#the liquid is web dissolver

[onpluton]

interns of SI conspiracies

- the banning of scents. peppermint, citrus, lavender. as well as strawberries, oddly enough.

conclusion? SI is secretly trying to experiment on spiders to make more spidermen and they don’t want to repel them from the building

- the mystery chemical. in every lab, every room, there’s a bottle of a clear substance that is kept out of reach from everyone. it appeared one night, fairly recently.

conclusion? honestly everyone has different ideas, but generally accepted one is its an emergency molotov. why? dunno.

- the banning of dog whistles or any high pitch or excessive noise (unless it’s in the Name Of Science.) no one minds this. but. why.

conclusion: Happy is trying to train guard dogs on that can tell if you’re wearing your badge or not.

to be continued. probably.

[rebloggingrexan]

#the plants at my old elementary hit different bruh /lh

INGESTED not just chewed on to clarify lol. based on real responses from my groupchat

[indieyuugure]

so two questions: how did Mikey break Donnie's glasses using a flashlight? and what exactly did they find in that sticky web?

Lol probably the way glasses are typically broken with flashlights 🤣

The sticky web contains essentially dissolved animal in it.

Web spiders typically eat their pray by wrapping them up in a silk cocoon (typically after they either dead or paralyzed by the spider’s venom) and then spitting enzyme-filled liquid into the cocoon where the bug slowly dissolves into a goo.

This is more or less what happens in our stomachs, but because not all spiders have the type of mouths that can chop on a bug, they dissolve it and eat the goop instead.

Of course, these spiders aren’t really small enough for bugs to make a decent meal anymore, so they’ve started preying on larger animals like rats, mice, birds, and the unfortunate stray cat or other dog that wonders by. I imagine this would work out okay since dog’s stomachs are tuned to consume primarily flesh.

Doesn’t make it not disgusting though.

Good questions! :]

[wyvernest]

feast on me

pairing: dom!miguel o'hara x f!reader

warnings: smut, foodplay, grinding, marking, possessive miguel, objectification,

summary: you and miguel try something new, and he gets lost in the raw lust of enjoying every inch of your body

You are sprawled out on his king size bed, waiting. Your heart is drumming in your chest, eyes never leaving his.

"I've been dreaming about this." He rasps, looking down at your form, gaze piercing and imposing. Your attention flows down his perfectly sculpted abdomen, down to the boxers that do very little concealing to his erection.

Leaning down, hovering over you, he makes you feel small, submitted. You let a near animalistic feeling rush through your veins, that he owns you entirely, that your only purpose is to obey him and do his bidding. And the best part about it, it makes your panties soak and mind fuzzy with lust, the way he has you on your knees with just one look. 

Gripping both your wrists with one hand, he releases a strong web string, restraining them to the bed frame. Climbing on the bed, his weight and height alone reminding you of the strength and stamina you're about to try to endure, he traps your thighs in between his, the pressure between your legs increasing. 

His nostrils flare momentarily, pupils dilated. Your breathing is already laboured in anticipation. He bends down, straying from the plan, just to sense how aroused you are. Your scent floods his lucidity, his cock visibly twitching under the flimsy fabric.

"Miguel.. get on with it already. Stop teasing."

"Let me enjoy it, mi vida." His tone is dripping with need and desperation, held back only by his desire to be the one in charge. "You smell so good when you're so ready for me."

You feel burning heat rise to your face. "Ah, Miguel," the rest of the plea dissolves into a moaned sigh.

"Estás bien rica, mami", he licks and bites at the dip of your waist, puffing hot breaths over the soft skin. "Make me hard with just one look."

You begin squirming, wanting to feel more. Wanting him to stick to the idea he had.

With a groan, he reaches for the bedside table, taking the syrup. Your eyes widen, as if you haven't discussed it already. He removes the cap with evident impatience before he starts pouring it over your chest and waist in calculated motions. You flinch as the liquid drips down your naked body, avoiding his lustful gaze. 

When he deems it sufficient, he gets rid of the bottle and stares down at you in awe, a starved man with a five course meal right in front of him. 

His eyelids hang low over his wide blown pupils, showcasing not a single thought beyond wanting to get his mouth on you and dick between your soaked folds. With his arms now bracketing your torso, he gets to work.

You feel like a piece of meat, the prey he's devouring so hungrily, nothing to stop or bother him. You moan his name as his warm breath falls heavily over your flushed skin, indecisive about the place he should start.

And he goes for your neck.

The scent of him, cologne and his distinctive musk invade you like pheromones, drowning out the sweet essence of the syrup. He groans against the crook of your neck, and you give a futile attempt to free your legs from his hold and rub your cunt on his hard cock. He licks the liquid clean from your skin, paying close attention to the sensitive spots he has learned so well. You instinctively tilt your head to the side, your body silently begging him not to stop without your mind even present. One of his hands travels down your side, kneading the soft flesh of your breast, careful not to smudge the cream. 

"Let me.." You whine, pushing into him, feeling the considerable weight of his fat cock laying on your lower belly as he leans down further over you. He can't help but chase the friction, either.

He raises to your face in response, swallowing your empty begging. You taste the aroma of the syrup on your tongue, eager  to prolong the kiss. But before you can deepen the connection, he departs, leaving you even more riled up and utterly frustrated. 

"You're so pretty when you're needy." He teases right into your ear, before resuming the licks and bites down your neck. He has to actively stop himself from sinking his teeth in your skin, the feeling of your smooth and soft skin, the heat of your need, are clouding his judgement.

He reaches your collarbones, his hot tongue lapping up the liquid, always followed by open-mouthed pecks and small bites. You arch your back into his touch, needing his mouth just a couple inches lower. He continues to lick your skin clean, slowly and mindlessly grinding his erection into you.

You feel used, strictly for his pleasure. You're nothing but a fuck toy, unable to voice your own frustrations, forced to take whatever he'll give you. 

You try to move your hips against him, but his thighs tense impossibly tighter around you, and you think you're going to die right then and there.

"Mira qué tetas tan bonitas", He rasps before taking one nipple in his mouth, sucking lightly. You whimper and push your chest closer to his face. 

He extends his tongue to press it flat over the tender flesh of your breast, indulging in the feeling of your skin, heated up underneath his touch. He kisses hard over the expanse of your chest, almost hurriedly. 

Your brain is fried with the wet sounds reverberating in your ears, combined with the unabashed groans of the man on top of you.

Your chest is covered in his spit; marked up in various spots by reddening patches, the traces of his need to make you his. You smell like him, and you really are, utterly and completely, his.

He licks up a long stipe of syrup through the valley between your breasts and looks up to you, before taking both of them in his hands, groping and fondling, playing with the soft flesh as he continues his kisses down your navel, to the line of your waist. 

Your eyes roll back as you let out a deep breath you didn't realise you were holding on to, feeling the girth of his rock hard cock rub in on your lower belly. He's unconsciously rocking his hips back and forth, a barely there movement, slow enough not to drive him towards release but harsh enough to make you squirm harder underneath him.

"Así estás muy guapa" he whispers in between rushed licks and kisses across your chest, when he parts his mouth from your soft skin, before diving right back in as if you'll disappear. Exhales laboured, words breathy and deep, he confesses;

"Me pones tan cachondo.", his nostrils flare as he takes your syrup coated breast in his mouth, one hand gripping your waist, the other drifting down. "I wanna be inside you." 

"Please - I've been - ah", he returns to your neck unexpectedly, after having finally licked you clean. "I've been trying to tell you -"

He ends the protest with a hungry kiss, messy and sloppy. His tongue is in your mouth quickly enough, taking you by surprise while his hand works his boxers down his thighs. By now, his cock is twitching in need, precum running down the shaft. 

He shuffles away from you in order to give you enough space to curl your sore legs around his waist, before you feel a broad hand splayed out on your back.

You can barely register his intentions as he flips you both, placing you on his lap and presenting you with his raging erection, propped on your stomach.

You automatically place your hands on his firm chest, feeling up his pecs. He leans forward, kissing below your ear.

"Ride me."

translations:

Estás bien rica - You're really hot

Mira qué tetas tan bonitas - Look what pretty tits

Así estás muy guapa - You're so beautiful like this

Me pones tan cachondo - You make me so horny

a/n: as always, correct my spanish if you notice any mistakes<3

edit: yes i re-uploaded cause apparently i got shadowbanned and i hope it's fixed now

[thelampisaflashlight]

Mountain, snuggled up in bed, on the verge of sleep: "..." -sits up suddenly and leans over to look through the divider curtain- "...'Sup?" Dew, standing ominously in the dark, eyes glowing: "..." -frowns- "Dreamt I was a spider." Mountain: "Yes, and...?" Dew: "Tried to spin a web." Mountain, processing: "..." -slowly realizing, wide eyed- "You didn't..." Dew, tearing up: "I did..." Mountain: "Wait, but you were spending the night with-" Rain, muffled through the door: "OH MY GOD! OH MY FUCKING GOD!" Dew, begging: "I need you to kill me-" Mountain, trying not to panic: "Scale of one to ten..." Rain, freaking out: "BABY, DID YOU FUCKING DISSOLVE INTO LIQUID?!" Mountain: "...Oh my god..." Dew: "...It was a very big web-"

[tf-kinky]

The dimly lit room buzzed with the soft hum of Joe Locke’s phone as he tapped away at the screen, a sly grin curling his lips. The app glowed an unnatural shade of violet, its interface sleek and predatory—Transmogrify, it was called, a black-market gem he’d stumbled upon in the depths of the dark web. The world saw Joe as the quiet one, the soft-spoken charmer with a boyish laugh, always yielding to Kit Connor’s brash confidence. Everyone assumed Joe was the submissive one, the bottom in their unspoken dynamic. But they were wrong. So very wrong.

Joe relished the secret he kept buried beneath his gentle facade: he was the one in control, the one who pulled the strings. And tonight, Kit would learn that the hard way.

Kit sprawled on the couch across the room, oblivious, scrolling through his own phone. “Mate, you’ve been glued to that thing all night,” he said, his voice carrying that familiar teasing edge. “What’s so fascinating?”

Joe didn’t look up. “You’ll see,” he murmured, his fingers hovering over the app’s final command. He’d already input the details: Target: Kit Connor. Transformation: Permanent insoles for my black Converse. Sensory amplification: Maximum. A little checkbox labeled Awareness was ticked—because what was the point if Kit didn’t know?

He pressed Execute, and the air shivered.

Kit’s phone clattered to the floor as his body seized, a gasp choking in his throat. “Joe—what the—?” His words dissolved into a strangled cry as his form began to warp. His arms folded inward, his legs twisted grotesquely, and his skin shimmered like liquid rubber. Joe watched, heart pounding with a thrill he couldn’t suppress, as Kit’s six-foot frame shrank and flattened. His horrified face lingered for a moment—wide eyes locked on Joe’s—before it too melted away, reshaping into something smaller, simpler. Two thin, cushioned slabs of material, perfectly molded to fit Joe’s sneakers.

The transformation was complete in seconds. Joe stepped forward, picking up the newly formed insoles from the floor. They were warm to the touch, faintly trembling. Kit was still in there, trapped in his new existence. Joe could almost feel the panic radiating off them.

“Perfect,” he whispered, turning them over in his hands. He slipped off his Converse and slid the Kit-insoles inside, pressing them down with a deliberate, cruel slowness. He knew Kit hated feet—loathed the smell, the sweat, the very idea of them. It was a running joke between them, one Joe had always laughed off. But now? Now it was the punchline to Kit’s eternal torment.

Joe laced up the sneakers and stood, shifting his weight. The insoles molded to his feet instantly, soft yet resilient, and he could sense Kit’s heightened awareness screaming beneath him. Every step, every shift of his toes, would be agony for Kit—amplified beyond human limits, inescapable. Joe took a slow stroll around the room, savoring the faint, imagined whimper he couldn’t hear but knew was there.

“You always thought you were the big shot, didn’t you?” Joe said aloud, his voice low and venomous. “Strutting around, acting like you owned the place. But look at you now. You’re mine, Kit. My little footrest. Forever.”

