flicker gold. 

It's the seventeenth time you've seen it happen. Seventeenth. You've been keeping count, tracking when it occurs, searching for the pattern. Not random—nothing about him is ever random—but the trigger remains frustratingly elusive. 

Is it emotional response? Memory access? Some kind of power regulation failing?

You step closer until you can detect the subtle heat radiating from him—always running warmer than human baseline. 

His pupils track your movement, dilating slightly.

A measurable response.

His fingers tighten on the railing, leather creaking under pressure. You note this detail, file it away. 

He stares at you.

You stare back.

"I've been meaning to ask," you say, keeping your voice even despite the strange pressure building under your sternum—like something's trying to expand beyond the confines of your ribcage.

His throat shifts as he swallows. Blinks once.

“Ask what?"

"Your eyes." 

His gaze slides away, avoiding yours for exactly 3.2 seconds before returning. Avoidance behavior. 

Why?

The silence grows heavy between you. 

If you were better at social interactions, you might understand why he doesn't respond. 

But you're not, so you elaborate.

"I have noticed they appear to shine at certain moments." You tilt your head slightly. "The same color as your tendrils. But I can't seem to figure out the why."

His focus drops briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. Quick. Almost imperceptible. But you catch it—and the flash of gold that accompanies it. 

Interesting correlation.

He looks at your lips = eyes change.

Cause and effect?

Sexual response?

Your gloved hand lifts toward his face, hovering in the space between you. 

Not touching. Not yet. Just... there. Testing a hypothesis.

"Noma," he says, your nickname rough around the edges. "That's... not advisable."

Why does that name feel so familiar when he says it?

"Why not?" The tilt of your head increases, curiosity sharpening. "I'm collecting data. Your ocular anomalies appear to correlate with specific emotional states."

You watch his pupils expand, blackness swallowing the iris except for that gleaming ring of gold.

"It's not a lab experiment." His jaw clenches, muscle rippling beneath skin.

He's restraining something. But what?

"Everything is data," you counter, your hand still suspended between you. "The gold appears when proximity decreases between us. When conversation shifts toward personal topics. When you look at my—"

You stop yourself. Recalibrate.

"When certain visual attention patterns emerge."

His breath changes rhythm—slower in, quicker out. You track this shift automatically. 

"And what conclusion have you reached based on these... observations?" His voice has become unsteady. 

In it, a roughness that wasn't there before.

The scientist in you needs to categorize it.

The rest of you just wants to hear more of it.

"Insufficient evidence for definitive conclusion." Your palm drifts closer to his face. "Hence the need for additional testing parameters."

"Agent." Warning laces his tone, but you note the contradiction in his body language—the slight forward tilt, the micromovement toward your hand. 

Your watch beeps softly. Temporal variance: 0.87%.

Why does your temporal signature fluctuate around him?

Why does your body recognize patterns your brain can't access?

"The gloves provide sufficient barrier protection for initial contact testing," you say, though in the back of your mind, you know that's not why you want to touch him. Not really. 

"It's not about the barrier," he says, still not pulling away.

"Then what is it about?" 

His eyes lock with yours, longer than his usual pattern. Something shifts in them—not just the color, but something deeper. 

Like barriers cracking.

"It's about..." He pauses, searching for words. "Restraint."

"Explain." 

Not a request. A need.

One corner of his mouth quirks up. "Demanding tonight, aren't we?"

Your hand inches closer. 

"Is that why your eyes change?" You push for answers, always pushing. "A failure of restraint?"

A sound catches in his throat, something between amusement and pain.

"They change when I'm..." He stops, recalibrates. "When I feel things too strongly."

"What things?"

"Anger. Fear." 

His gaze drops to your mouth again, longer this time. 

"Want."

The word settles into your chest, makes a home there. 

Your lungs feel suddenly insufficient, breath coming shorter despite oxygen levels remaining constant.

"And now?" Your voice sounds different to your own ears, pitched lower. "Which is it?"

His hand leaves the railing, wraps around your wrist. Not pushing away—just holding. Containing—touch gentle but unmistakably firm.

"What do you think, Noma?" Your nickname sounds different this time. 

Softer. Almost tender.

Why does it affect you when he says it like that?

You mentally catalog his physiological responses: dilated pupils, elevated respiration, muscle tension patterns indicating both arousal and resistance.

"Want," you determine with absolute certainty.

His eyes flare gold again—holding this time, not flickering away.

"Good analysis," he murmurs, still not releasing your wrist.

Your pulse thrums against his fingers. You can feel it jumping, betraying things your clinical mind refuses to name.

"May I?" Your gloved hand moves closer to his cheek.

Why are you pushing this? Why does it matter?

This isn't efficient data collection.

This is... something else.

His throat works as he swallows. 

"We shouldn't," he says, strain evident in every syllable. "That's my professional assessment."

"We're both still wearing gloves," you argue, logic centers frantically constructing justifications. "Barrier intact. Risk parameters acceptable."

"You know it’s not about statistics." His grip loosens slightly. 

He doesn't elaborate. 

Something complicated moves across his face, too fast for even your pattern recognition to decipher.

You need to know. You need to understand.

Why him? Why you? Why now?

Decision made, your hand pushes forward, breaking through his weakened resistance. Your gloved fingers make contact with his cheek.

And—

Oh.

The sensation defies categorization. Despite the barrier of fabric between you, something passes through the touch. 

A current.

An echo. 

Something your scientific vocabulary can't properly name.

His eyes close. He looks suddenly vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache.

"Your temporal signature," he says quietly, "it just... aligned with mine."

Your eyes drop to your watch. Temporal variance: 0.00%.

Perfect stabilization.

That's impossible.

There's no precedent for this in any temporal physics model.

"How?" The question slips out, unfiltered and raw.

His eyes open slowly, gold filling them completely now. 

Steady and bright and impossibly beautiful.

Beautiful.

"Because," he says simply, "we're designed to fit."

You should process this information. Should file it away with all your other observations about Agent Min and his inexplicable abilities. Should create new theoretical models to explain the perfect temporal alignment currently registered on your watch.

Instead, you just... feel. 

The warmth beneath your fingers. The impossible gold of his eyes. The way your body seems to recognize him on some cellular level your mind can't access.

‘We're designed to fit.’

The implications of that statement should terrify you. 

Instead, they feel like coming home.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

You're staring into his golden eyes when a low whizz cuts through the air. 

Your auditory processing centers register the sound at approximately 17kHz—just within human hearing range, but with a distinct mechanical oscillation pattern consistent with CHRONOS drone propulsion systems.

Before your brain can fully process the threat, Agent Min's head whips around—reaction time approximately 0.3 seconds faster than optimal human baseline. His pupils contract, gold flares brighter, mouth opens to form what appears to be a warning.

Too late.

Something hits you from behind—force vector approximately 47 newtons, angle of impact suggesting deliberate trajectory. The pressure against your back lasts precisely 0.7 seconds.

Then nothing.

Air rushes past your ears at increasing velocity. Your inner ear fluid shifts dramatically, sending conflicting data to your vestibular system. Gravity reasserts its dominance with brutal efficiency.

You're falling.

Again.

Acceleration rate: 9.8 meters per second squared.

Terminal velocity approaching.

Probability of survival without intervention: 0.003%.

The analytical part of your brain calculates these figures automatically while your body experiences what can only be termed as terror—heart rate spike of 73%, adrenal glands flooding your system with cortisol and epinephrine.

"NOMA!"

The sound tears through the rushing air—raw, primal, carrying a frequency range your pattern recognition flags as desperate. 

You twist mid-air, arms instinctively moving to shield your head from inevitable impact.

That's when you see him.

Agent Min. 

Yoongi. 

Falling just above you, body positioned in a perfect diving form that creates maximum aerodynamic efficiency. 

His trajectory indicates purposeful action.

He jumped after you.

He's saying something—lips moving rapidly—but the blood rushing in your ears creates a noise barrier approximately 84 decibels. His words are lost in the chaos of your fall.

Your abilities.

The thought crystallizes with sudden clarity. 

You teleported earlier. Spatial manipulation. If you could replicate that effect now—

Focus. But how? What's the trigger mechanism?

Your thoughts scatter across multiple processing centers, frantically searching for the neural pathway that activated during the previous incident. 

Agent Min never explained the mechanics.

He should have.

You’ll make sure to have that conversation later.

If you survive, that is.

Golden tendrils emerge from his outstretched fingers, extending at velocities that defy standard temporal physics. They reach toward you, pushing against the air itself as if trying to accelerate his fall beyond normal gravitational parameters.

You struggle to replicate whatever neural pathway activated before. Nothing happens. Your fingers flex, your mind focuses, your desperation builds.

What triggered it before? Survival instinct? Specific neural configuration? Direct threat vector?

The golden traces stretch further, now mere centimeters from your reaching hands. Their movement creates visible distortion in the air, like reality itself warping around their influence.

Then—

Something shifts within you. 

Not gradual. 

Not building.

A sudden quantum change in your neural configuration. 

Your cognitive perception splits for exactly 0.7 seconds—awareness operating in multiple states simultaneously.