He dropped onto the couch, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table with a thud. The insoles cushioned every move, and Joe leaned back, closing his eyes. He could picture Kit’s disgust, his silent rage, locked in that sensory hell—smelling the faint musk of Joe’s socks, feeling the press of his heels, tasting the salt of his sweat. It was perverse. It was delicious.

Days turned to weeks, and Joe wore the sneakers everywhere. To set, to interviews, to the gym. The insoles never wore out—some perk of the app’s dark magic, he supposed. And with every step, he felt Kit’s presence, a secret only he knew. Friends complimented the bounce in his stride; fans gushed over his laid-back charm. No one suspected the truth: that Joe Locke, the sweet-faced darling, was a predator in plain sight, dominating Kit in a way no one could fathom.

One night, alone in his flat, Joe kicked off the Converse and peeled out the insoles, holding them up to the light. “Still hate feet, Kit?” he asked, smirking. “Too bad. You’re stuck with mine forever.”

He slid them back in and went to bed, dreaming of the power he wielded—over Kit, over the world’s perception, over everything. Joe wasn’t the bottom. He never had been. And now, with Kit beneath him in the most literal sense, he’d never let anyone forget it.

Even if Kit was the only one who’d ever know.

[heartfullofleeches]

yes please dear god smile reader is baby

[Very baby. Here's how Yan Scientist and their slime formally met]

"Subject 43? Payment for yesterday's efforts."

"An apple....but you said I could go home."

Feeding day - as if their headache couldn't get any worse. Like common livestock, their possessions squealed and whined about the most senseless things. Pleading for testing to cease; begging to be returned to their families when it was their love ones who sold them to begin with. The scientist would sooner snip out their tongues if it meant a moment of peace, but they were not a tyrant - plus verbal records of their subjects experiences was easier to stomach at night than written. The audio logs had lulled them to sleep better than any pill or liquid could.

"I said it was a possibility - if you did what I asked properly. You may have killed your cellmate, but you did not bring me their eyes. A shame really. I took the time out of my day to prepare your meal by hand. Ah - well, there's someone who will appreciate my efforts more. Tell me, tuna or ham?"

A wet gurgle sounds from the scientist's pocket."

"Both? You greedy devil. I suppose you do deserve something special for putting up with the same pains that I do."

The scientist picks up two sandwiches and smushes them together as the mass in their pocket becomes denser; gooey tendrils slithering up the length of their coat and crawling onto their shoulder as they lift their hand. The blob sucks up the sandwiches into its gelatinous body, wiggling with delight as they're broken down and absorbed into its structure. The scientist pats the gel with one finger causing it to vibrate more violently resulting in a breathy laugh from its owner.

"Alright, we have more subjects to feed. Come on, You - you too."

The scientist snaps their fingers at the Henchman wheeling the cart who closes the cell door as they both exit. The slime creeps down their shirt and through their sleeve as they walk, resting in the scientist's palm. A marvel their little companion was. They wished they had the honor of creating it, but it's origins were a mystery even to them. The scientist found the creature munching away on the undissolved bones of a past test subject. From numerous experiments, the scientist discovered their new lab partner could not only breakdown organic compounds, but most non living object too and had a choice on what it consumed. It made for the perfect little helper to get rid of all the dead bodies and those who oppose them. The best part about the slime was that it had no mouth and therefore the most tolerable member of the team.

The scientist's smile melts as they enter the next cell. The stress that had fled them by the usage of their slime as a stress toy skyrocketed seeing the act of utter betrayal pointed at them. A lackey, standing over a motionless subject - gun raised at their employer. The scientist sighs.

"Please remove your mask."

The Henchman does as told. Figures - there was only one other person the scientist trusted with the codes. They supposed trying to make this a family business was a poor decision.

"Emery - this has got to stop."

A chuckle. "Does it really?"

"You won, just let him go. I know you didn't have the best upbringing, but he still your -"

Emery grits their teeth, squirming the slime so hard it slithers out of their grip. "You don't know shit. If it makes you feel any better, I haven't actually done anything to him - yet. Just locked him down here, with all the others nobody would care to miss. There is no persuading me on this. If you have nothing else to say - do it."

Their Henchman reaches for his gun, Emery rests their hand over his. Through clouded view and reasoning, the figure steadies their gun. They look away, unable to look as they pull the trigger on the once innocent child they knew. Emery doesn't flinch as it fires - a teal web covering the entirety of their chest and dissolving the bullet as soon as it hits. Their attacker looks on in horror, but before they can do anything Emery takes their henchman's gun as their own and fires back, bullet piercing their heart. Emery's head falls, expressionless eyes gazing out at the person left alive - mouthing two words.

"Your fault."

Emery exhales, placing a hand over their chest and gathering the slime into one ball. "One thing after another. Now I have to fire a new head. Eat your meal and return to me when you're done."

They lower the slime to the ground who plops out on the smooth surface - spitting an apple out that rolls at the scientist feet. They pick it up as they walk off, wiping away tears.

-

A picture frame shatters.

"Why would you choose him and not me. Why!?"

The picture holds a smiling, bucktooth child in the arms of their butler as they show off their award for the camera and all to see. The person who taught them everything, the only one there when they had no one. Emery throws an empty bottle at the image, sinking down at the foot of their bed - cradling their arms to their chest.

"why....."

The sound of wet suction weaves into their cries as the slime wrigglies itself beneath the crack in their bedroom door. It inches towards them, shaking violently before spitting up as locket on the floor. Emery goes to grab it, but as they do the smile shoots up their arm and spreads out, and puffs up over their shoulder like a makeshift pillow. Emery cards their fingers their hair, climbing to their feet and pocketing the trinket.

"I guess I do need some rest. Thank you, You. You seem to be the only one I can't trust."

More gurgles.

"I guess I should give you an actual name eventually." They sight - broken body collapsible on their bed and crawling under their blankets with the help of their aid. The slime hops up on their pillow as they raise their head - solidifying as they rest. "Goodnight, You."

That night - Emery had the worse night's rest they ever had in their twenty-seven years of living.

"You are my sunshine. My only sunshine. You make me happy, when skies are gray~"

Is someone ... singing?

"You'll never know, dear. How much I love you-"

The voice sounds so familiar....no... There's more than one. It's hard to remember something so sweet - when all those voices ever did was beg you to stop.

"Please don't take - my sunshine away."

Emery shoots up like a lightning bolt. Their hands search the bed for their glasses which had fallen - finding a squishy, but very real feeling hand beneath their grasp. Emery locates their glasses as the body's see through eyelids peel back.

"Goodnight, You!"

Emery screams - rolling out of the bed in a tanglement of their blankets and obscenities. The interior in the bed sits up, puzzled; bubbles floating through their translucent body as their anxiety peaks.

"Emery.....this you?" The figure points, noting the odd number of fingers on its hand as it looks at theirs. "Mmm wrong...."

Emery's eyes widen as the slime's sixth finger merges into the fifth. "Y-you?...."

The slime chirps. "Emery!"

Emery looks strength in their knees. "What? How?..."

"Ahhh.... You - eat meal... gr...ow better at shape. Too much at one time - hard to understand. Able to single out things Emery say - Emery is... the only one I can trust."

Emery clutches their head. "Ngh..."

"Help?" The slime lunges foward, reverting to its natural state as it crashes into the floor and forming back into its humanoid shell as it catches them before they stumble. It was hard to notice with half of them hanging off the bed, but the slime was massive - size their size if they had to estimate. They bury their face into their hands. "This can't be happy.

The smlie's droppy smile falters. "Wrong? Wanted to make you happy. I..will go back if it makes you happy. Sad Emery...makes me sad too."

Emery looks up at the slime. They raise out their hand, stroking the slime's cold cheek. It hums with a full body shutter - leaning into their palm until their fingers poke through the membrane. Emery retracts their hand, sliding it into their now empty pocket.

"It's fine. I guess we really need to pick a name for you now."

"Mm I pick?"

"Do you have something in mind?"

"Y/n!"

"Where'd you pick up that one?"

The slime points to their head. "Memories. I... like it the most out of them."

"I see... Y/n, it's cute. Alright, Y/n - let's go get some breakfast."

The slime spits a small bag from its stomach contents onto its hand, giving the trail mix too them. That's much more alarming when it's coming out a real mouth and tongue.

"Breakfast!"

Emery takes it with two fingers, holding the dripping bag away from their face. "Thank you, Y/n......at least I have you by my side."

[19calicos]

tea for two – kiyoko shimizu ༉‧₊˚.

( 𖤐 ) prologue: just a phone call

now playing: higashi yoshino by oh shu & bioman

cw: physical & emotional anger

word count: 265

the shaking hasn’t stopped.

tremors so violent, their hands could very well be an earthquake on their own.

it was only them and their now busted phone inside the suffocating walls of their moonlit kyoto apartment, their device staring up at them from where it lay by the wall. besides the uncharacteristic trembling of their hands, the glass web of cracks were the only evidence of a rare outburst fueled by resentment, roughly sculpted from years of being the black sheep.

it was only a phone call, just a phone call, but it was more than that. to them, it was what needed to be done.

a much-needed exhale through their nose brings them back from inside their head, and it makes them realize that they’d been holding their breath, paralyzed.

despite the weight that's just come off their shoulders, the ugly feeling in their chest stays, the dull ache blooming slowly like spilled liquid dissolving a paper towel. they couldn’t even swallow – not that there’s anything they could swallow down. their mouth had run dry some time ago, they're really not sure when, but it only amplified the choking sensation of their throat.

they take one step towards their phone, then another, heavy and tentative. when they crouch next to it, they tap it awake, taking in the way it sputtered, the damage they've done.

when the blue glow fades to black and they see their reflection in their screen, they don't see regret.

slowly, they turn their phone on again, tap a few buttons, and bring their phone to their ear at the first ring. they desperately grip the wrist of their shaking hand, their knuckles as white as pearls. their chin gently tilts up to the ceiling, and their eyes flutter closed.

"semi," they immediately breathe out when they hear him pick up, an odd stability found in their voice.

"sheesh, it's one in the morning... what's up?"

there’s a hitch in their breath. they almost don’t feel real.

"crescent teahouse. i'm coming to tokyo. i'm gonna do it."

masterlist | next

more:

𖥔 this takes place right after yn and semi graduated college, and 2 years before the current setting of tea for two

𖥔 kyoto is like the homebase for yn and their family. the family is from kyoto and they were born there, and it’s where they spent the most time in their childhood despite how much they moved around for their parents’ work

𖥔 yn took the train to tokyo the next night & semi and akaashi were waiting at the train station for them. they didn't get a new phone for a week after they arrived !

𖥔 for the next while, yn crashed on the couch until they both just collectively agreed that they should be roommates and look for a bigger place together

𖥔 noya at this time had literally just left for italy LMFAO but he still got updates from the insomniac central gc

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send an ask/reply to join. pls double check your visibility settings!

divider by @/plutism :-)

[logeion-proseify]

As a drop of crimson unfurls in the water, slow and deliberate, like ink blooming on silk, it begins as a single thread a whisper of violence carried into softness, yet quickly expands into an intricate web of ruby veins unfurling in the clear abyss. It spirals outward, each tendril twisting and curling with the precision of a calligrapher’s stroke, delicate yet bold, purposeful yet chaotic. The water cradles it tenderly, refracting light through its fluid lines, turning red into fire, into wine, into fleeting shadows.

Enchanted by its fleeting dance a moment of ephemeral beauty born of rupture. A rapture I caused. By hunger. By obsession. When my teeth sank deeper into flesh, the deeper they went, the richer the hues grew. It floated light as air, yet heavy with shade, while the skin beneath my bite turned ghostly pale. Each drop rose like a wisp of smoke in reverse, reaching for the surface. The patterns pulsed and shimmered as though alive, breathing in the liquid void. For a moment, it felt as though time itself had stilled to admire this art this art born from pain, from hunger. There is an elegance to the unraveling, a serene violence that transforms destruction into an accidental masterpiece. There’s comfort in the warm, gushing metallic scent, in the rich taste of red.

In the end, the water is stained with memory, my body tainted by the consumption of something pure. The once brilliant threads dissolve into a muted haze, but the echo of their fleeting beauty remains a reminder that even ruin, given space to unfold, can create something achingly, tragically beautiful.

I often wonder if our purpose is simply to consume. So, I did. With every bite, every mark of teeth, every pull of sinew, I consumed. From this destruction, from this chaos, something beautiful was born a delicate art for the macrocosm. A beauty born of hunger. Comfort in destruction.

[amberskyyking]

Friend-Coded

Chapter 2: Yeah, this makes a alot of sense. Let's save the guy who's constantly trying to kill us!

CW: Suicide themes, brainwashing

Tron fell into the sea, and Beck dove in after him without a second thought.

Tron had gone against CLU. Tron had protected the users as they made their escape, crashing his light jet into CLU himself! Beck had screamed at the sight, terrified that Tron had been killed for real, before CLU’s signature yellow circuits latched on to a spot of falling orange in the air and rezzed up a new light jet, leaving Tron in freefall.

It was the first sign Beck had seen that his mentor, his friend, was still in there since it all went wrong, but that wasn’t why he dove in. That was just instinct. He’d done the same for Paige back when they were still enemies. He’d spared the black guard on the light rail on his first real mission, he’d done everything he could to save Cutler even after he had been rectified, he even fought to defend Dyson from Tron himself when he realized that his hero was out for revenge! So he couldn’t give up on Tron, he… He just couldn’t, not even if Tron himself had given up.

So Beck swam, his eyes stinging in the waters as he focused on the flickering orange glow below him. He couldn’t watch his friend dissolve into voxels in the sea, not after everything! But his circuits were fading. Beck paddled faster and -

No, it wasn’t fading… It was turning. He just barely kept himself from gasping underwater and choking on the spot. The color was changing to white.

That had to mean Tron was still in there! Beck reached out and grabbed hold of his old mentor’s arm, drawing him in. His body was limp, but he lived. Beck’s lungs started to burn. He wrapped an arm around Tron’s middle, kicked off in the icy waters, and when his head breached the surface again he gulped down the sweet, fresh air, just as an explosion tore through the sky overhead.

He hoped that meant what he thought it did. That CLU’s master plan had been foiled, maybe that CLU himself had been defeated by the users after all! But there was no time to think on it. Tron wasn’t de-rezzing, but he wasn’t waking up either.

It took time to paddle back to land with Tron in tow. It took a little longer to regain his strength enough to rezz up a light cycle and heave his friend on board, and during it, Beck noticed a couple of cracks in Tron’s code from the fight that couldn’t mean anything good. There weren’t many places he could take him. Whatever became of the fight, CLU’s forces were still out there, and he couldn’t risk leading anyone back to where Paige was hiding the remaining rebels. CLU or not, Argon had fallen, and with how many programs they lost, Beck knew Rinzler was largely to blame…

But one of the cracks along his shoulder splintered, and Beck gritted his teeth. “Come on Tron!” He urged, looking around for his options and narrowing his eyes at an inconspicuous mountain peak in the distance. “Stay with me!”

It couldn’t be too late, he had to be right about Tron, he… He just had to be! They’d already lost too many programs in a single cycle and Beck couldn’t lose one more, not like this and not to CLU. The damage it took to turn Tron into Rinzler had been extensive, but it couldn’t have erased him completely, even… Even though Tron had done it to himself.

Beck swallowed hard and swung his lightcycle around to speed off into the outlands, along a path he knew well, holding his friend tight. He couldn’t fix that anymore, he couldn’t save him from what was already done, but maybe this time, he could keep him from falling apart.

---

“We’re here!” Beck panted, carrying Tron in his arms towards the old healing chamber as fast as he could manage. “I’ve got you.” He twisted his friend around and placed him carefully inside, letting the strange liquid take his weight, and closed the door. The moment the unit powered up and the cracks that webbed up his shoulder and down his back started to knit back together, Beck slumped to the floor in a heap.

It had been ages since he was here last, hadn’t it? He hadn’t been back since his last mission with Tron. Beck took a nano to just sit there, his arms weak with the effort of saving Tron’s life and then carrying him all this way, and looked around the old safe house. Out the windows he could see Argon City, awash in orange light. The portal wasn’t lit anymore, but the air around it was littered with eerie glowing voxels and the occasional static discharge, left over from the explosion.

Just like the last time they were here.

If CLU has really captured Kevin Flynn, I have to go! Tron had bit out unapologetically. There IS no choice!

But what if it’s a trap? Beck protested.

The portal just lit up and something exploded, of course it’s a trap! I still have to try. You of all programs should know that.

Let me at least do some recon first! We can’t just go barging in-

You can’t just go barging in! I can, Tron had snarled, layering his own black gridsuit with spare batons, explosives, and a little black disk that made Beck’s stomach turn. There’s no time. If you want to help you can back me but don’t stand in my way.

Why are you packing the Killswitch? Beck asked incredulously.

A last resort, Tron replied with a dark scowl, clicking the thing in place behind his own disks.

Better be, Beck mumbled back.

Tron had shot him a sharp look. Beck, you know what they could do. I can’t let them. If CLU were to get his hands on me I would be-

The greatest weapon he could possibly have, I know, I know, Beck said uncomfortably. But there’s got to be another way. You taught me didn’t you? Don’t you think I’d find a way to come through? To save you?

It’s not that simple, Beck.

Why not? Beck retorted. Don’t you trust me?

I trust you to make the hard decision, the right decision, when the time comes, Tron said solemnly, stepping forward with a heavy sigh and clasping a hand on Beck’s shoulder. I chose you to succeed me for a reason, Beck. You’ve surpassed your programming all on your own. You value the lives of other programs, even your enemies, and you’ve never given up fighting to protect them.

Thanks. But that includes you.

It’s more important that you be there for them. They need Tron to look to, and that’s you. It has been for a long time.

Well maybe I need Tron too, Beck had argued, crossing his arms. Ever think of that?

I have, Tron said darkly.

I-

But Becks words had been cut off as another series of explosions went off in the distance, flashes and smoke visible even from here.

We need to go. Now! Tron barked out. Come on!

Beck could still hear those words in his ears today, as he stared back out the window pane at Flynn’s Place in the distance. He squeezed his eyes shut. Both of them had been right that night. It was a trap, Flynn hadn’t even been there, it was all a part of CLU’s plan and they played right into it… And Rinzler was the greatest weapon CLU could have possibly gotten his hands on.

He could feel the rest of the memory surging forward even though he didn’t want to play it, didn’t want to remember right now, but a small beep from an incoming message helped to smash it back down. He opened his eyes and rushed to read it, eager for any distraction, especially news.

It was Paige. His heart leapt. She was still alive.

Occupation forces just moved past the clinic. They didn’t find our base. Those of us here should be safe for now, but many haven’t returned, she had written. Reliable rumors say Flynn re-integrated with CLU. They’re both gone, along with half his army. We need to plan our next move while they’re missing their leader.

Beck shook his head and re-read the message several times over. She was safe but… Who was missing? What happened to them? And if both CLU and Flynn were really dead… What happened next?

He started to type up a response but found he didn’t know what to say. What could he say? She was right, they did need to plan their next move, but for once he didn’t know where to start.

Tron would know, but… Beck wasn’t even sure how much of Tron was left. There had to be something in there of his original code, he turned on CLU at long last, he saved them, but Beck had saved the enemy now, too.

I know what you did already, Paige’s next message suddenly popped up on the screen.

Beck blinked twice at the screen and smacked his hand to his forehead. How do you know about Rinzler? Who saw? He typed back frantically. If word of this got out…

You just told me.

Beck stared at the screen, feeling stupid for that one. At least their messages were encrypted.

And I know you.

He let out a sigh and smiled just a little bit, in spite of himself. Are you mad? He sent back.

I’m not a hypocrite.

Well… That was a yes, but at least he couldn’t really be in trouble for it. Paige didn’t know who Rinzler really was either, none of them did… But at least she understood.

Most of the others wouldn’t.

Beck typed out a quick heart to send back to her, then changed it to several hearts, hit send, and stowed the communicator. He had to think on this, see what sort of shape Tron was in before making any decisions, and that meant facing him, trying to help him, again. Maybe this time, though, it would be different. Beck pushed himself up on aching legs and stepped closer to the tank. It was hard to see much through the softly glowing liquid, but right away, he could tell Tron’s helmet had been pulled back. He could see the silhouette of his face, and it made something tighten in his throat.

“Better now?” Beck asked cautiously, careful to keep the catch out of his voice. “This chamber held you together before. Maybe it can help again.”

Tron turned towards him and locked on in an instant, even if he couldn’t quite see, but the four squares making up the little T on his collarbone glowed white through the liquid. Beck stared at them. He’d seen them so many times now, always orange before, and he always knew what they meant, even if no one else seemed to put together the pieces. So many programs had been arrested or de-rezzed by their true hero and never even known it, and Beck had tried so many times to reach him, all in vain…

“You know… I hope that color change means something this time,” Beck said uneasily, taking a step closer. “There’s a lot of programs out there who wouldn’t want me to do this.”

Tron remained silent. Beck couldn’t remember ever hearing him talk after that fateful cycle when it all went wrong, but he hadn’t taken his helmet off before either, so…

“You crashed your jet into CLU’s,” Beck tried to remind him. “You had the shot. You could have taken out Flynn, but you turned on CLU instead. Why? What happened up there?” He asked tentatively, but still, there was no response. Beck narrowed his eyes at the form in the water as a million other pent up questions came to mind, but only one slipped out. “Did you finally grow past your programming?”

The words came out bitter. Beck hated even asking, he shouldn’t doubt, but it had nagged at him for so many cycles now. Why had Tron been so insistent they go after Flynn that night with hardly any preparation and no recon, fully aware it could be a trap and taking the risk anyways?! Why, once CLU got his hands in his code, had he had never seemed to fight it?! All that time during their training, Tron had praised Beck for growing past his programming, becoming something more, only for Tron himself to never even…

Beck shook his head, trying to clear the churning thoughts from his mind. “Nothing to say?” He sighed. He should have known it would be like this, shouldn’t have hoped for anything else... But whatever happened out there, whatever his programming or how much he followed it, Tron had done something different. He was still in there, he was here, or at least part of him was. “You… Saved us, you know,” Beck told him. “CLU is gone now. He can’t hurt anyone else. The grid is free, just like you wanted.”

Silence. Beck hoped the news would help somehow, but as he stared hard into the tank looking for any reaction, anything at all that told him how his old friend was feeling about this, not much happened. Only the grinding sound Tron made now grew loud enough to hear through the water. Beck frowned. Had the color change meant a damn thing or did it just mean that Tron’s master was gone?!

“Tron?” Beck pushed.

“I’m not Tron,” Tron suddenly growled, and Beck’s eyes widened. “CLU killed him.”

“Sorry but CLU’s not that good,” Beck shot back in elation! The words themselves weren’t great, sure, but hearing Tron’s voice again at all had to be a sign of something! “I told you, I saw what you did today. You’re still in there Tron, I know it!” Beck grinned.

“It’s Rinzler,” Tron snarled, hitting the glass with his hand.

“I don’t think so,” Beck said lightly. “And CLU’s gone. You can’t answer to him anymore anyways, you don’t have to be what he wants you to be!”

The tank began beeping at that moment and Tron turned frantically towards it. Becks smile faltered just a little.

“You didn’t break it,” He reassured him. “It’s just done all it can for you, for now. Come on. Let’s get you out of there… And don’t try anything.”

Beck wanted so badly just to trust him again, but if Tron really thought he was still Rinzler, that could be a problem. He still steeled himself for a nano before opening the chamber door and offering a hand to help guide him out. Before he could even get a glimpse of his face, though, Tron practically fell out of the tank! He stumbled a moment, dazed and disoriented, and Beck reached to help, but that was a mistake. Tron snatched both disks off his back, swinging them wildly through the air and making Beck duck, then tripped over nothing and fell crashing to the floor. One of the disks rolled from his hand.