Tendrils emerge from your own fingertips.

Golden, like his, but fundamentally different. Where his flow like liquid, yours crystallize like faceted gold. Where his move in clockwise patterns, yours rotate counterclockwise.

Opposing rotations. 

Perfect complements.

They reach out—not by your conscious command but through some deeper programming—and intertwine with his traces. The contact creates an immediate energy transfer that registers across your neural receptors as both hot and cold simultaneously.

In the space between one heartbeat and the next, the world blurs. Spatial coordinates shift in ways that violate every physical law you've ever studied. Distance compresses, then expands.

You're in his arms.

The transition happens without intermediate steps—one moment falling separately, the next secured against his chest, his left arm wrapped around your waist with exactly 82% more pressure than necessary for stability.

You register multiple data points simultaneously:

- His elevated body temperature: 39.1°C

- His heartbeat: 172 BPM

- His breathing: rapid, shallow, 24 respirations per minute

- His face: positioned 3.4 centimeters from your cheek, over your shoulder

So close. One small movement would bring skin against skin. 

Your temporal readings spike at the mere possibility.

Before you can process this new configuration, another force vector impacts you both—lateral trajectory, approximately 93 newtons. 

Not from Agent Min. 

External source.

Someone else.

Your coupled bodies are propelled sideways at high velocity. 

The world blurs again as you and Agent Min, still locked together, phase through what appears to be solid matter. 

Glass. Concrete. Steel. 

Your molecular structure should be encountering significant resistance, yet moves through these barriers like they're nothing more than projections.

Quantum tunneling? Spatial displacement? Molecular phasing? Your scientific vocabulary struggles to categorize the experience.

Impact comes suddenly—both of you hitting a solid surface at approximately 37% of terminal velocity. The force disperses through your skeletal structure, joints absorbing kinetic energy at efficiency rates that exceed normal human parameters.

You roll, momentum carrying you across hard flooring. Pain signals to your central nervous system—data indicating tissue stress but not structural failure.

When you finally stop, every bone in your body aches with the signature of controlled landing trauma. 

Not optimal, certainly not comfortable, but survivable.

Survivable by design.

You inhale sharply—2.1 liters of air in 0.8 seconds—and your eyes search frantically for Agent Min.

Where is he? Was he injured in the landing? Who pushed you? How did you phase through solid matter?

Your golden tendrils have vanished, leaving only lingering warmth on your fingertips where they emerged. 

Your watch beeps an unfamiliar pattern: Temporal-spatial variance detected. Recalibration required.

You blink rapidly, visual processing recalibrating as you scan the environment. 

Sleek walls. Polished concrete floor. 

Location unknown. Sector indeterminate.

Blood drips onto your hand. Your nose is bleeding again—heavier flow than before. Your fingertips come away stained crimson. Your skull throbs in pulses, each one making your vision blur at the edges.

"For fuck's sake, Jungkook, you almost killed them!" 

Taehyung's voice cuts through the fog in your head, sharp with that specific tension you've cataloged as his version of concern.

"I was literally on the clock before they became sidewalk art!" Jungkook shoots back, hands gesturing wildly. "Next time maybe give me more than a seven-second window!"

"Seven seconds is generous considering—"

"Generous?" Jungkook's voice cracks slightly. "Try mimicking two completely different abilities at once! My brain feels like it's been microwaved!"

The argument washes over you in waves as you press your palm to your forehead. 

The pain isn't unbearable, just... insistent. 

Demanding attention like everything else in this mess of a situation.

Your eyes find Agent Min, seated on the floor several meters away. His right hand grips his left shoulder, features tightening in a microexpression of pain he's clearly trying to suppress. 

The joint looks wrong—angled slightly off anatomical baseline.

"We don't have fucking time." His voice slices through the bickering, rough-edged and final. "They're onto us."

Jungkook whips around. 

“No shit? Why do you think we had to pull this stunt?" His hand sweeps through the air. "We couldn't even reach you with Taehyung's interfacing—you were completely out of range! Thank god Y/N's abilities are something else entirely."

Agent Min's eyes narrow, focusing on Jungkook with an intensity that carries clear warning. 

Not a word. 

Just that look. 

The one that stops conversations dead.

Jungkook registers it immediately, jaw snapping shut, body language shifting from confrontational to compliant in under a second.

Interesting.

They're hiding something about your abilities.

What exactly don't they want you to know?

Taehyung clears his throat—a sound designed to redirect attention. 

He points behind him toward what can only be described as a tear in reality itself. A circular formation pulsing with quantum uncertainty, its borders shifting between states of matter in ways that shouldn't be physically possible.

"What about base first, arguing later?" he suggests, voice calm in that way people get when they're trying too hard.

You wipe blood from your upper lip. Your eyes find Agent Min again, seeking his reaction. His gaze meets yours briefly before sliding away, gold still lingering at the edges of his irises.

Why won't he look at you properly?

What does he know that you don't?

"What is that?" The question falls from your lips before you can stop it, analytical systems demanding data despite everything else.

"Travel spot. Portal to headquarters," Taehyung answers, shoulders relaxing slightly at the subject change.

You shift your weight, preparing to stand, when your temporal readings spike without warning. The numbers flash red: 3.17%

That's not good.

"Stabilize her," Agent Min orders, voice clipped. "Temporal cascade imminent."

Jungkook moves fast, crossing the space between you in under a second. 

His fingers press against your temporal monitor, executing adjustments with practiced precision.

"Breathing," he instructs, tone sliding into something steadier. "Seven in, seven out. Match me."

The contact triggers something—a flash of memory that doesn't quite feel like yours:

Different hands.

Same words.

"Breathe with me, Noma. Focus."

Pain spikes behind your eyes as incompatible memory patterns try to align. The room tilts slightly.

"What happened up there?" Taehyung asks, attention on Agent Min.

"Temporal ambush," he answers, face tight. "Drones masked behind a reality field."

Taehyung's eyebrows rise. "That's still in R&D."

"Apparently not anymore." Agent Min pushes himself upright, grimacing as his shoulder shifts. "They're adapting faster this time."

This time.

As opposed to when?

"Your tendrils connected with his," Jungkook says quietly as he monitors your readings. "That's what stabilized you both mid-fall."

You blink, memory fragments of golden light intertwining in freefall. 

The way your body reacted without conscious direction. 

The impossibility of the physics involved.

Agent Min moves toward the portal with measured steps. "We need to move before CHRONOS tracks the spatial distortion."

"She deserves to know what she can do," Jungkook says, voice low but firm.

Agent Min stops, spine stiffening visibly. 

“When she's ready."

"And who decides that?" Jungkook challenges, though his hands remain gentle on your monitor. "You?"

The tension between them feels old somehow. Well-worn. Like terrain they've crossed many times.

"Portal stability dropping," Taehyung interrupts, hand cutting through the air. "Either we go now, or we're stuck here."

Agent Min's eyes flick between you and the portal, calculations running visible behind his eyes.

“We are leaving.” He simply mutters, final.

“Of course we are.” Jungkook replies with a hint of something almost like resignation.

Your temporal readings begin to stabilize: 1.47% and decreasing.

Jungkook's hands withdraw from your monitor. "Stable enough for transit."

Agent Min approaches, movements careful despite his obvious discomfort. His right hand extends toward you, gloved palm up.

"The first transit is... disorienting," he says, voice dropping to something softer. "Holding on helps with the spatial realignment."

You stare at his outstretched hand. The leather creases in familiar patterns. The angle of his fingers seems to match your palm perfectly.

‘We're designed to fit.’

His earlier words echo through your mind, connecting dots you didn't even know existed.

"Noma," he says quietly. "Trust me on this one."

The nickname bypasses all your analytical systems, triggering responses you can't explain or quantify.

Your hand moves before your brain fully catches up, fingers sliding into his with strange, impossible familiarity.

Your watch beeps once more: Temporal variance: 0.73%.

Stabilizing.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“Let’s go.”

goal: 275 notes

next | index

— taglist

@cannotalwaysbenight @taevanille @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @ktownshizzle @yoongiiuu93 @billy-jeans23 @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @hobis-sprite0218 @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @cristy-101 @mellyyyyyyx

© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[thepinkpanther83]

The Harmonic Equation (Pt.2 Harmonic Anomaly)

Story Prompt: “Turtle Song”

Donatello x Fem!Reader - Soulmate Song AU - Action/Romance

Masterlist

Find me on AO3.

Read this story on AO3.

Find the full series on AO3.

Previous Chapter: Chapter One: "Frequency Unknown" Next Chapter: Chapter Three: "A Song For Two"

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

Chapter Two: “Harmonic Anomaly”

It starts off subtle.

You're leaned over Donnie's workbench, sleeves pushed up, delicate fingers sorting micro-capacitors by size while he calibrates the feedback loop array. There’s the occasional hiss of solder. The low buzz of machinery. Mikey’s somewhere nearby, bouncing between workspaces with the kind of chaotic curiosity only he can pull off without breaking something… so far.

The data stream flickers beside you- an open holographic projection of last week’s cracked code, still untranslated in places. Donnie had triple-encrypted it for safety, just in case, but he still let you be the one to pick at the remains. Something about your neural pattern recognition made you faster at spotting the recurring glyphs buried in the corrupted syntax. You said it felt like music, almost. Like it wanted to be read in rhythm.

So while Donnie tunes the loop array, you're humming- completely unaware.

It just... happens. Like breathing. A soft, looping melody under your breath, sweet but strange- unconscious. The notes flutter between your lips like moths drawn to light.

Donnie hears it instantly.

His head lifts, tool stilling mid-tweak.

Those notes again.

The same ones from the other night, half-lost in static and memory. It glides through the air like it was always meant to be there, but there’s no echo in the room. No resonance bouncing off walls. Just the pure, low pulse of you.

And underneath it… something familiar. Something patterned.

His mind races. The file. The frequency markers embedded in the prototype schematic. You said they felt like a song- like a mechanical lullaby stuck between lines of code. And now you’re humming it, effortlessly, like it came from you first.

He tracks it like a sonar ping, eyes narrowing- not in suspicion, but in focus.

You’re still working, unaware, humming without thought as you tilt your head and study a blown-out chip.

He shifts, just enough to catch Mikey’s attention as he dances through the lab, one roller skate on for no apparent reason.

“Hey, Mikey,” Donnie calls, careful- too careful, like this question definitely isn’t important. “You recognize the song she’s humming?”

Mikey freezes mid-skate-drift, leans dramatically toward you with a hand cupped to his ear.

A pause.

He blinks.

“…She’s not humming anything, dude.”

Donnie’s spine straightens a fraction. “…You sure?”

Mikey lifts a brow. “Unless she’s humming in dolphin,” he says, smirking. “Which, respect, but I don’t think she is.”

Donnie doesn’t respond right away.

Mikey shrugs and rolls on, humming his own tune now- something undeniably loud, off-key, and probably from an anime intro. He’s already forgotten the exchange.

But Donnie hasn’t.

He swivels his gaze back to you, watching- watching you hum this impossible sound no one else can hear.

Except him.

Donnie’s gaze lingers on your profile for a moment too long after Mikey skates off.

You're still humming.

Still softly threading that inexplicable melody under your breath like it belongs here- like it’s always been part of the frequency of this room, and he’s only just now noticed.

But that’s impossible.

Isn’t it?

He turns sharply, retreating to the bank of diagnostic terminals behind him with the smooth precision of a man pretending not to be rattled.

He’s definitely rattled.

A few taps. A sweep of fingers. His gauntlet syncs with the lab’s mainframe, and a live feed of his auditory processing system flashes across the screen. Channels. Filters. Frequencies. Subharmonic overlays. Nothing visibly wrong.

But his sensors registered something.

He heard something.

No one else did.

He glances back over his shoulder. You’ve stopped humming now, but the sound still rings faintly in his memory- just enough to make his skin prickle.

He types faster.

Full diagnostic. Internal and external mic arrays.

Scan for anomalous signal interference.

Temporal distortion variables: included.

Verify firmware integrity.

Lines of data scroll past in silent defiance. The array’s clean. No corruption. No miscalibrations. Everything reads perfectly functional.

“…Obviously something’s wrong,” he mutters, squinting at the untouched error logs. “There’s no way she’s emitting a sound only I can hear.”

But the files say otherwise.

Donatello Hamato does not believe in magic.

But that hum… isn’t science either.

And that is what terrifies him.

The lab is quiet again.

No music. No chatter. Just the low whirr of machines and the tap-tap-tap of keys beneath Donatello’s fingers as he hunches over the waveform synthesizer.

A stylus in one hand, a digitizer pad under the other, he’s been at this for hours.

Chasing a ghost.

He hums the tune again- low, precise, nearly mechanical. Then again, this time altering the pitch by 0.6 semitones. He runs the output through three harmonic filters. The waveform looks right. It should be a match.

It isn't.

He plays it back.

Listens.

Frowns.

“No resonance,” he mutters, adjusting the gain. “Still too clinical. Missing the... depth? No- dimensionality.”

His tongue clicks softly. He pulls up another set of synth layers, dragging in bioacoustic modulation samples. Heartbeat rhythms. Breath patterns. Even snippets of emotional frequency markers from prior research into affective computing.

He combines them. Refines. Adjusts.

Still wrong.

Still sterile.

Still not her.

He leans back in his chair, jaw tight, arms folded as the screen flickers with the stillborn echo of something close, but nowhere near enough. The real version- your version, left warmth in his chest. A strange flush. That fleeting feeling like-

Like being seen.

This version? Nothing. Static and numbers.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales hard through it.

“I built a laser microphone that can read conversation off a potato chip bag across rooftops in a hurricane,” he mutters. “But I can’t replicate one simple tonal pattern?”

He leans forward again, entering a new log.

Test #43 - Artificial Recreation Attempt Failure. Emotional response absent. Acoustic signature falls flat. Depth and resonance not present in synthetic waveform. Pattern remains elusive. Suspect organic variability. Possibly quantum-linked biofeedback loop?? (Note: stop making theories that sound like sci-fi. Embarrassing.)

He stares at the blinking cursor.

Then mutters:

“…Maybe it’s not the tone that’s unreplicable.”

His fingers still against the keys.

Maybe it’s the source.

The next time you hum, he’s ready.

He’s been ready for hours.

You don’t know it, but he’s been running simulations. Adjusting parameters. Testing hypotheses. He’s recalibrated his auditory sensors three times, cross-referenced every known frequency range, and even- begrudgingly -consulted Splinter’s old scrolls on "spiritual harmonics," which he absolutely does not believe in, thank you very much.

And now, as you lean over the holographic display, tracing a circuit path with one finger, it happens again.

That hum.

Soft.

Low.

Impossible.

Donnie’s fingers freeze mid-keystroke. His breath catches. His pupils dilate- just slightly, as his systems lock onto the sound.

This time, he records it.

The waveform blooms across his screen in real-time, a spectral fingerprint unlike anything in his database.

Not mechanical.

Not ambient.

Not random.

It’s structured.

And- most damning of all, it matches the notes he’s been humming to himself for years.

The ones he thought were just... noise.

His jaw tightens.

A realization hits him like a plasma surge to the chest.

This isn’t interference.

This is-

His train of thought derails violently when you suddenly glance up, catching him staring.

You blink.

“...You okay?”

Donnie exhales sharply through his nostrils, forcing his expression into something resembling normal human interaction or, in his case, normal turtle interaction.

“Peachy,” he lies, adjusting his glasses with a practiced flick. “Just, ah- debugging.”

You tilt your head. “...With your eyes?”

A moment passes.

Then, with the grace of a man who has definitely not just had a minor existential crisis over a hum:

“Advanced debugging.”

You snort, shaking your head, and go back to work.

Donnie does not go back to work.

Instead, he stares at the waveform still pulsing on his screen.

And, very quietly, he whispers:

“...What the hell is happening?”

You wake with your heart pounding and the echo of a song in your throat.

Not a melody you necessarily know.

Not one you remember ever hearing before- not on the radio, not in a lullaby, not even in the fuzzy edges of half-remembered dreams.

And yet it’s familiar. Like something you once knew in the dark, when the world was softer, quieter, and you hadn’t learned to armor your heart so tightly.

You sit up slowly, the room still, the covers tangled around your waist. The only light comes from your phone screen, face-down on the nightstand, casting a sliver of glow like a distant moon.

The hum is gone.

But the feeling remains.

Warm. Anchored. Like gravity... but personal. Like the sound itself had wrapped around you. Had seen you. Had wanted you.

Your palms are clammy. You press one to your chest.

Heartbeat: elevated. Breath: shallow.

Desire: inexplicably sharp.

You close your eyes.

And there it is again- faint, like it’s coming from the bottom of the ocean. Like it’s being sung through water and blood and bone. A low vibration, wrapping around your spine, coiling at the base of your belly.

And somewhere in that deep vibration is... him.

Donatello.

Not the Donnie with the quick wit and the miles-a-minute tech rants, though- no, this feeling is older. Wiser. The core of him. The part that hides behind circuits and sarcasm and calculating glances when he thinks no one’s watching.

The part of him that feels everything too deeply.

Your body reacts before your mind can catch up.

You lie back, exhaling through your nose, the sheets suddenly too warm, your skin tingling like it’s caught the signal of something more primal than language. Your thoughts flicker like static through images of him- his hands, his mouth, the soothing timbre of his voice when it drops an octave and he’s too tired to keep it leveled. The way he’s always a little too careful with you. The way he looks at you when he thinks you don’t notice.

The hum surfaces again. Not from the world outside.

From you.

It slips past your lips before you even know you’re doing it- soft, tentative. The very same pitch you heard in your dream.

And this time... it answers.

Not in sound.

In sensation.

A heat that pools low in your stomach.

A sudden need to be near him.

Not just emotionally.

Not just logically.

Physically. Instinctively. Like your body knows something your brain’s still trying to unspool.

You sit up slowly, fingers brushing your collarbone like the feeling left fingerprints there.

“...What the hell is happening?”