“Tron! Are you okay?” Beck asked frantically, but Tron didn’t answer. Beck gathered up his hand and looked anxiously down at his friend. Tron’s eyes were unfocused and hollow, his lips twitched, his scar… Why did he have that massive scar again?! Beck blinked at it in disbelief. It had been fixed before, CLU had done it himself when he tried to have Tron rectified, but now it was back… And his face looked different somehow, too. Younger, but with even more scars than just the one that Beck remembered! Shouldn’t CLU have been able to fix those, too? Of course Tron had been in fights but who the hell had been maintaining him?! And what was happening to him now?! He’d collapsed coming out of the tank once before and that had been terrifying, he nearly died and it took extreme measures to have him fixed! Beck took a deep breath and the realizations and squeezed Tron’s hand tight.

“You’re not dying on me this time. It’s not another virus is it?” Beck asked with more confidence in his voice than he really felt. “The healing tank should have helped with the surface damage but… these scars were gone before… Why are they back?”

Tron just stared back at him, his breathing shallow, as his eyes slowly started to clear. Beck waited as patiently as he could manage in the tension, which wasn’t much.

“CLU,” Tron said distantly. “No virus.”

Of course it was CLU, it was all CLU, whatever was wrong with his friend, virus or not! But this went beyond just using Tron as a weapon, this… This was just cruel.

Tron sat up and turned to look at Beck with a hooded glare. “Where’s Flynn?”

“Flynn?” Beck asked, still taking in all the marks on Tron’s face and caught off guard at the question, but suddenly there was a spinning disk at Beck’s throat.

That was on him for not paying enough attention, or maybe forgetting this was still Rinzler right now, no matter who he used to be. Beck probably should have been alarmed or concerned but… He looked down at the disk, then back at Tron, those rigid, sharp lines on his confused, scarred up face, and all he felt was heartbreak. Whatever was twisted up in his old friends code must be causing him so much pain, even now. Tron wouldn’t hurt him, but Tron wouldn’t have de-rezzed all those programs either.

And now, even though he had finally fought back, even though he had almost given everything to protect Flynn, Flynn had died. But Tron deserved the truth. CLU had been lying to him long enough.

“He’s… Gone, Tron,” Beck told him. “I’m sorry…”

“It’s Rinzler,” Tron spat.

Beck pursed his lips in frustration at that. “Whatever CLU told you you were-” But Tron pressed his disk closer to his neck, sending prickles down his skin, and Beck looked up in surprise. “Okay, okay. I’m not here to hide anything,” Beck said, eyeing the thing with a little more nerves than he had before. “If you need to know, Flynn re-integrated with CLU. Neither survived it. The other user they brought in went back to what the users call the real world… They’re both gone, Tr- Rinzler. It’s over.”

He held his breath for a minute as Tron or… Or Rinzler thought it over. Calling him Rinzler didn’t feel right. Tron had never wanted this. He’d even told Beck as much, that was the whole point of the damn Killswitch, so CLU couldn’t use him as a weapon!

It made Beck feel sick. He knew what he saw out there, Tron’s circuits were white again, and Beck had believed all this time that Tron could be saved because he had to! He could never give up on the idea Tron still lived, that he could be saved, but if he was wrong? What if, after the Killswitch and after CLU, there was nothing left of his old code, his old memories? What if Beck had really fucked up that badly?

Tron pulled the disk back from the edge of his neck and stared down at their hands. Tron.. or Rinzler… Hadn’t let go, even with a disk to his throat. Beck wasn’t sure what that meant, but it was better than being de-rezzing him on the spot. Before tonight, Beck knew that he wouldn’t have hesitated. There was something else too, though. After all this time not being able to see his face, maybe without his friend even knowing who he was, Tron looked confused, and… scared.

“Look… You don’t have to tell me what that was about if you don’t want to,” Beck said quietly, looking down at their hands as guilt throbbed in his code. “You don’t have to do anything anymore. But even if you don’t know it, we’ve kind of been through a lot together. You’ve been trying to catch me for a long time, and I’ve been trying to get through to you. So now that you’re here, and they’re gone… I’m not leaving you alone. That’s not what friends do.”

Becks words hung in the air. He hoped that wasn’t pushing too far, even if it was true.

Tron seemed to consider it for a moment, then turned over the disk in his hand. A small image shimmered to life above it, an image of… Beck.

We’re friends… Right? The miniature Beck asked in a voice that sounded so much younger than Beck remembered, all that time ago. There wasn’t anything else after it, the memory cut off abruptly before the old Tron gave Beck his snarky non-answer, but Beck could hardly think. His whole heart was lodged in his throat. Tron still had that, and it meant everything! He barely managed to stammer out the question to confirm what he’d just seen with his own eyes.

“You remember me?”

Tron, or Rinzler, if he really preferred that right now, rolled his eyes in a familiar sort of way. “Vaguely,” He scoffed, returning the disk to his back.

Beck’s heart could have burst. “B-Better than nothing,” He said, unable to keep the emotion from his voice that time and giving Tron’s hand a tight squeeze. “A lot is about to change, but… We can figure it all out together, now. Okay?”

It was important that he knew that. After all this time there was no way Beck would be leaving him alone. Not after his downfall, not after those scars and hurts, never again.

Tron didn’t have much of a reaction to that, but he didn’t protest it either. “Okay,” He huffed after a nano. The grinding sound that had to be from his processors slowed and quieted into something low and rhythmic, almost soothing.

Beck looked at him with a watery grin, but his eyes were already closed. Somehow, that made Beck grin even more. He still hadn’t let go of his hand either, and with how tight his own grip was, Beck probably wasn’t going to be getting it back anytime soon.

He really trusted him, didn’t he?

The realization hit him like a light rail train. Tron, or Rinzler, had just dozed off, right here, with his shoulder pressed against Beck’s arm and their fingers intertwined. He had to be exhausted after this cycle, Beck was too, but Tron had never done that before, and he had done it almost instantly.

How much of that was him, and… How much of it was damage?

Beck exhaled carefully and closed his eyes. After everything today, after all they had been through for cycles on end, if something this simple was bringing his old friend some comfort, he didn’t mind. He would stay here all night if that’s what Tron needed to feel safe, he was tired too…

But it still nagged at him as he tried to fall asleep, as he struggled to suppress the memories that threatened to turn into nightmares in the back of his mind. Flashes of Tron racing to Flynn’s Place through the shadows, fighting past countless sentries along the way and slipping out of Beck’s sight. Spotting him again from the vents, too much time later but not too late, restrained against a table in defiant silence. There was no Flynn, there had never been a Flynn, the entire thing was a trap meant to prey on the one thing CLU knew the real Tron could never resist. Beck knew that now, and so did Tron, but Beck had found him in time to save him, just like he’d done before, just like he promised he could! The machine poised over Tron hummed to life, Beck tore the disk from his back and lined up his shot, and…

And Tron spasmed unnaturally. Beck realized in a horrible instant what Tron had just done. His friend started to convulse, corrosive black acid creeping down his arms and up his neck -

NO! He cried out in the vision, jerking forward in real life with his eyes wide open, gasping for breath.

No…

He’d been there. He’d been right there, he could have stopped it! If only Tron had trusted him to, trusted him back there the way he did now…

Then again, maybe Beck didn’t deserve it. He had never been sure he made the right choice later that night, either.

Beck leaned into his old mentor by his side with a shudder, grateful to be holding his hand tight now, no matter how many times Rinzler had tried to kill him lately. He didn’t stir, which was good. At least they were both still here. They had survived this much. Beck wouldn’t give up. And maybe in time, they’d both be able to heal from their mistakes.

At least, he could hope.

🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡

Wasn’t planning to post till I had a little more buffer but this thing demanded its freedom so here we are! I’ve got a few ideas now and just might be doomed by the narrative for this to be a long fic now! And I realized I gave Rinzler orange circuits in the pic from my last chapter, whoops, so here’s a revised version with the white ones! They both look cool. This is what happens when you get tricked into fandom I suppose! Chapter 1 below too, if it’s needed 🧡🥰

Chapter 1: Sure, just shatter the box of repressed memories. What could go wrong?

[spiderculechronicals]

Context for this: I've decided that since Peter 2 creates webs in his body it makes sense for him to also produce a way to dissolve them, so I came up with this special spit he can produce that happens to taste pretty sour and bitter. He uses a bit of the spit when he and Wade get settled on a roof to eat in order to unseal the makeshift take-away package hed put together earlier without ripping it open, which is exciting for Wade to see and they talk a bit about Peter 2's webs a bit. Anyway, after they eat and *cough* other activities (roof sex, filthy roof sex), they get ready to go and Peter 2 decides to ask if Wade wants to taste the special spit, since the other Peters already had. Of Course Wade is down for that.

---

“Okay, so, for the sake of curiosity… would you like to taste the web-dissolving spit?”

Wade gasped, “Uh, yeah! Hell yeah…! Hit me with that Spidey-juice!”

Peter 2 ran his tongue into the back corner of his mouth and worked up a bit from the gland, then nodded and waved Wade in for a kiss. Wade went in for it with enthusiasm, the taste hitting him immediately. He made a little sound but didn’t pull off right away, sliding his tongue around curiously. Peter 2 figured out what he was doing and pulled off as an additional dribble of the secretion flooded his mouth. “Ack- pht…” He spat on the ground, coincidentally hitting the web patch and leaving a gaping hole.

“Hehehe! Sorry, sorry… that wasn’t cool of me… Hmm! Kind of a cruel irony that it tastes bad to you… I’m also surprised if that hasn’t happened on accident when you were sucking face- or has it?”

Peter 2 spat a few more times. “Hmm! Thankfully not. It’s pretty far back there and on the other side of my teeth from where kissing tongues tend to be. So, it doesn’t bother you at all, then?”

“It’s got kind of a slight stomach acid twang to it, which I can see as being the most off-putting aside from the bitterness… which I’d rate a little below Campari. You could spit that in a glass of gin with a lemon twist and I’d drink it.” Wade shrugged.

“Uh… would not recommend doing that. I worked at a theater as a bartender for a little while, there was a guy who was being pretty insufferable to his date- I don’t think he was going to get violent, and he was calling enough attention to himself that it was highly unlikely any drugging was on his agenda- but she was apparently not as impressed by the show as he thought she should be and he was insulting her intelligence and upbringing over it. So when I ducked down to grab more ice I dripped a couple teaspoons worth in the bottom of the shaker for his dirty gin martini… she was having chardonnay. Anyway, he took two swallows and then froze stock still… I’m kinda expecting to get yelled at, but he doesn’t get that far because he just immediately shits himself as soon as he stands up. Fully liquid running out of his pants leg. No idea that was a side effect! That’s why I pulled away when you did that, not just because it tastes bad to me. Doesn’t affect me that way, thankfully, and trace amounts seem safe as well.”

“Webs!!! That’s so fucking devious I love it…!!” Wade cackled with glee, “Oh, fuck! You’re a better man than me, I would absolutely be dosing pricks like that on purpose all the time…”

“Ehhh… I was the one who had to clean up the bar, though, which pretty much put me off doing it in future.”

Wade giggled. “The point of spitting in a drink is that they can’t tell you did it, though… didn’t you think he was going to notice the taste?”

“Oh- yeah he was also being an insufferable prick about how people drink safe fruity things or white wine and don’t have complex palates, and then he orders a dirty gin martini and says I should be sure to swirl it, not shake it…” Peter 2 smirked. “I’m sure he tasted it but if he was going to pull a face it would’ve made him look bad.”

[ruhani-raat]

DREAMS OF THE DAMNED (Zhenya X Taekjoo)

Russian crime lord Yevgeny Bogdanov is plagued by haunting dream invasions that erode his grip on reality. As his empire teeters, he uncovers a deadly conspiracy within his own ranks and enslaves Kwon Taekjoo, a dreamwalker in order to free himself. Their bond deepens into an unexpected romance-complicated by Taekjoo's secret mission to free a cunning, ancient entity trapped in the dreamscape. Loyalties blur as dreams twist into nightmares, and power, love, and fate collide in surreal chaos. Join Yevgeny and Taekjoo as they navigate through the webs of crime, power, betrayal and love to taste freedom at the expense of something bigger. (WELL, THIS STORY IS MY PRODUCT--LIKE, FRAGMENTS OF MY IMAGINATION. READERS' DISCRETION IS ADVISED. INACCURACIES MAY FIND YOU ABOUT RUSSIAN, KOREAN AND GERMAN CULTURES SO, FEEL FREE TO EDUCATE ME.) THE MAIN CHARACTERS ARE ACCREDITED TO THEIR RIGHTFUL OWNERS. I AM JUST A FANFIC WRITER OBSSESSED WITH THEM. MANXMAN GOTHIC FICTION MAGICAL REALISM CRIME, VIOLENCE, 18+ STUFF YOU'VE BEEN WARNED.

CHAPTER 1: THE DANCE OF NIGHTMARISH FUTURE

"Zhenya..."

The whisper slithered through the dark, curling in his ears like cigarette smoke. But it wasn't smoke—oh no. It was alive. A mass of shadow swam between the illuminated buildings of Moscow's skyline, gliding like serpents with wings, weaving through the air with an elegance too smooth to be natural. Each movement birthed a pulse of mirth—high-pitched, gleeful, then suddenly guttural. The laughter echoed in warped octaves, as if five voices argued for dominance from the same throat.

The man turned, twelve years old again. No suit. No penthouse. No power. Just a boy in his father's oversized coat, his knees scraped, and his soul trembling.

The city behind him cracked like porcelain. Skyscrapers splintered as though made of glass and ash. Light bled from their cores, swallowed into the widening mouth of a black void. Streetlights winked out. Cars dissolved into puddles of liquid time. The sky—once a brilliant cobalt—became a yawning abyss.

And in the midst of it, the shadow mass descended.

"No matter how much you try..."

The voice broke reality. It was nowhere and everywhere, carried by wind that didn't blow. The black tendrils coiled around him, slick and cold, caressing his skin like regret. He tried to move. His feet didn't obey. The air thickened into syrup.

Then it gripped him.

The shadows twisted around his neck with monstrous intimacy. The laughter pierced the silence again—needle-sharp, unrelenting. Each chuckle stabbed into his brain, laced with words. Words that cut deeper than bone.

"You will never be enough."

The voice warped, growing low and coarse. Familiar. His father's.

The boy's knees buckled. Tears rimmed his eyes, hot and shameful. He gasped, fingers clawing at the invisible coils crushing his throat. His legs kicked in air that felt like oil.

The boy choked out a scream—then the shadow released him.

He dropped, wheezing, to his knees. The blackness retreated with the laughter, now hollow and distant, echoing like the last words of a dying god.

Then—

Moscow shimmered in the early summer heat. Golden domes glinted in the morning sun, flanked by brutalist towers and old cathedrals locked in an eternal standoff. The streets bustled with caffeine and capitalism. It was about to be another Wednesday. The city, radiant and restless, marched on.

But within the penthouse atop Bolshaya Dmitrovka, time stood still.

Yevgeny Bogdanov sat bolt upright, pale as unspun silk, sweat glistening on his bare chest. The silk sheets clung to his body like bandages torn from a battlefield.

His breath came in shallow bursts. The remnants of the dream clung to his senses: a phantom weight on his neck, a child's weeping, a city that no longer stood.

He rubbed his temples, but the echo remained.

You will never be enough.

The sentence dug in like a shard of glass. He exhaled through gritted teeth and reached for the bedside control.

No lights.

Right. He had turned them off. The only source of light was the sunrays peeking through the flimsy curtains. Another foolish attempt to "retrain" himself. Darkness was supposed to soothe, not summon demons. But for the man with storm in his mind, darkness now bore teeth. The silence in the room wasn't real silence. It hummed, alive with something unseen. Always something watching. Never quite dreamt. Never quite real.

He slipped out from beneath the duvet, his feet kissing the cold marble floor. The chill grounded him. Momentarily.

And then—

The door slid open with a soft hiss, as if the universe had chosen the worst possible moment to interrupt.

Caesar Sergeyev entered with a smile only the well-rested and well-armed could carry. Six-foot-something of polished arrogance, wrapped in a designer suit the colour of storm clouds. Blond hair slicked back. Sharp jaw. Grey eyes like twin daggers resting in ice.

He moved like a man who'd never run from anything—because he hadn't.

"Morning," The man said with the tone of someone too cheerful to be trusted that morning. He cocked his head slightly, arms folded, assessing his boss with an unreadable smirk. "No sleep?"

Yevgeny offered him a sideways glare that said more than words ever could.

"What? Not even the pills worked?" Caesar's eyes widened theatrically, mock horror lighting up his face. "Mate, we've got the best doctor in Moscow—"

"Just go," The annoyed man interrupted, massaging his temple. "I need a moment."

But fate didn't care for moments.

A knock—gentle, hesitant. Like the tap of a bird's beak against glass.

Caesar waited, eyebrow raised, as if he wondered it was right to let the person in.

"Voyti vnutr," Yevgeny muttered.

The door creaked open.

A woman entered, her figure round and compact, wrapped in starched white. Her maid's uniform was spotless, but her hands trembled as if she carried a ghost in her apron. Her wrinkles were not from age, but from the stress the Bogdanovs inflicted upon her with their volatile personalities.

She spoke barely above a whisper. "Molodoy khozyain... Breakfast... is ready."

Her eyes flitted between the two men. Especially Caesar. She remembered yesterday. Everyone did. The master chef had been threatened with mutilation over a rare steak. Caesar had managed to talk him down, barely, citing that it was just like how Yevgeny liked.

The annoyed man looked at her as though seeing a statue crack. His face hardened.

"Speak loudly, you insolent—!"

"She's just doing her job," Caesar said lightly, swatting the air, a warning to the maid to leave quickly. "I'll be down in a minute," he added in Russian.

The woman nodded and practically fled.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Caesar turned.

"You had the dream again," he said, no longer grinning.

Yevgeny didn't reply. But the look in his eyes said everything.

He was still in it.

Still in that black city.

Still choking. He could still feel that mass of nothing but tar black gripping itself around his throat ever so slowly, while its sadistic laughter hit his ears like drums on Monday mornings.

­­__

Fifteen minutes after a breakfast that sat far too heavy in his gut, the sound of flesh being torn from bone echoed through the south wing of the Bogdanov estate.

A fist met skin — not with the crisp crack of a clean hit, but the sickening thud of something breaking. It was the sound of cartilage folding, bone yielding. Then came the sound that followed it — wet, guttural, pathetic — the sound of a grown man screaming not from fear, but from the dawning realisation that no amount of screaming would save him.

The dungeon was cold, cruel in its design. The walls were stone, dark with age and sin, and the light — weak and jaundiced — flickered from a single bulb that hung from the ceiling by exposed wire. It barely illuminated the horror within. But it was enough. Enough to see the blood.

Enough to see the man.

He hung inverted, suspended by rusted chains looped cruelly around his ankles. His body swayed slightly, twitching with every sob, every cough. His face was no longer a face. It was a canvas of violence — swollen, distorted, a mask of purple, black and red. Where once had been a nose, there was now pulp. His mouth hung open as if permanently in mid-scream, stained with blood and saliva.

He whimpered something — words lost in the bubbling in his throat. It might have been a denial. Or a prayer. Or both. Or neither. It didn't matter anymore.

Yevgeny didn't speak. He just struck again.

The man's head snapped sideways with a meaty crack. Blood sprayed from his lips in a slow, almost beautiful arc — like wine flung in ceremony. Then came the cough — rattling, wet, choking. And then the sobs. Childlike. Desperate.

"S—sir, trust me... I am no—"

Another punch silenced him, shattering the sentence into a garbled yelp. This time Yevgeny didn't look away when the man's teeth cut into his own cheek. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth in thick strands. The man convulsed, twitching in his chains.

"You had all the time in the world to spit the truth yesterday," a voice said calmly from the gloom.

Caesar stood to one side, untouched by the shadows that clung to every inch of the chamber. The blond man, elegant as ever, appeared utterly at ease — hands clasped behind his back, tailored suit untouched, his pale eyes locked on the scene before him with the cool interest of a man watching a play he'd seen many times before.

"And now, you get what you deserve," he said, voice low, every syllable a threat in velvet.

Caesar didn't smile. He rarely did when blood was being spilled. Not out of pity. But because he savouring it. Deep down, under all the polish, he was as brutal as Yevgeny — perhaps even worse. He simply wore his cruelty better.

Yevgeny's chest heaved as he stepped closer, his knuckles split and glistening with red. His face was unreadable, save for the thin smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. Not joy. Not satisfaction. Something more primal. A hollow kind of pleasure that didn't come from dominance, but from necessity — like scratching at a phantom itch only he could feel.

He leaned in, voice a low, menacing whisper.

"And now, I want you to live on until my anger cools down. So hang tight, yeah?"

The man whimpered, shaking his head violently, eyes wide with animal terror. His body trembled, swinging slightly in his bonds. But Yevgeny didn't see him anymore. He was somewhere else. Somewhere deeper.

The next punch came without warning. Followed by another. And another.

He was no longer hitting a man. He was hitting the voice.

You will never be enough.

He was hitting his father. He was hitting the dream. He was trying to bleed the nightmares out through someone else's skin.

The blows became frantic. Mechanical. Driven by rhythm more than rage. Like a man trying to drum out a tune only he could hear — one composed of screams, of broken bones and splintered pride.

And still, the laughter lingered in his head. Twisting. Mocking.

Only when his breath came in shallow, ragged gasps did he finally stop. Blood dripped from his fingers, staining the silk handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. The room spun slightly. Pain lanced behind his right eye, sharp and sudden. A migraine. Or something worse. Something old. Something incurable.

The man — the betrayer — no longer moved. He hung limp, half-dead, a ruined effigy of deceit and failure. His soul, if it hadn't already fled, was hiding deep in some corner of his mind, praying for unconsciousness.

Yevgeny stared at him for a moment longer, his own heart still racing, before turning away.

"Handle it," he rasped to Caesar. His voice was hoarse, hollow. "Find the others."

Caesar gave a small, obedient nod, but said nothing. His eyes lingered on Yevgeny's back as the crime lord stalked out of the dungeon, his breath still ragged, steps unsteady.

There was something in the way he moved — not just fatigue, not just fury. A tilt in his posture. A weight in his stride. Like a man walking beneath something far heavier than his reputation.

Caesar's gaze lingered just a moment too long.

And in that silence, where only the flicker of the light and the drip of blood could be heard, a faint echo whispered from the shadows beyond:

You will never be enough.

__

Somewhere in Moscow, a dark-skinned man scrubbed at a stubborn coffee stain on table six with far more resentment than the situation really deserved, muttering apologies in heavily accented Russian that dripped with genuine guilt.

The man in the bespoke navy trousers sat stiffly, legs awkwardly splayed to avoid the rapidly spreading cappuccino blot that would definitely leave a mark. Across from him, his equally fashionable date glared down at her once-lovely red summer dress, now an unfortunate canvas of dairy and bitterness.

"Real sorry," Taekjoo mumbled, his rag doing less wiping and more artistic smearing. "Very... aesthetic now, yes?"

The woman shot him a look like he'd spat on Tolstoy's grave.

It had been a normal morning. Painfully normal, in fact — until the moment it wasn't. The Talk of The Town, mid-tier café with aspirations of class it couldn't quite reach, bustled with the usual clinks of dishes, bursts of laughter, and the faint background music that tried far too hard to be Parisian-chic. The scent of cinnamon pastries and burnt espresso lingered in the air, thick as the judgement Taekjoo now felt pressing in from every direction.

He'd been doing what he always did — juggling tables, reciting the specials with his signature flair, and trying (failing) to flirt his way through the shift. Three tables deep into his charm offensive, and he was already regretting waking up.

"Baryshnya," he said with the suavity of a man who definitely practised in the mirror, "we've got all the good stuff. But for beautiful ladies like you, I'd recommend the beef stroganoff — hearty, rich — followed by our syrniki, sweet and elegant. Kvass on the side. You'll leave looking even more divine, if that's possible."

The two pastel-dressed women blinked at him like he'd just offered them a plate of broken glass. One of them sniffed.

Taekjoo cringed internally.

Strike one.

It always came down to this: no matter how much effort he put in, how many smiles he faked into reality, he never quite blended in. The Russian waitstaff could flirt and flatter without being dismissed. Him? He was too much. Too bright. Too foreign. Too... Korean.