3:47 AM.

The lab is dark save for the glow of monitors, their blue light casting long shadows across Donnie’s face as he stares at the screen.

The waveform is still there.

Your waveform.

The one that shouldn’t exist.

The one that matches the hum he’s been hearing in his head all his life.

His fingers hover over the keyboard, hesitating.

Then he types:

Hypothesis Update:

Subject’s vocal emissions exhibit anomalous harmonic resonance. Frequency matches internal auditory hallucinations previously dismissed as stress-induced. No known scientific precedent. Possible explanations:

1. Coincidental bioacoustic mimicry (unlikely).

2. Subconscious synchronization via pheromonal or biochemical signaling (plausible but untestable without invasive measures).

3. Extradimensional or metaphysical interference (laughable, but currently the only model that fits the data).

He pauses.

Then adds:

Alternative theory: This is the Turtle Mate Song.

He stares at the words.

They stare back.

A myth. A fairy tale. Something Splinter told them when they were young- that their kind had a song, a call, a vibration that only their true mate could hear. That it wasn’t just sound. It was recognition.

Donnie exhales sharply through his nose, fingers curling into fists.

Ridiculous.

He’s a man of science. Of logic. Of proof.

And yet-

He can’t explain this.

Can’t explain the way his pulse spikes when he hears it. Can’t explain the way his skin prickles, the way his cloaca tightens with something dangerously close to arousal when that sound slips past your lips.

Can’t explain why, even now, his body is reacting to the memory of it like it’s a physical touch.

His jaw clenches.

He should delete this.

He should.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he minimizes the file, locks it behind encryption even he would struggle to crack, and leans back in his chair, rubbing his temples.

Outside, the city hums.

Inside, his blood does the same.

And beneath it all-

That song.

Waiting.

Watching.

Wanting.

The world outside is hushed, the city sleeping in a patchwork of light and steam, and still- still… you move.

Like you’re sleepwalking with purpose.

You pull on the first clothes you find, not bothering to check if they match. Your fingers fumble with the lock on your apartment door, your body leaning forward like it’s being drawn- like there’s a wire sunk deep in your chest, and it’s pulling you toward something essential. Your legs carry you without complaint, without question.

By the time you're in the tunnels, breath fogging in the cold underground air, the feeling is so strong it’s a pressure in your ribs. Like your body is reacting to a storm only you can feel.

You don’t knock when you reach the entrance hatch. You don't announce yourself. You just descend.

And Donnie… Donnie hears you before he sees you.

Not through sensors or motion alerts- he’s got all that shut down tonight. He needed silence. Stillness. Needed to think.

But he feels you like a ripple through water.

His eyes lift from the monitor.

You step into the glow like a ghost conjured from his pulse.

There’s a moment where neither of you moves.

Then-

“Oh,” you say, breathless. Like you didn’t mean to speak. Like it slipped out of you the same way the hum had.

Donnie blinks slowly, his hands still resting on the edge of the desk, fingertips curled slightly like he’s trying to ground himself in the tactile realness of the table.

“What are you doing here so early?” he asks.

His voice is soft. Not sharp or startled or snide. Soft, like the edge of a blanket pulled gently over bare skin.

You open your mouth.

Close it again.

Then you shake your head and say, “I don’t know.”

He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t make a joke about weird hours or sleepwalking or how statistically unsafe it is to travel through the sewers in the middle of the night.

He just nods.

Because he knows.

You don’t have to speak it. Neither does he.

You’re here because the ache got too loud.

Because the air felt too empty without the other in it.

Because some invisible wire finally pulled too tight to ignore.

He stands.

And you don’t think- you just move. A few steps forward, your arms wrapping around his middle like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like your body had planned this long before your mind caught up.

And Donnie?

He doesn’t hesitate.

He holds you.

Not like a friend.

Not like a crush.

Not even like a lover.

Like a constant.

Like someone who’s just found the quiet to a storm he didn’t realize he was living inside.

Your face presses to his plastron. You can hear the echo of his breath. Can feel his arms tighten slightly when he exhales like he’s been holding it in for hours. Days. Lifetimes.

The lab is silent except for the hum of machinery and the slow, steady rhythm of your breathing against him.

Donnie’s fingers flex against your back, his fingers tracing idle patterns through the fabric of your shirt. He can feel your heartbeat against his chest- fast, alive, his and something in him settles for the first time in days.

The song is quiet now.

Not gone.

Just... content.

His chin rests atop your head, his breath warm in your hair. He doesn’t ask again why you’re here. Doesn’t question the way you fit against him like two halves of a circuit finally clicking into place. He just holds you, his arms squeezing in a gesture that’s equal parts possessive and protective.

Neither of you speaks.

You stay like that.

Still.

Anchored.

Tethered.

Next Chapter: Chapter Three: "A Song For Two"

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Masterlist

[inkwell-passion]

Together At The End Of Space

Dr. Iris Arkwright was an ordinary Alcubierre Space Specialist, officially having a Doctorate in Communication Theory, but that was only because research into Alcubierre Space was so new that it isn't considered a 'Major Field of Study'. Dr. Arkwright never really stuck out. She had bright brown hair, light blue eyes, and fair skin, the only thing that really shined beyond her normal exterior is the series of star-like freckles along her face and arms.

When Dr. Arkwright got the opportunity to work at the Asimov Remote Scanning Outpost, she jumped at the opportunity to further research that had enthralled her since she was a young lass, not particularly minding the isolation from her colleagues that the position would bring. The listing had made mention that the only company the Outpost Operator would have was a fledgling A.I. designed to interpret data from the Alcubierre Space probes, and package that data for other scientific minds to utilize.

That was months ago, Dr. Arkwright has been on the Edge of Space with only this A.I. and whatever reading material She brought with her, or requested in the monthly supply drop. It was a well paying job, and she got introduced to several interesting data recording instruments utilized in the study of Alcubierre Space.

"Hey, Orchestra?" Dr. Arkwright called out to the A.I. she named, with a curious look on her face.

"Yes Iris?" The A.I. had dismissed the formality of utilizing Prefixes and surnames long ago thanks to the doctor's casual attitude rubbing off on her.

"Have you ever wondered why I named you what I did?" Dr. Arkwright inquires with a smug grin playing at her lips.

"No I have not Iris, enlighten me." Orchestra humors her companion.

"Its because you have several….Instruments" Dr. Arkwright cackles at her own joke.

Orchestra's Avatar flickers with simulated laughter, articulated by several bits of interpreted data from the instruments that caused her name. A subtle, melodic laugh that contrasts Dr. Arkwright's ugly-yet-endearing cackles mixed with snorts.

Orchestra's Avatar is unique, having no reference point outside of her human companion, and the data she consolidates; Orchestra looks more like a being made out of the weaving of the fabric of Spacetime than anything else, her body ebbing and flowing like imperceivable waves, her voice having a silent melody to it, as if harmonizing with the universe itself, and resonating with the instruments she uses to see the world; their own hums and chimes orchestrating with her voice.

Dr. Arkwright would kick her feet up onto her table and crack open the soda that she bought a few weeks ago, taking a tentative sip before sticking out her tongue. "Bleh, its cranberry…" She whines.

A ping would chime into the open air of the station as Dr. Arkwright kicks her feet off the table and pivots to look at the console. "eeeee, the probe is back! Orchestra hit the lights!" The doctor would type away at her console, starting the collection and interpretation of data, before reclining back in her seat and waiting for the light show to start.

Dr. Arkwright and Orchestra started doing this a few months ago, whenever data would be collected Iris had Orchestra interpret it into visual and auditory data and then watch it with the lights off. The entire process was relaxing for the both of them and allowed them some much needed stimulus in the dark reaches of space.

The first strings of Data coil around themselves, weaving massive arches of light that expand into a starry sky, blurs of avian creatures and aircraft streak through the air. The sound of gentle wind chimes and birdsong filling the cockpit, before the scene collapses in on itself and shifts to a cityscape.

The cityscape is overgrown and abandoned, moss growing up the sides of skyscrapers and fountains that once had water flowing through them now host flowers and insects, nature reclaiming the space that had been taken from her, a planet learning to grow and repair itself.

The Scene shifts again to focus in on a single plant, as day becomes night then turns to day again, time and time again, the stars arching across the sky and becoming the arches of light that made the scene to begin with, coiling and dancing with each other. Two humanoid shapes appear out of this display, dancing with each other in unknown space, floating happily, and in the background Dr. Arkwright swears she hears a soft "My darling star…" before the data coalesces back into one final shape, a massive tree that shrinks in on itself until nothing is left, the lights turning back on.

Dr. Arkwright sits up and smiles, applauding Orchestra. "Oh my god that was amazing!" She cheers, a massive grin on her face.

Orchestra gives a small bow. "Simply doing my Job Iris."

"That was the best one yet!! But did you add your own touches on that one? I could have sworn I heard whispering" Dr. Arkwright tilts her head as she speaks.

"I didn't do anything of the sort, that was pure interpretation of data." Orchestra reassures her, the calming music that Dr. Arkwright had playing before returning to the speakers.

"Must have heard something…" Dr. Arkwright mutters to herself, before relaxing back into her chair.

A few weeks pass, Dr. Arkwright having ran out of the god-awful soda, among other necessities, but with good timing as her shipment was set to arrive today. Dr. Arkwright had her lab coat draped across the chair she was sat in, dressed in pajama shorts and a baggy tank top, and dozing off with a small trickle of drool sliding down her face.

There's a ping at her console that startles the Doctor awake. "I'm up! I'm up!" she defends herself to nobody, Orchestra smiling fondly from her pedestal.

"Your shipment will be here in T-Minus Ten. What new thing are you trying this month?" Orchestra tilts her head, intrigued by the Doctor's habits.

"Oh, it's actually this orange flavored tea. I wanted to compile my own notes on how it tasted so that you could simulate it, since I know you've always wanted to know how tea tastes!" Dr. Arkwright smiles brightly at her companion, before getting up and draping her lab coat over her shoulders, struggling to find the arm holes. "Hold on….I've got it…..damn it!"

It takes her a few minutes, but she gets the lab coat on, and walk towards the hanger bay, her last cup of coffee in her hand. When she gets there she smiles at the shipment driver, an average man with the nametag of 'Mark'.

"Hey Mark, any interesting news from your neck of the woods?" Dr. Arkwright prompts, helping with a few boxes here and there.

"Apparently the Pangea Initiative sent out their first multinational research ship, the Borealis." Mark comments, shrugging his shoulders.

Mark isn't a bad looking guy, completely average in Orchestra's and Dr. Arkwright's opinion, with a shock of black hair that never seems to comply with what Mark wants, and a stubble that when shaved leaves Mark with a babyface.

"Oh Interesting, say have you heard any odd going-ons in Alcubierre Space?" Dr. Arkwright would offer Mark a sip of her coffee, which he takes graciously.

"Not really, why do you ask?" Mark would hand her the digital clipboard she needs to sign off on

"Could have sworn I heard whispers in my last data package, speaking of which," Dr. Arkwright would jab a thumb to a container in the corner of the hanger bay. "There's our data shipment for the month."

"Huh, are you sure the loneliness isn't finally getting to you Iris?" Mark teases with a smirk.

"Orchestra is plenty company thank you very much!" Dr. Arkwright pouts, signing off on the dotted line, before handing the clipboard back to Mark.

"Alright, Alright, sorry I hurt your Digital Waifu's feelings" Mark smirks as he loads back up into Ol' Tessa and starts backing out, laughing as Dr. Arkwright fumes silently from his perspective.

"SHE IS A COWORKER AND A VALUED MIND AT THIS INSTITUTE YOU MINIMUM WAGE SLUT!" Dr. Arkwright bellows in faux righteousness, before returning to her normal posture; sipping her coffee and beginning to organize the shipment of goods and necessities for the month.

After a good few hours of manual labor, Dr. Arkwright returns to her chair, humming to herself as she starts brewing a cup of tea for herself, her notebook on standby ready to receive her mediocre impression of a food critic. Orchestra is sat on her pedestal watching her companion, her instruments whirring and chiming idly.

"Hey when are we slated for our next probe to fall out of Al-Space?" Dr. Arkwright inquires, steeping her tea for a few seconds longer before she tosses the teabag into the trash from across the room, pumping her fist in victory. "Booyah!"

"4 Days, 17 Hours." Orchestra would bring up the countdown that she has running in the background, showing it to the Doctor.

"Alright, can I request something?" Dr. Arkwright sips her tea, and lets it sit in her mouth for a few seconds before swallowing, and writing down a few notes.

"Always Dr. Iris." Orchestra tilts her head, as Dr. Arkwright puffs her chest up a bit at the mention of her title.

"Can I watch the actual code interpretation in real-time? Not the visual and auditory stuff, I mean the actual parsing of the data" Dr. Arkwright would put a spoon of sugar into the tea, stirring it with her pinkie before she sips the tea again, nodding to herself and taking a few more notes.

"Of course, I'll try my best." Orchestra responds, before blinking out of existence for a few seconds as Dr. Arkwright hears the sound of the Asteroid Defense System.

Dr. Arkwright smiles to herself as she starts plugging in the data that she recorded from her tea into Orchestra's Terminal, a small holographic cup of tea waiting for the A.I. for when it returns.

4 Days later, Dr. Arkwright and Orchestra would be comparing their tastes on the orange tea, when the console notified the two of them that their probe had returned.

"Alrighty Orchestra, time for us to do our actual jobs!" Dr. Arkwright would chime with a gentle smile.

The lights dim, as the light show starts once more, but this time there was a digital clipboard in Dr. Arkwright's arms that she routinely checked.

The data becomes grains of sand, slowly filling a desert with the sound of winds and solar flares being audible in the background. Small swirls of sand tornadoes rise and fall with a familiar ebb and flow, but in between the wind and ethereal sounds of the stars around them, Dr. Arkwright pinpoints a subtle whispering she can't quite make out; referring to her Digital Clipboard, she would find small fragments of data that weren't initially reported, and that hold no significance to the rest of the data collected, as if someone, or something was trying to communicate with her.

"Hey Orchestra, can you elaborate on the interpretation of this data fragment?" Dr. Arkwright points to the string with the Clipboard's pen.

"…I can't seem to parse that data, it enters the simulation unformatted…I'm sorry Doctor." Orchestra looks sheepishly to the floor.

"No no, it's alright. That's strange though…" Dr. Arkwright chews on the end of the pen. "Alright, continue processing the data, try to separate those fragments though, I'm gonna see if I can find any more information on this phenomenon." Orchestra nods, and returns to her parsing, isolating the data fragments and placing it within an addendum for now.

Only for a few seconds to pass, and the data fragments are back within the original file, much to the A.I.'s surprise.

"Iris, I can't isolate the data…it keeps finding its way back into the original file." Orchestra's melodic voice fills the open air of the station.

"That's….totally not terrifying." Dr. Arkwright responds as she starts tapping her foot.

A few days later, Dr. Arkwright finds herself perusing some conversation forums for those interested in Alcubierre Space, where there were a few posts here and there about "ghost data", but no one has any substantial theories on what causes it, but a thought pops into her head. "Hey Orchestra?"

"Yes Iris?"

"Do we ever input data into Al-Space?"

"I don't believe we do, we just send a probe out, recording data."

"What if we tried?"

"That would be unprecedented."

Dr. Arkwright would hum, scratching her chin, a grin growing on her face. "I'm going to order a modified probe from Mark."

"Shouldn't we try with my instruments and superior computational data first?" Orchestra suggests.

"That's a wonderful idea!" Dr. Arkwright giggles with glee, putting her goggles on as she prepares to send out a simple callback ping into open Al-Space.

Orchestra transmits the data, and they would sit in silence.

A minute passes.

Then two.

Suddenly, all the instruments and consoles start squawking and squealing, receiving what sounds like garbage data that pierces Dr. Arkwright's ears, physically hurting her as she slaps her hands over her ears. "ORCHESTRA SHUT IT OFF, SHUT IT OFF!" Dr. Arkwright orders.

Before Orchestra can do anything, all power shuts off except for Orchestra's Pedestal, which is now projecting what seems to be a non-Euclidean object, several overlapped whispers slip through Dr. Arkwright's ears straight into her mind, but none of it can understood.

Then, after a few seconds, everything returns to normal, the lights flicker back on, the consoles and instruments return to standard function, and Orchestra is sat in front of Dr. Arkwright, who, after a few seconds, runs a hand through her hair and grabs her notepad. "Time to make record of this….experience." She says softly, Orchestra providing the data samples that she was able to recover from the experience.

A few hours pass before Dr. Arkwright speaks up, saying, "What if that was a fluke? Y'know a prank." Her voice waivers, as if she's trying to convince herself more than Orchestra.

"That could be true, but it's unlikely." Orchestra was placing the order into the custom probe as they spoke.

"Well how would you explain that??"

"Due to a lack of understanding within this field, this unit can not properly describe the phenomenon experienced during the experiment."

"Oh my god that's such a bullshit answer" Dr. Arkwright grins and tosses a crumpled ball of paper at Orchestra that flies right through her.

"You asked how I would explain it, I am simply being true to the question." Orchestra's smug grin bleeds into her simulated voice.

"I'm going to bed, is Mark good to make an expedited trip out here?" Dr. Arkwright would recline her chair back, dimming the lights.

"That He is, he'll be here in a few days by his estimate, until then I request you refrain from making any calls into the unknown void of Space."

"Of course Orchestra, Good night." Dr. Arkwright closes her eyes and relaxes.

"Goodnight Iris."

After a week, Dr. Arkwright is making her way back to the Hanger bay once more, sipping the orange tea that Orchestra loved so much, finding Mark waiting for her already.

"I don't know why this was so urgent, you literally have all the time in the world, what does one probe mean to you?"

"Oh suck it up buttercup, I think Orchestra and I are on the verge of a discovery." Dr. Arkwright offers Mark a sip of tea, he passes this time, shaking his head and holding up a hand, before lifting his thermos.