Or, as Maya liked to say: "Tone it down, Taekjoo. This isn't LA."

To which he'd always retort, "Well guess what? In two or three months, I will be back in America, and you'll be begging for my autograph when I'm famous."

Maya would just roll her eyes and say, "You'll be late to your own fame."

But none of that mattered in the seconds that followed.

His eyes flicked upward — and froze.

The tray. The stumble. The arc of brown liquid flying like war paint through the air.

Maya.

She was walking toward table six, balancing her tray like it was a sacred artefact. Her petite frame moving like a new born snake in water. Her hand — barely trembling. But he saw it. He saw it.

The crash. The stain. The shrieks. The shame.

He saw it. Clear as day.

"No, no, no—"

He lunged to intercept — only to catch her elbow at the exact wrong angle.

And it all happened in slow motion, to Taekjoo's regret. The tray pitched. Coffee launched. Cups shattered like glass grenades. Hot liquid splattered across linen, flesh, and reputation. A woman shrieked. A man cursed. Maya gasped. And Taekjoo...

He stood frozen, staring at his own hands like they'd just betrayed him.

"Shit—Maya—I saw—"

But she was already bowing, apologising, doing damage control like a soldier under fire.

Mr. Volyenka—the Manager, burst from the back like an enraged bull, bald head glistening, cheeks red with fury. His bellow targeted Taekjoo with sniper precision. Everyone turned to look. Every. Single. Customer.

"Oh, man," Taekjoo muttered, eyes wide with dread. "Not again."

____

Outside, the sun was too bright. The kind of aggressive summer light that made your soul squint.

Taekjoo sat on the curb behind the café, a half-unwrapped sandwich on his lap and his pride slowly evaporating in the heat. The bread was slightly damp, and the lettuce had given up long ago. He chewed mechanically, not tasting a thing.

Traffic hummed beyond the alley, uncaring. Somewhere nearby, a dog wandered past without so much as a glance. Even the strays had more dignity today.

He leaned back against the warm brick, staring at the pavement as if it might suddenly open up and swallow him whole. Honestly, that wouldn't be so bad. He'd just been chewed out — the silver lining was that he'd only screwed up once today, which was better than most days. The downside? He had no idea if Mr. Volyenka was planning to keep him around much longer.

It was always like this.

He'd see something. He'd try to stop it. It would happen anyway.

Like fate was a rubber band. No matter how far he stretched it, it always snapped back — often harder than before. Sometimes he wondered if he was just cursed. Or perhaps the universe had the world's worst sense of humour.

The sandwich slipped from his fingers and hit the concrete with a soft, tragic plop. He watched it land. Didn't even flinch. Then, faintly — like breath on glass, or a thought too deep to be his own — a voice spoke:

"It's not the future you're seeing," it whispered, curling around his mind. "It's the dream choosing its ending."

He blinked. The words rang strange and sharp, like a bell tolling from a place he couldn't name.

Not the future. The dream choosing.

"What does that even mean?" he muttered to the dog, who didn't reply.

He sighed and rubbed his face, smearing a streak of mayo across his cheek.

Fantastic.

"Great. I'm hearing voices, ruining lives, and I smell like sour milk and regret. Can't wait to tell my therapist."

"Oh wait, can't even afford a therapist in this economy. Guess I'll just chill with Maya."

He pushed himself to his feet, brushing off his apron and dignity. Back inside, Maya was probably explaining things. The manager would yell. Again. He was the kind of person who would hold a grudge against a child. Taekjoo cracked his fingers, ready to profusely apologise again, hoping to keep this job for another two or three months.

Still, he squared his shoulders and stepped back toward the door. Maybe fate was laughing. But that didn't mean he had to give it the satisfaction of crying.

Not yet, anyway. 

[arkofangels]

Balance in the Breaking II ch.3

summary: The reader grapples with unsettling visions of alternate selves across collapsing universes, each haunted by a mysterious cloaked figure who warns of a connection to the "Core Thread." Sharing this with Doctor Strange, she learns the multiverse may hinge on her in ways she doesn’t yet understand. Tensions erupt as fear and frustration boil over, leading to a volatile outburst of energy.

a/n: omg y'all im so sorry for the delay in chapters today y'all get two chapters, a film school student is hard.

As you settled into the booth, the comforting hum of the deli and the warmth of the food momentarily dulled the chaos of the day. You took another bite of your sandwich, but your thoughts wandered far from the plate in front of you. Strange had called your presence in this world an anomaly, a word that clung to you like an itch you couldn’t scratch. 

His warning replayed in your mind, nagging and persistent, as if it held more weight than he let on.

The rift. The surge of power. That suffocating sense of displacement. Something about it all felt… off. Like a melody you half-remembered, its fragments haunting the edges of your consciousness. You couldn’t pinpoint it, but there were moments—brief and fleeting—when reality seemed to ripple, bending and twisting around you. It felt familiar, like a dream you couldn’t quite recall. Or one you couldn’t escape.

You leaned back in your seat, closing your eyes for just a moment to gather your thoughts.

The Whispers

At first, they were soft, distant murmurs that echoed faintly in your chest. You told yourself they were nothing, just your imagination playing tricks on you. But they grew louder, more distinct, each word laced with meaning that burrowed into your mind.

*"This world is not yours... not the one you belong to. The threads... they call to you."*

The weight of the words pulled at you, resonating deep within. They weren’t just sounds; they felt like truths woven into the fabric of your being, truths you weren’t ready to face.

 A sudden wave of nausea rolled through you, and you gripped the edge of the table, your knuckles whitening as the world tilted and blurred.

Your head throbbed, each heartbeat pounding like a drum. 

The air grew thick, pressing in around you, and for a brief moment, it felt like the deli—the warmth, the noise, the chatter—was slipping away, unraveling like threads pulled from a tapestry.

Reality rippled, fluid and pliable, brushing against your senses like liquid silk. Threads of light appeared, faint at first, but growing brighter, pulling you deeper into their web. The world you knew dissolved entirely, and you were somewhere else.

You stood on a barren, sun-scorched plain. The sky churned above you, a sea of molten gold and red, collapsing in on itself. Another version of you was there, clad in weathered armor, your hands crackling with raw energy. The air shimmered with heat and power as you faced an unseen foe. Your voice echoed in the void—a scream without sound—before the world crumbled into ash.

The scene shifted.

A city in chaos. Towers of smoke rose into a blazing sky, the streets below a maze of fire and destruction. You—another you—moved through the crowd, a glowing staff in hand, a shimmering barrier protecting a group of terrified children. Your expression was grim, your eyes darting skyward as though searching for a threat yet to reveal itself.

At the edge of the destruction, a cloaked figure stood motionless, watching. The firelight glinted off his dark robes, the shadows curling at his feet like living tendrils. He extended his hand, and the flames rippled unnaturally, bending to his will. His gaze lingered on your alternate self, silent but unnervingly intent.

The vision shifted again.

A forest, serene and aglow with threads of light weaving through the trees. This version of you was calm, seated cross-legged as your hands guided the threads into intricate patterns. But the tranquility shattered as a shadow fell over the clearing. Your face twisted with fear.

The figure stepped forward, darkness radiating from him like an aura. He didn’t cross the boundary of the glowing threads, but with a subtle gesture, one of them snapped. The intricate web unraveled, and your alternate self recoiled, panic etched into your features as the balance dissolved.

One final shift.

A fortress above the clouds. Grand and imposing, the chamber within glimmered with crystalline walls. This version of you was regal, commanding, pacing before a holographic map of the multiverse. But the map began to fracture, cracks spreading like spiderwebs as the figures you addressed vanished one by one. Alone in the chamber, your expression hardened into one of quiet resignation.

In the shadowed corner of the room, the cloaked figure stood once more, barely visible but undeniably present. His hand moved faintly, and the cracks deepened, the map flickering and shattering. For the first time, he turned his head, his gaze meeting yours across the chasm of dimensions.

The Figure Speaks

His presence was suffocating, like poison seeping into the air you breathed. When he spoke, his voice carried a weight that pressed against your chest, filled with both accusation and longing.

“I see you’ve been busy,” he said, his tone a cruel blend of mocking and measured. “Building, breaking, rebuilding… always running, always chasing. But never stopping to see the whole picture.”

Your alternate self froze, but his gaze wasn’t on them—it was locked on you, the real you, watching from the edges of this unraveling reality.

“Who are you?” you demanded, your voice sharper than you intended. “What do you want from me?”

He tilted his head, a faint, humorless smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Who am I?” he echoed, almost amused. “It’s not a question of who I am. It’s who *you* are.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” you shot back, fists clenching as frustration mingled with unease.

“Doesn’t it?” he replied smoothly. The shadows at his feet writhed, mirroring the cracks in the multiverse map. “You don’t even know yourself, do you? The threads pull at you, the whispers haunt you, and still, you refuse to see.”

“I’m not running,” you said through gritted teeth. “I’m trying to understand.”

“Understand?” He chuckled softly, though the sound was devoid of warmth. “You’ll never understand if you keep looking outward. The truth isn’t out there—it’s within you. You’ve always been the thread, the key, the beginning and the end.”

His words struck something deep, and your breath hitched. “The thread…” you whispered, almost to yourself. “What does that mean?”

His expression darkened, a flicker of raw emotion—pain, desperation—breaking through his composure. “I could tell you, but what would be the point? You’d only deny it, like you always have. Even now, on the edge of oblivion, you refuse to see.”

“See what?” you pressed, stepping closer despite the warning voice in your mind.

“That you and I are not so different,” he said softly, his words a dagger wrapped in velvet. “We’ve both touched the fabric of existence. We’ve both seen what lies beyond. And we’ve both suffered for it.”

“I don’t know you,” you said, shaking your head, your voice trembling with defiance.

“No,” he said, his tone sharper now, the air rippling with restrained power. “But you will. And when you do…” He leaned closer, his voice a chilling whisper. “You’ll realize the choice you made then is the same one you’ll have to make now.”

The shadows surged, engulfing him. His final words echoed as the vision shattered around you.

“Seek the truth of the Core Thread….”

You gasped, your eyes snapping open. The warmth of the deli returned, the chatter of patrons and the clink of plates grounding you. But everything felt muted, as if you were still halfway between worlds. 

“You okay?” Strange’s voice cut through the fog, sharp and edged with concern.

You swallowed hard and nodded, gripping the table to steady yourself. “Yeah… just felt a little dizzy.”

He narrowed his eyes, clearly unconvinced. “No sudden headaches? Flashes of light? Uncontrolled bursts of power?”

“Nothing like that,” you lied quickly, your voice unsteady. “Just… overwhelmed.”

Strange didn’t look away, his gaze piercing, but after a long moment, he nodded. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

You hesitated, the weight of the vision still pressing on your chest. Strange’s piercing gaze made it clear he wouldn’t let much slide, but his reluctance to ask more felt like his way of keeping the peace for now. 

Still, you knew this wasn’t something you could keep to yourself, not with the kind of stakes his warnings hinted at.

“Uh, hey, Strange,” you said, your voice hesitant but steady enough to catch his full attention.

He raised an eyebrow, his arms crossing over his chest. “Yes?”

You took a breath, unsure how to put what you’d seen into words without sounding ridiculous.

 “What if… I just had a vision of all my alternate selves in different universes? And, uh… there was this masked figure in all of them, telling me I needed to find something—something important—to get answers?”

Strange’s face remained unreadable for a long moment. Then, without missing a beat, he said, “Start from the beginning.”

You fidgeted under his unwavering stare, trying to organize the flood of images and emotions from the vision into something coherent. “Okay, so… when I closed my eyes, it was like I was pulled out of the deli. 

I wasn’t here anymore—I was everywhere else. Different versions of me were… living these lives in other universes. One of me was fighting in a world that was literally falling apart, another was protecting people in a burning city. There was one weaving these glowing threads in a forest and—”

“Slow down,” Strange interrupted, holding up a hand. His expression was still unreadable, but his eyes betrayed the faintest glimmer of concern. “These alternate versions of you—did you interact with them, or were you just observing?”

“Just observing,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “But they all felt… real. Like they weren’t just possibilities. They were me. I could feel what they felt, almost like I was living it.”