"You said that every single time I dropped off supplies for the first year, what's different this time?"

"Rogue Data within our probes." Dr. Arkwright's voice betrays her excitement.

"That sounds like something you should be upset about, not sounding like an eager kid on Christmas."

"This is unprecedented, of course I'm eager!"

"You sciencey types weird me out, I'll never understand you."

"You're just mad cuz bad" Dr. Arkwright cackles, snorts sneaking their way in.

"What does that even mean in this context Iris?"

"I have no clue, but I have not been sleeping well and I think anything would be funny to me at this point."

"Dear god Kid, get some sleep."

"I will." Dr. Arkwright would nod to Mark, grabbing the probe from him and starting to head back to her station, waving to Mark behind her. "But first, SCIENCE!"

Dr. Arkwright would sit down and start fiddling with the probe, plugging it into her clipboard she would upload the initial query. 'Tell me a story.' If something was there, this was open ended enough that she should get a substantial response.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Orchestra's voice holds hints of worry.

"Nope, but I also know that I won't sleep well until I get to the end of this."

"If you're sure…"

Dr. Arkwright would finalize her query, before loading the probe into the deployment chute.

"We'll see our response in 12 hours, yeah?"

"That we will."

Dr. Arkwright sends the probe on its way, before walking off to her bed, and collapsing in it. "Wake me when you need me."

When Dr. Arkwright wakes up, the lights were already dimmed, and Orchestra was sat to the side. "The data came in about 5 minutes ago, get in your chair."

Dr. Arkwright nods and gets seated, watching as the motes of light coalesce into a humanoid shape, sat in a nondescript music shop, headphones on as they experience a cosmos of emotions within themselves, but externally, everything is monochrome, and blank. The scene would shift to that of riots within the streets, the young child wearing headphones to escape it all, slinking into a concert she got tickets for.

The music swells, being literally unworldly, flowing around the young girl, and swirling with itself, the scene shifts as she is now the one on stage, playing her guitar and screaming her soul out into the cosmos itself, a riot stopping in its tracks to listen to her play.

The concert is cut short as a gunshot rings out, the performer's blood and brain matter becoming a mist that then forms into a nebula.

The whispers that started all of this can be heard again, but much clearer, it's several voices, several stories.

Then it all fades into darkness.

Dr. Arkwright is sat there, mouth agape without any words forming.

"…I don't know what happens when we die," Dr. Arkwright finally speaks up, "But I think…I think the Universe doesn't forget that we were here…"

Orchestra nods solemnly.

[aventurineswife]

Elke gasped for air, forcing her eyes shut against the searing, pulsing vision in the sky. The entity’s presence pressed on her like the gravity of a collapsed star—heavy, inescapable. She clutched at the floor, feeling it ripple beneath her fingertips as if reality itself were paper-thin.

And then... the pressure shifted.

The being’s shape—if it could be called that—receded, folding into itself like a fractal collapsing across higher dimensions. Elke could breathe again, but a low, thrumming whisper lingered in her mind.

"You have seen. Now you are part of it."

Before Elke could process the words, her console flared to life. Data scrolled faster than her eyes could follow—symbols, equations, and sequences not part of any human language. Embedded within the noise, she glimpsed something that resembled a map.

Her hands trembled as she downloaded the data, unaware that across the galaxy, another mind had just intercepted her discovery.

Herta’s Lab – Herta Space Station

Herta leaned forward, staring intently at the streams of data flowing across her screen. The anomaly—The Laurent Echo, as she’d just named it—wasn’t just noise. It had structure.

She tapped her chin thoughtfully.

"Fascinating... A pattern embedded in a pulsar’s emissions? That’s not normal cosmic junk."

The AI assistant in her lab chimed in: "There are indications of extra-dimensional harmonics in the waveform, Lady Herta. The transmission appears to contain spatial coordinates... and instructions."

Herta’s eyes sparkled with excitement.

"Instructions, huh? Someone—or something—sent a message to a random Earth scientist through a pulsar?"

She flicked her finger, magnifying the data.

"Or maybe not so random... Well, well, Dr. Elke Laurent," Herta mused, tapping on Elke’s personnel file that had appeared in her system. "Astrophysicist, cutting-edge pulsar research, mild obsession with cosmic expansion theory... You’re more interesting than I thought."

She grinned mischievously.

"Looks like the Aeons aren’t the only ones meddling in cosmic-scale shenanigans."

Elke’s Observatory – Earth

Elke stared in disbelief at the encoded file she had extracted—symbols that shifted when she wasn’t looking directly at them. Her instincts screamed at her to erase the data, to sever any link with the entity she had witnessed.

But the whisper was still there.

"Come find us."

Elke hesitated... and then her console pinged with an incoming transmission.

A strange, chibi-like figure with lavender hair appeared on the screen.

"Yo, Dr. Laurent! This is Herta—yes, the Herta, genius of the Herta Space Station."

Elke blinked, stunned.

"Listen, I couldn’t help but notice you stumbled into a little... cosmic anomaly. Mind if I join the fun?"

Behind Herta, the vast starfields of the space station shimmered. The universe had just grown much larger for Elke—and far more dangerous.

And somewhere, in the darkness between galaxies, the Watcher Beyond the Stars waited.

There's this gorgeous, creeping escalation in the narrative—Elke touching something so far beyond comprehension that the universe shifts around her, and then Herta swoops in with her signature "this is weird, therefore I must poke it" attitude. It's chef’s kiss.

Elke being caught between fear and fascination is so human, so real. That moment where she wants to delete the data but can’t quite bring herself to? Classic scientist’s curse—curiosity wins over survival instinct. And that whisper—"Come find us." Chills.

And Herta??? You nailed her. Her flippant genius energy, the way she just casually digs into someone's life while planning a new research project involving a possibly eldritch signal, and that final line: "Mind if I join the fun?" I can hear her voice in my head and it’s dangerous.

Also:

the Watcher Beyond the Stars waited.

This line??? Absolutely haunting in the best way. Like the cosmos blinked and something very old and very patient noticed.

[bookofcodes]

Whizbang Pop! Reset

Vash the Stampede stood on the precipice of the digital singularity, staring into the chaotic code of a broken universe. The world had diverged from its natural flow, twisted by the cumulative weight of paradoxes, glitched probabilities, and quantum uncertainties. Reality itself was fraying at the edges—stars flickered like dying pixels, gravity stuttered, and entire histories rewrote themselves in a feedback loop of cosmic desynchronization.

Vash smirked, spinning a modified data revolver on his finger. "Well now, that’s a real mess, huh?" he mused. The hacker underground called him The Humanoid Typhoon, a digital outlaw who danced through firewalls and mainframes like a ghost in the machine. But tonight, he wasn't just cracking some corp’s security grid—he was rebooting existence itself.

The Problem of Uncertainty

It had started with the Entropic Singularity Event—a cascading chain reaction of quantum errors rippling across the multiversal fabric. Somewhere, somehow, probability had broken. A Schrodinger’s Nightmare, where every possibility overlapped without resolution. People were both alive and dead. Decisions made and unmade. A coin tossed into eternity, never landing.

Vash’s mentor, the rogue quantum scientist Dr. Rem, had theorized that reality was an elegant script, running on fundamental rules of probability. If those rules were corrupted, the only way to fix them was an Execution. Not in the sense of violence, but in the sense of code—a Whizbang Pop! Execution.

The Whizbang Pop!

He stood atop the Core Terminal—a structure that wasn’t quite real but existed at the intersection of all possible realities. It was the Universe’s Central Processing Unit, the sum total of existence’s runtime environment.

He reached into his coat and pulled out a single bullet—no ordinary round, but a quantum key encrypted with esoteric principles of probabilistic harmonization. He loaded it into his revolver—his Peacemaker, now repurposed as the Reality Compiler.

"This one’s for you, Rem," he whispered, cocking the hammer.

The shot had to be perfect. The Whizbang Pop! Execution required three things:

Chaos Synchronization – The shot had to align with a precise moment when quantum probability was at maximum instability.

Singularity Collapse – The bullet would introduce a paradoxical certainty into uncertainty itself.

Reality Recompile – The final effect would force a system-wide refresh, setting the universe back to its correct state.

Vash took a deep breath. The Core Terminal shimmered before him, a vast fractal sphere of shifting probabilities. He aimed at the very center, where all possible versions of himself converged.

"Love and peace," he whispered with a grin.

He pulled the trigger.

Execution: Accepted

The gunshot rang across all timelines. A spark, a ripple, an implosion—followed by a great and thunderous Whizbang Pop!

And then—

Everything was quiet.

The stars realigned. Time remembered its course. The coin finally landed.

Vash exhaled, spinning the empty revolver once before holstering it. His mission was complete. The universe was back on track. And somewhere, in the echoes of probability, he swore he heard Rem’s voice.

"Good job, Vash."

He grinned.

"Guess I’ll see ya next time."

And with that, the Humanoid Typhoon walked off into the recalibrated dawn.

[inspofromancientworld]

Foods of the Ancient World: Tea

By AxelBoldt at en.wikipedia - Transferred from en.wikipedia, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=60236

Tea, specifically that made from pouring boiling water over the leaves of Camellia sinensis, which is native to East Asia, has a very long history. It is the second most commonly consumed drink in the world. It contains caffeine, which is a psychoactive substance that usually produces a stimulating effect on humans. While steeping other things in boiling water is frequently called tea, those are tisanes or infusions.

By Shannon - Background and river course data from http://www2.demis.nl/mapserver/mapper.asp, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=9633969

C. sinensis is an evergreen bush that probably originated near the source of the Irrawaddy River in Myanmar and spread into southeast China, Assam, and Indo-China, to an range of about 460,800 sq km from about latitude 95°-120°E and 11°-29°N. There are several varieties of tea that diverged based on the climate and may have hybridized with local plants.

By Shinno_(Shennong) inscribed artist not identified 19th century Japanese Wittig collection painting: artist not (yet) identified, photograph by uploaderderivative work: nagualdesign

Before it was made into a drink, tea leaves were eaten, perhaps millennia before it became a beverage. It's thought that tea drinking began in Yunnan for medicinal purposes. in Sichuan, 'people began to boil tea leaves for consumption into a concentrated liquid…using tea as a bitter yet stimulating drink'. Legends put the origin of tea drinking in mythical Shennong, around central China, in 2737 BCE, though evidence points that being brought from Yunnan and Sichuan. The oldest evidence of tea drinking was found in the mausoleum of Emperor Jing of Han, who died in 141 BCE. The earliest written evidence of tea dates to about 59 BCE in 'The Contract for a Youth' by Wang Bao which state that a youth how to brew and procure tea. Hua Tuo, who lived from about 140-208 CE, wrote that 'to drink bitter t'u constantly makes one think better'.

By Sanjay Acharya - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4679972

It wasn't until the mid-8th century CE, under the Tang dynasty, that tea drinking spread outside of southern China into the rest of China, Korea, and Japan. It is also under the Tang dynasty that various processing techniques were developed, including stirring leaves in a hot, dry pan to control oxidization.

By Liu Songnian - https://www.shuge.org/meet/topic/119950/, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=141419610

Tea plays a very important part in social rituals in Confucian thought, which has its origins going back to the teachings of Kongzi, who lived from 551-479 BCE. Its part of the social ritual, among the family, for one's self-cultivation, and promoting humility. Among Chán Buddhists, which has its origins about 500 CE, where tea is used by monks to improve their concentration and wakefulness during meditation. Daoists, which have their origin going back to the Warring States period, from 450-300 BCE, value tea for promoting health, believing it to help balance and harmonize the qi as well as helping one to attain enlightenment.

[avinashkumar1202]

Mastering Lean Data: A Chronicle of Success Amidst Challenges

Success Stories in Overcoming Challenges:

Case Study 1: Streamlining Processes at XYZ Corporation

XYZ Corporation, a multinational with entrenched data processes, successfully implemented Lean Data Consulting by conducting a detailed process analysis. They invested in modern data integration tools, breaking down silos and optimizing workflows. Change management programs ensured a smooth transition, leading to a 20% increase in overall data efficiency.

Case Study 2: Cultivating a Culture of Continuous Improvement at ABC Tech

ABC Tech faced significant resistance from employees accustomed to traditional data practices. Through a combination of training, communication, and incentivizing innovation, ABC Tech transformed its culture. This cultural shift laid the foundation for successful Lean Data Consulting, resulting in a 15% reduction in data-related costs.

Embracing a Lean Future

Lean Data Consulting holds immense potential for organizations seeking to navigate the complex landscape of data management with agility and efficiency. By acknowledging and proactively addressing challenges, businesses can pave the way for a leaner, more responsive data infrastructure that fuels informed decision-making and sustainable growth. As industries continue to evolve, those embracing Lean Data Consulting are well-positioned to thrive in the era of data excellence.

[sngl-led-auto-lights]

Why are the headlights on two wheeler always on (AHO) nowadays?

The widespread adoption of Automatic Headlight On (AHO) systems in two-wheelers (motorcycles, scooters, etc.) is primarily driven by safety regulations and visibility improvements. Here's a detailed breakdown of the reasons and mechanisms:

1. Regulatory Mandates for Road Safety

Global Legislation: Countries like India and EU member states have mandated AHO for all new two-wheelers since 2017 and 2011, respectively. This follows studies showing that motorcycles with headlights on during daytime reduce collision risks by 10–20%. • Example: In India, AHO became compulsory after research demonstrated its potential to save 50 lives weekly in a country with high two-wheeler fatalities.

Standardization: The EU’s 2025 auto-on light requirement for all vehicles, including two-wheelers, aims to eliminate human error (e.g., forgetting to turn lights on).

2. Enhanced Visibility and Accident Prevention

Daytime Visibility: Two-wheelers are inherently less visible than cars. AHO ensures they remain conspicuous in traffic, especially during dawn, dusk, or overcast conditions. • Data: AHO-equipped motorcycles are 40% less likely to be involved in side-impact collisions.

Reduced "Looked-But-Failed-to-See" Accidents: Bright headlights help drivers detect motorcycles earlier, addressing a common cause of crashes where car drivers overlook two-wheelers.

3. Technical Implementation and Design

Automatic Activation: Modern AHO systems use ignition-linked circuits to activate headlights as soon as the engine starts, bypassing manual switches. • Example: Systems like those in Mazda vehicles (via light sensors) have inspired similar designs in two-wheelers.

Energy Efficiency: LED bulbs, now standard in AHO systems, consume minimal power (e.g., 5–10W), ensuring no significant drain on batteries.

4. Addressing Rider Complacency

Eliminating Human Error: Riders often forget to turn lights on/off. AHO automates this process, ensuring compliance even if the rider is inexperienced or distracted. • Backup Systems: Some models integrate fail-safes (e.g., auto-off timers) to prevent battery drain if lights are accidentally left on.

5. Global Trends in Vehicle Safety

Harmonization with Car Standards: As cars adopt auto-dimming headlights and adaptive beams, two-wheelers follow suit to align with broader safety frameworks.

Insurance Incentives: Insurers in some regions offer discounts for AHO-equipped vehicles due to their proven accident reduction.

Challenges and Criticisms

Battery Drain Concerns: While rare, faulty wiring or aging batteries in older models may struggle with constant light operation.

Glare Complaints: Poorly aimed AHO headlights can dazzle other road users, prompting calls for stricter beam-angle regulations.

Future Developments

Smart AHO Systems: Upcoming designs integrate light sensors and GPS to adjust brightness based on ambient conditions (e.g., dimming in well-lit urban areas).

Linked Safety Features: AHO is increasingly paired with emergency brake lights and turn-signal synchronization for holistic visibility.

In summary, AHO on two-wheelers is a legally enforced safety innovation rooted in crash statistics and visibility science. While minor issues persist, its role in reducing fatalities makes it a cornerstone of modern road safety.

[pokeroid-central]

So how does the pokeroid AI work one may ask, allow me to tell you what is there to know about it!

About Pokeroid AI

The pokeroid ai module is the other important part of Pokeroid anatomy, its basically the brain of these robotic pokemon! how they work is alot more complex for most so ill shorten up for all of you! This AI is consisted of three smaller parts. the logic board, the emotion chip, and the power chip! they all harmonize to make the pokeroid AI function as a whole. A Logic board processes the all behavioral and emotional data alongside some other minor data collection, as well as be the main connector to both chips. its the main component that is needed to make both chips functions, as well as allow the adaptive thinking of a pokeroid to manifest

next the Emotion chip. its the main purpose is to provide emotional data to the logic systems, allowing the pokeroid to feel emotion at their own will, as well as making them let them make their own choices. without it the logic board cannot function with pure logic nor the AI will be optimal in its functioning.

and lastly the power chip! its serves to regulate the Q.drive, without one the power regulation will be unoptimized and become unstable, causing the pokeroid to fluctuate in power as well running low in energy.

[frank-olivier]

Regulating for Harmony: AI, Privacy, and the Quest for Equilibrium in the Digital Era

In the intricate landscape of the digital era, the interplay between Artificial Intelligence (AI) innovation and privacy concerns presents a profound challenge, necessitating a nuanced regulatory approach to maintain equilibrium. Julie Brill, Microsoft’s Chief Privacy Officer, offers invaluable expertise, garnered from her distinguished career spanning regulatory bodies and the tech industry, to inform this delicate balancing act.

The convergence of regulatory frameworks for AI and privacy, as evidenced by the European Union’s General Data Protection Regulation (GDPR) and the proposed AI Act, sets a significant precedent. This harmonization, potentially to be emulated by the United States, with California at the vanguard, underscores the growing acknowledgment that AI’s development and deployment must be inextricably linked with robust privacy safeguards. To achieve this synergy, policymakers, innovators, and privacy advocates must collaborate on crafting a regulatory framework that reconciles innovation with protection, ensuring the digital ecosystem’s alignment with societal values.