Strange pressed his lips into a thin line, nodding slowly. “And the masked figure you mentioned—did they speak to you directly?”

“Yeah,” you said, your voice dropping slightly. “They were there in every scene, just… watching. Sometimes in the background, sometimes close enough to feel like they were breathing down my neck. But it wasn’t just watching. They spoke. They told me I needed to find something—the Core Thread—to find answers.”

“The Core Thread,” Strange repeated, his brow furrowing. He began pacing, his cloak sweeping behind him as he moved. “Did they say what the Core Thread is? Or where you’re supposed to find it?”

“No,” you admitted, your frustration rising. “They were cryptic. They kept saying things like ‘the answers are within me’ and that I’ve ‘always been the thread.’ Whatever that means.”

Strange stopped mid-step, his gaze snapping back to you. “You’ve always been the thread,” he repeated under his breath, almost as if testing the words.

“Yeah, they were really big on metaphors,” you said, attempting to lighten the tension. It didn’t work.

Strange walked to a nearby table, where he opened a thick, ancient-looking book. 

Flipping through the pages with practiced precision, he muttered something to himself, his eyes scanning for… something. Finally, he stopped, his finger tracing a line of text.

“The Core Thread,” he said, his tone grave. “It’s not just a metaphor. It’s said to be the foundation of the multiverse, the singular strand that holds all realities together.”

Your stomach dropped. “Okay, and why would this creepy masked guy think I have something to do with it?”

“That’s the part that worries me,” Strange admitted, closing the book with a thud. 

“If what you saw is accurate, then this figure believes you’re connected to the Core Thread in some way—either as its guardian or as a key to unraveling it.”

“Unraveling it?” you echoed, a knot forming in your throat.

Strange nodded grimly. “The Core Thread isn’t just the foundation. If it were severed or tampered with, the entire multiverse could collapse. Every reality, every version of existence, gone.”

You stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in. “So… no pressure, then.”

“This isn’t a joke,” Strange said sharply, his tone cutting through your attempt at humor. “If this masked figure is trying to manipulate you—or worse, if they want to use you—you need to be extremely cautious.”

“Well, what do I do?” you asked, your voice rising slightly. “I didn’t ask for this. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to look for or where to start!”

Strange sighed, rubbing his temple. “First, we stabilize your connection to the multiverse. If you’re experiencing these visions and interacting with threads of other realities, we need to ensure you don’t destabilize this one—or yourself. After that…” He hesitated, his gaze darkening. “We figure out who this figure is and why they’re targeting you.”

You swallowed hard, the enormity of the situation pressing down on you. “And what happens if we don’t?”

Strange’s silence spoke volumes.

The weight of Strange’s silence was unbearable, and frustration bubbled up inside you, threatening to spill over. You slammed your hands on the table, the sudden sound making Strange look up sharply.

“That’s it?” you yelled, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and anger. “That’s your big plan? Stabilize me and hope for the best? I just had visions of my entire existence unraveling, some masked psycho basically told me the multiverse is hanging by a thread—my thread—and you’re telling me to calm down and wait?”

Strange straightened, his expression cool, but his fingers twitched slightly—a tell you’d picked up on, though you weren’t sure what it meant. 

“I’m telling you,” he said evenly, “to stop letting your emotions dictate your actions. Panic won’t solve anything.”

“Panic?” you shot back, your voice rising. “I’m not panicking—I’m freaking out because I have no idea what’s happening to me, and you’re acting like this is just another Tuesday!”

His composure cracked, if only slightly, and his voice turned sharp.

 “Because if I indulged your panic, this entire dimension could collapse under your instability! You don’t even realize the danger you’re in—or the danger you pose!”

“I didn’t ask for any of this!” you snapped, standing abruptly. Energy crackled faintly at your fingertips, unintentional but volatile.

 “You think I want to be some cosmic anomaly, pulled into a world I barely understand? Maybe if you stopped lecturing me for five seconds and actually helped—“

Before you could finish, Strange’s hand flicked upward in a precise motion, a glowing sigil forming at his fingertips. The energy hit you before you could react, and suddenly everything shifted.

[father-dark-depths]

Chapter 3: Harmonizing

As twilight deepened around the ancient shrine, Che Ri discovered that organizing Da Di's accumulated treasures required more than mere physical effort. Each object demanded its own specific approach, its own ritual of understanding.

"Master," she said, holding up a black iron kettle crusted with centuries of tea residue, "this one resists my touch. When I try to clean it, my qi seems to slide off its surface."

Da Di looked up from his sweeping. "Ah, the Void Emperor's last gift. It was forged from a falling star and tempered in the tears of a thousand bereaved immortals. Of course it resists you—it has forgotten how to trust."

"How does one earn the trust of a kettle?"

"The same way one earns the trust of the void itself. Sit with it. Share your pain with it. The Void Emperor used it to brew tea of forgetting, to ease his grief when his beloved ascended without him." Da Di's eyes grew distant. "Some say he still wanders the cosmos, searching for her."

Che Ri settled onto the floor, cradling the kettle in her lap. As she synced her breathing with Da Di's, she felt the kettle's resistance slowly melt away. Beneath the crust of ages, she sensed an infinite darkness, a hunger born of loss.

"That's it," Da Di murmured. "Let it taste your understanding. Let it know that you, too, comprehend the void between hearts."

The kettle grew warm in her hands, and suddenly she could see its history—countless tea ceremonies performed in the spaces between realms, each cup a small mercy granted to those burdened by immortal memory. She began to weep, her tears falling into the kettle's depths, and where they landed, the ancient residue dissolved, revealing metal that shimmered like liquid night.

"Good," said Da Di. "Now you may use it to brew the Tea of Midnight Dreams. But first—" he gestured at a collection of scrolls that appeared to be nothing but dust held together by hope, "—those need to be read."

"Read? But Master, they'll crumble at a touch."

"Time has made them shy. They must be read with the eyes of your qi, not your mortal sight. Let your essence flow over the surface, like morning dew on a spider's web. The words will rise to meet you."

Che Ri spent hours learning this new way of reading, her qi becoming as gentle as a spring breeze. The scrolls, she discovered, contained poetry written by stars in their dying moments, each verse a testament to the beauty of impermanence.

When she reached for a particularly ancient scroll, Da Di raised his hand. "Not that one. Not yet. It contains the last thoughts of the First Cultivator, who rose in a primordial world very far from this one. Even I read it only once every thousand years. Its truth is too heavy for your current cultivation base."

As days passed, Che Ri learned that every object in the shrine served as both teacher and lesson. A cracked jade cup taught her how to pour tea across dimensions. A rusted bell showed her how to sing to sleeping gods. A drawer full of autumn leaves, each collected from a different era, helped her understand the subtle variations in time's flow.

But the most challenging lesson came when Da Di handed her a simple bamboo broom.

"Sweep," he said.

"Like you do, Master?"

"Yes. But I cannot teach you, or else you will become only a poor, empty reflection. Find your own way. Each sweep should reflect your understanding of the eternal. My way is not exactly the same as yours, though we are mirrors. Through each other we will find our shared truth."

She spent nine days learning to sweep. At first, she tried to copy Da Di's technique, but the leaves refused to move for her. Then she attempted to impose her will through qi manipulation, only to have the leaves scatter chaotically.

On the tenth day, as frustration threatened to overwhelm her, she felt it—the subtle dance between intention and acceptance, the perfect balance between action and allowing. The leaves began to move with her sweeping, not because she commanded them, but because they chose to participate in her understanding of order.

"Now you begin to grasp it," Da Di said, watching her work. "To be my mirror is not to copy my actions, but to reflect my essence through your own nature. Like these treasures, each with their own way of being, you must find your unique expression of the eternal."

A comfortable silence fell between them as master and disciple swept together, their movements creating patterns of qi that rippled through multiple realms. Outside, Um'Bi consumed the shadows cast by their brooms, while Pe'Ni's eyes tracked the invisible currents of power their sweeping generated.

Finally, the old Master’s eyes betrayed approval as their movements grew closer and closer, and a harmony arose between the two. It was almost time for the next step - the step where their bodies would touch, where they would truly learn each others’ truths.

****

As master and disciple swept in perfect harmony, their movements becoming a dance of synchronized qi, Da Di nodded with quiet satisfaction. The shrine itself seemed to respond to their unified rhythm—dust motes glowing like tiny stars, ancient artifacts humming with renewed energy, the very air between them growing thick with potential.

"Tomorrow," Da Di said softly, "we begin the Ceremony of Mirrored Souls. When our bodies join in cultivation, our essences will truly begin to merge."

Che Ri felt a shiver of anticipation run through her. Since drinking the soul tea, she had felt his presence within her, but it was like hearing a melody from a distant room—recognizable but incomplete. The thought of their energies fully intertwining made her cultivation base tremble with anticipation.

"I am ready, Master," she whispered, her eyes meeting his.

The moment of connection was shattered by a harsh voice from outside the shrine.

"By order of Elder Liu, emerge and face questioning!"

Pe'Ni's spectral form bristled, her golden eyes flaring with predatory intent. Um'Bi coiled tighter around the shrine's perimeter, the shadows deepening to an impenetrable black.

Da Di did not look up from his sweeping. "It seems," he said with mild annoyance, "that we have guests."

Che Ri peered through a crack in the shrine's wall. Outside stood five disciples in the elite uniform of the Liu family's personal guard. Their leader, a square-faced cultivator with cold eyes, held an ornate command tablet bearing Elder Liu's seal.

"We have traced Young Master Liu's last movements to this location," the leader called out. "Surrender the fairy disciple Che Ri and cooperate with our investigation, or face the consequences!"

Da Di's expression remained unchanged, but Che Ri felt a subtle shift in his qi—like the first tremor before an avalanche. "These mundane concerns," he murmured, "are so tiresome."

"Master," Che Ri said hesitantly, "should I speak with them?"

Da Di considered for a moment, then nodded. "Yes. But remember who you are now. You are no longer merely Che Ri the fairy disciple. You are my mirror, my mate, my eternal complement. Act accordingly."

Che Ri straightened her robes and stepped toward the entrance. Um'Bi reluctantly parted its shadowy form, creating a narrow passage for her to walk through. As she emerged from the shrine, the five guards tensed, their hands moving to the spirit swords at their waists.

The leader's eyes widened. The Che Ri who stood before him was not the same fairy disciple known throughout the sect. Though her features remained unchanged, her presence had transformed entirely. Her skin seemed to glow with an inner light that was both ancient and new, and her eyes held depths that made him instinctively want to look away.

"You seek Young Master Liu," she said, her voice carrying an authority that seemed to resonate with the mountain itself.

"Yes," the leader replied, struggling to maintain his composure. "His honored father demands answers. Were you the last to see him alive?"

Che Ri's lips curved in a smile that mirrored Da Di's enigmatic expression perfectly. "Young Master Liu no longer exists in the form you knew him. His essence has been... repurposed."

The guards exchanged uneasy glances. "What do you mean by that?" demanded the leader.

"He sought to possess what was not his to take," Che Ri said simply. "He believed his status granted him ownership of whatever he desired. He was mistaken."

The leader's face darkened. "Are you confessing to harming the young master?"

"I? No." Che Ri gestured toward the shrine behind her. "My master, however, found his heart unworthy."

At that moment, a cold wind swept through the clearing, carrying with it the scent of ashes and bitter tea. The guards shivered involuntarily.

"You will come with us to explain this to Elder Liu," the leader said, trying to sound authoritative despite the growing dread in his stomach.

Che Ri laughed, the sound like distant wind chimes. "I answer only to my master now. But you may deliver a message to Elder Liu." She took a step closer, and despite himself, the leader took a step back. "Tell him that his son attempted to violate the sanctuary of the Ancient Immortal. Tell him that his son's heart was found wanting and has been cleansed from this world. And tell him that if he values the continuation of his bloodline, he will seek no further answers."

The air around her rippled with power, and for a brief moment, the guards glimpsed something behind her—the towering shadow of Da Di, ancient and vast, his eyes containing the birth and death of countless stars.

"This mountain stood before your sect was founded," Che Ri continued, her voice growing softer yet somehow more terrifying. "It will stand long after your sect is dust. Do not test the patience of one who has swept these steps for a thousand years."