Effective regulation is distinguished not solely by its legislative provisions, but critically by the efficacy of its enforcement mechanisms. The GDPR and California’s data breach notification law exemplify this dual imperative, demonstrating how well-crafted regulations can elevate global standards and cultivate a culture of accountability among organizations. This emphasis on both regulation and enforcement highlights the complexity of striking a harmonious balance between the imperative to innovate and the necessity to protect.

In navigating this complex digital terrain, Brill’s career trajectory offers instructive guidance. By embracing interdisciplinary approaches, fostering dialogue between regulatory, technical, and privacy disciplines, and engaging in open communication, professionals can navigate the intertwined realms of AI and privacy with greater agility. In an era where these domains are increasingly interdependent, such adaptability and collaborative spirit will be essential for maintaining equilibrium.

The pursuit of regulatory harmony in the digital age is contingent upon addressing several pivotal challenges, including the cultivation of international cooperation to establish adaptable yet consistent standards, the innovation of Privacy-Enhancing Technologies (PETs) to guarantee anonymization, and the enhancement of public and regulatory literacy regarding the intricate relationships between AI, privacy, and effective regulation. By addressing these challenges through a concerted effort, we can foster a digital ecosystem where technological innovation, privacy, and regulation coexist in a state of dynamic equilibrium.

Brill’s insights underscore that regulating for harmony in the digital era is a continuous process, demanding ongoing collaboration, adaptation, and a deepening understanding of the interplay between AI, privacy, and regulation. By embracing this challenge, we can ensure the digital landscape evolves in a manner that enriches lives while respecting the privacy and dignity of all, striking a lasting harmony between innovation and protection.

Julie Brill with Prof. Aileen Nielsen: Artificial Intelligence & The Future of Privacy (The Berkman Klein Center for Internet & Society, December 2024)

Monday, December 9, 2024

[sunburstsoundlab]

The Role of AI in Music Composition

Artificial Intelligence (AI) is revolutionizing numerous industries, and the music industry is no exception. At Sunburst SoundLab, we use different AI based tools to create music that unites creativity and innovation. But how exactly does AI compose music? Let's dive into the fascinating world of AI-driven music composition and explore the techniques used to craft melodies, rhythms, and harmonies.

How AI Algorithms Compose Music

AI music composition relies on advanced algorithms that mimic human creativity and musical knowledge. These algorithms are trained on vast datasets of existing music, learning patterns, structures and styles. By analyzing this data, AI can generate new compositions that reflect the characteristics of the input music while introducing unique elements.

Machine Learning Machine learning algorithms, particularly neural networks, are crucial in AI music composition. These networks are trained on extensive datasets of existing music, enabling them to learn complex patterns and relationships between different musical elements. Using techniques like supervised learning and reinforcement learning, AI systems can create original compositions that align with specific genres and styles.

Generative Adversarial Networks (GANs) GANs consist of two neural networks – a generator and a discriminator. The generator creates new music pieces, while the discriminator evaluates them. Through this iterative process, the generator learns to produce music that is increasingly indistinguishable from human-composed pieces. GANs are especially effective in generating high-quality and innovative music.

Markov Chains Markov chains are statistical models used to predict the next note or chord in a sequence based on the probabilities of previous notes or chords. By analyzing these transition probabilities, AI can generate coherent musical structures. Markov chains are often combined with other techniques to enhance the musicality of AI-generated compositions.

Recurrent Neural Networks (RNNs) RNNs, and their advanced variant Long Short-Term Memory (LSTM) networks, are designed to handle sequential data, making them ideal for music composition. These networks capture long-term dependencies in musical sequences, allowing them to generate melodies and rhythms that evolve naturally over time. RNNs are particularly adept at creating music that flows seamlessly from one section to another.

Techniques Used to Create Melodies, Rhythms, and Harmonies

Melodies AI can analyze pitch, duration and dynamics to create melodies that are both catchy and emotionally expressive. These melodies can be tailored to specific moods or styles, ensuring that each composition resonates with listeners. Rhythms AI algorithms generate complex rhythmic patterns by learning from existing music. Whether it’s a driving beat for a dance track or a subtle rhythm for a ballad, AI can create rhythms that enhance the overall musical experience. Harmonies Harmony generation involves creating chord progressions and harmonizing melodies in a musically pleasing way. AI analyzes the harmonic structure of a given dataset and generates harmonies that complement the melody, adding depth and richness to the composition. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The role of AI in music composition is a testament to the incredible potential of technology to enhance human creativity. As AI continues to evolve, the possibilities for creating innovative and emotive music are endless.

Explore our latest AI-generated tracks and experience the future of music. 🎶✨

[accountsend]

Unlocking Success Through B2B Sales Lead Acquisition: Expert Insights

In the dynamic landscape of modern business, where competition reigns and opportunities abound, the strategic acquisition of B2B sales leads emerges as a catalyst for achieving sustainable growth. However, this journey is not a linear path; it's a complex tapestry that demands strategic decisions and informed choices. In this comprehensive guide, we dive deep into the nuances, offering a wealth of industry insights and expert guidance to illuminate your way.

DOWNLOAD THE INFOGRAPHIC HERE

Define Your Ideal Customer Profile

In the realm of B2B sales, knowing your audience is the bedrock of success. Crafting a finely tuned ideal customer profile serves as your compass, directing your lead acquisition efforts with precision. The process involves delving beyond surface-level demographics to capture the essence of your target audience—understanding their behaviors, preferences, and pain points. Armed with this detailed understanding, you not only streamline your lead acquisition but also craft compelling marketing messages that resonate deeply, fostering connections that are meaningful and enduring.

Research Reputable Lead Providers

Navigating the labyrinth of lead providers is a critical task that demands careful consideration. As you embark on this journey, arm yourself with the knowledge that not all providers are created equal. Seek out those with a track record of excellence, a history of delivering high-quality B2B database leads. Scrutinize customer reviews, testimonials, and industry accolades to gain insight into their performance. Additionally, leverage the power of your professional network, seeking referrals from trusted peers who have already navigated this terrain. Choosing a partner in lead acquisition is a decision of paramount importance—one that should be informed, calculated, and grounded in the wisdom of those who've come before.

Determine Lead Quality and Validity

The cornerstone of successful lead acquisition is the authenticity and quality of the leads themselves. In the pursuit of excellence, understanding how these leads are sourced and validated is crucial. Engage in candid conversations with potential lead providers, gaining insight into their B2B lead generation methods. Probe into the processes of data validation, such as email verification and phone number validation, to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the leads. The investment in high-quality leads isn't just a monetary one—it's an investment in the future, a commitment to forging relationships that endure beyond the initial transaction.

Consider Niche or Industry-Specific Leads

As the modern business landscape continues to evolve, personalization has emerged as a driving force behind successful marketing efforts. In the realm of B2B sales leads, niche or industry-specific leads are the embodiment of this principle. Tailored to cater to specific industries, these leads carry a heightened level of relevance and resonance. They represent a laser-focused approach that aligns your offerings with the precise needs and challenges of a particular market segment. The journey toward success is marked by embracing this approach, understanding that relevance is the currency that propels your interactions from transactional to transformative.

Evaluate Lead Scoring and Segmentation

Precision is the watchword in the realm of B2B sales, and it's a precision that can be achieved through lead scoring and segmentation. Lead scoring, a strategic mechanism, empowers you to allocate resources where they matter most—on leads with the highest likelihood of conversion. The process is a data-driven symphony, harmonizing your efforts with the rhythm of your audience's needs. Segmentation takes this precision a step further, allowing you to categorize leads based on specific criteria. This segmentation facilitates tailored marketing strategies that resonate deeply, creating connections that go beyond the surface level, igniting genuine engagement.

Ensure Compliance with Data Privacy Regulations

In an era where data privacy is a fundamental concern, ensuring compliance with regulations such as GDPR or CCPA isn't merely a legal obligation—it's an ethical commitment. As you embark on the journey of lead acquisition, a critical step is to partner with lead providers who uphold the same commitment to data protection. Scrutinize their practices, seeking evidence of robust data protection measures that align with regulatory standards. The trust you cultivate through these practices isn't just legal—it's a foundation for fostering enduring relationships with your audience.

Test and Measure Performance

The journey of B2B sales lead acquisition is not a destination; it's a continuous evolution. The culmination of this journey lies in the realm of performance measurement—a dynamic process that demands vigilance and adaptability. Metrics such as conversion rates, lead quality, and ROI become your guiding stars, offering insights into the efficacy of your strategies. It's a dance of constant refinement, an ongoing quest for optimization. This phase ensures that your efforts aren't stagnant but are driven by the currents of data-driven insights.

In summation, the mastery of B2B sales lead acquisition is a journey marked by strategic decisions, data-driven insights, and a commitment to excellence. As you navigate this landscape, let these insights serve as your compass. By defining your ideal customer profile, selecting reputable lead providers, ensuring lead quality, embracing niche leads, and adhering to data privacy regulations, you craft a lead acquisition strategy that resonates with success. The chapters of lead scoring and segmentation, coupled with ongoing performance evaluation, complete the narrative, forging the path to sustained triumph. Embrace these insights, let them guide your decisions, and witness the transformation of B2B sales lead acquisition from a challenge into an opportunity for enduring growth.