The leader swallowed hard, cold sweat beading on his forehead. Without another word, he gave a quick bow and retreated, his subordinates following closely behind.

As they disappeared down the mountain path, Che Ri felt Da Di's presence behind her.

"You spoke well," he said. "But they will return with greater forces."

"Let them come," she replied, turning to face him. "What are they compared to us?"

Da Di's eyes crinkled with amusement. "Spoken like a true immortal's mate." He extended his hand to her. "Come. The interruption changes nothing. It is still time for us to begin the next phase of our union."

As she placed her hand in his, feeling the ancient power that pulsed beneath his weathered skin, Che Ri knew that whatever forces Elder Liu might send against them would find only leaves scattered by an autumn wind—and perhaps, if they were truly unfortunate, the hungry shadows of Um'Bi and the merciless gaze of Pe'Ni.

The door of the shrine closed behind them, sealing them in their private eternity, as the first messengers of conflict hurried down the mountain to report their disturbing findings.

[es46]

Found a sketch based on Monster Hunter I did a few years ago, decided to give it some screentime. Apologies for poor quality, but this one has a fond place in my heart. The basis of its design is dragonfly nymphs and webspinners. - NEOPHA CERRA Title - Larval beetle Monster class - Neopteran Known locales - Cold regions (e.g Hoarfrost Reach, Frost Islands) Element/Ailment - Sleep + Webbed Elemental weakness - Water (3), Fire (2), Dragon (2), Ice (1), Thunder (1) Ailment weakness - Paralysis (3), Sleep (1), Blast (1), Poison (1), Stun (1) Neopha Cerra is a neopteran endemic to cold climates. It is easily identified by its silvery-white exoskeleton and the myriad spines lining its abdomen, ending in reinforced cerci. The central and hind limbs are sturdy and allow Neopha Cerra effective mobility in each direction, whilst its forelimbs are used for handling and silk production. Its black eyes and antennae are highly sensitive to motion. Wandering the tundra and coastlines, it is a reclusive herbivore that makes use of its extendable labium to dig beneath ice and rock in search of lichens, tubers, and other forms of flora. Some ecologists contend that it is better defined as a detritivore, as Neopha Cerra will feed on carrion. Regardless, Neopha Cerra is considered docile and has never been known to attack humans unprovoked. Some researchers suggest it may be a potential endeavour to attempt domestication, though currently this is considered unreasonable by the Guild. Neopha Cerra is skittish, however, and field workers are advised to avoid sudden movements or getting too close lest the neopteran interpret the action as aggression. Neopha Cerra relies on camouflage for defence; by lying very still, it resembles a frosted rock, avoiding the attention of most predators. Its exoskeleton is significantly reinforced compared to most neopterans; it is difficult for an attacker to find purchase on its spiny form, never mind have the strength to crush through its shell. If pushed to actively defend itself, Neopha Cerra will either strike with its labium or turn its back and charge the attacker with its reinforced cerci. Neopha Cerra's forelegs contain silk glands that can be launched from its tarsus; this webbing maintains liquidity long enough to spray onto the attacker before solidfying, hindering movement. Its most effective defence are the spines on its abdomen, which contain a potent sedative. Attackers attempting to bite Neopha Cerra's abdomen are quickly dazed by the sedative. In summation, Neopha Cerra is an exceptional defensive profile that will take the opportunity to flee as soon as the attacker is webbed or sedated. Neopha Cerra is a lower ranked monsters (Low Rank -2, High/Master Rank - 1). Despite this, it is not ideal for practicing hunters. The defensive integrity and preference for retreat makes Neopha Cerra a frustrating target. Most predators in its environment prefer to avoid the hassle of contending with its hard spiny shell and webbing. The exception is Neopha Cerra's nemesis, a brute wyvern named Frezarion dedicated to preying on arthropods. Resilient against sedation and with liquid emissions to dissolve webbing, Frezarion is well-equipped to handle Neopha Cerra. While stronger individuals have a chance to repel the brute wyvern, Frezarion is the principle reason many Neopha Cerra never reach adulthood. But those that do reap their reward. Neopha Cerra is the larval state of a neopteran named Zykitin Cerra. In contrast to the passive nymph, Zykitin Cerra is an aggressive herbivore strong enough to contend with the likes of Legiana. Zykitin Cerra don't always remain in cold climates, but those that do are remarkably altruistic, leaping to the defence of any Neopha Cerra in distress. Zykitin Cerra is itself the nemesis to Frezarion, and any field worker seeking to research/ hunt Neopha Cerra must ensure Zykitin Cerra is not in the area. - Thank you for reading and take care.

[disco-elysium-via-polls]

"You mean, there is an immortal geologist wandering the world?"

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - "Yes, and she's quite mad too -- after she treated herself with the bacteria, she stopped ageing, but also became increasingly eccentric and irascible, so that even her oldest friends were forced to pull away..."

"We can assume that she has been living somewhere in the wilderness for decades now, all alone except for the *Cryobacter katlensis* coursing through her bloodstream..."

3. "What's the most dangerous cryptid?"

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - "The Gnome of Geroma." She pauses for effect.

"The Gnome of Geroma? That sounds terrifying."

"The Gnome of Geroma? That doesn't sound too bad."

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - "Oh -- it is. None of its victims survived. Grieving relatives never even found their bodies because the Gnome's venom *dissolved* organic tissue."

"What did this cryptid look like?"

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - "It *was* reportedly a small creature -- with webbed fingers and a protruding forehead. An ungainly little thing. Quite scary to look at."

"A couple of campers found it when it was already dying. They heard an odd wailing in the woods and followed the sound. They were scared and wrapped it in tarpaulin to suffocate it."

She looks at you, her voice grave suddenly. "It still took the Gnome of Geroma an entire *day* to die."

KIM KITSURAGI - "If the body of the creature was found," the lieutenant can't help himself, "why aren't there detailed illustrations of it in science textbooks? Confirming the existence of this very lethal species?"

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - "Alas, the first scientist who got his hands on the creature's corpse put it in a jar of formaldehyde, thinking that would detoxify the Gnome's venom."

Instead, all the venom leaked out of the creature's teeth and into the surrounding liquid, dissolving the creature itself. A poetic end, perhaps, but a real loss for science..." she says, mostly to herself.

4. "Is that a cryptid on this pen you gave me?" (Take out the pen she gave you.)

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - "Yes! It's the kind green ape. Half war story, half undiscovered species in the genus homo."

"War story?"

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - "Yes. It was reported by soldiers in South Safre during the war. The kind green ape would visit bunkers during the night, healing wounded soldiers with its saliva."

"Wow. With it's saliva?"

"And there was something about an undiscovered sub-species of man?"

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - "Yes. It has amazing healing qualities. Some soldiers reported growing back limbs, regaining their sight..."

"And there was something about an undiscovered sub-species of man?"

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - "Indeed there is! It's our closest relative among the cryptids. Same taxonomic family, different genus."

"Which is to say, the kind green ape is a species with which we share a common ancestor and that evolved parallel to our own -- just like your partner's!"

"I knew it, Kim! You're not human!"

"I'm pretty sure Kim is the same species as us... to suggest otherwise is stupid."

"Hah, that's why I always have to take the lead -- right, Kim?"

KIM KITSURAGI - The lieutenant looks at you, pleasantly surprised.

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - "Oh, no, I didn't mean to imply that Seolites are inferior to us. In many ways," she turns to the lieutenant, "you are superior. For example, your earwax doesn't have a foul odour like ours does."

KIM KITSURAGI - "A tremendous evolutionary advantage, I'm sure. But perhaps we've had enough speculative biology for today?"

5. "Are there any *invisible* cryptids?"

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - "What an interesting question! And the answer is: yes, there are!"

KIM KITSURAGI - "Of course. All fairy tales have someone or something invisible in them."

"You're right, Kim, it's childish, but I need to know."

"Shush, Kim, she's gonna tell me about the invisible cryptid. What is it?"

KIM KITSURAGI - "Okay. I won't spoil your fun," the lieutenant concedes. "What is the invisible cryptid?"

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - "It's the *Col Do Ma Ma Daqua*," the woman corrects her glasses. "Its name means 'thin whisper of sound'. And that's *precisely* what it is -- self-replicating sound waves, invisible and intangible! The Col Do Ma Ma is very afraid of us, which makes it incredibly difficult to track..."

"What does it, um, sound like?"

"Could it be *here*?" (Look around.) "Right now?"

"What evidence is there of this animal being a sound?"

"Why is the Ma Ma Daqua so afraid of us?"

"Interesting. What about..." (Conclude.)

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - "Like nothing. It's such a high-pitched sound that us humans can't hear it -- nor can other animals. It could be ringing right outside your window -- and you wouldn't even know it! It could be anywhere -- everywhere, even..."

KIM KITSURAGI - "Fine I'll bite." The lieutenant looks at her sceptically. "How can an animal be a sound?"

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - "Many scientists have asked the same question -- some have claimed that it isn't *itself* a sound, but a tiny *corpuscle* that emits sound waves. But there's no evidence to support this theory."

2. "Could it be *here*?" (Look around.) "Right now?"

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - "It could be," she says calmly. "As I said, it could be *everywhere*, and we wouldn't know any better. It could be ringing all the days of our lives -- *and* nights."

3. "What evidence is there of this animal being a sound?"

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - "Plenty. It's the evidence that led to its discovery. In the Twenties, a group of Areopagite ornithologists -- that is, scientists who study birds -- were trying out a new recording technology for capturing sounds outside the range of human hearing."

"When playing back recordings they had made in the foothills of the Ea mountain range, they noticed... certain anomalies -- patterns that seemed random at first, but, on closer examination, were consistent with the waveforms of song birds..."

"Mhm, song birds."

Just nod eagerly.

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - "The scientists soon discovered they could track and even *predict* what appeared to be feeding, mating, and migration patterns based on sound waves in a *strictly delimited* range of ultrasonic frequencies -- even higher than those of the highest-pitched bat calls."

SUGGESTION [Medium: Success] - She *transforms* when speaking about these strange animals -- into a confident woman.

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - "They realized that they had discovered a new species -- and called it the Col Do Ma Ma Daqua. After the Perikarnassian name for the voice of god, which is said to be *very* silent."

"Wow."

"Go on."

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - "Mhm. They grew quite obsessed with these little birds -- even though they couldn't see them, they could distinguish among individual birds and," she smiles, "even began to *name* some of them."

"Name them?"

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - "Sequester. Thyme. Josquin --" She nods. "Those are but some of the Ma Ma Daqua they followed individually."

4. "Why is the Ma Ma Daqua so afraid of us?"

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - "That is a sad story." She frowns. "A group of university students assisting with the field work, in their enthusiasm for the project and, no doubt, because they were preoccupied with impressing their professors, nearly drove it to *extinction*."

"Extinction?"

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - She nods gravely. "They tried to communicate with it, and had no other means but sound. So they started sending out sound waves at frequencies they thought might match the Ma Ma Daqua's. And what happens when a sound wave meets another sound wave of the same frequency, dear?"

SUGGESTION [Medium: Success] - This lady really should be a teacher. She's really good at the explaining things thing.

"They cancel each other out."

"They amplify each other."

"I don't know."

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - "Exactly... And these tests were performed so recklessly that when they happened upon the right frequency... well, they wiped out most of the population."

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] - Great regret washes over her. A wending cloth.

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - "After that, the corpuscle appears to have migrated elsewhere. There have been recordings of anomalies similar to those spotted in Ea -- but they've been few and far between. It's impossible to confirm the presence of any stable Col Do Ma Ma Daqua population anywhere."

KIM KITSURAGI - "Of course. A common thread in these -- disappearance and unfalsifiability..." He concedes: "I liked the story, though, ma'am."

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - "I'm glad you did, dear." She seems genuinely glad.

5. "Interesting. What about..." (Conclude.)

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - She smiles gently. "What about what?"

6. "Man, I just can't get enough of these cryptids."

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE - She grins. "I'm glad you liked them, but I'm not really one to tell you about *all* of them. You should ask my husband if you get the chance. He's the real expert."

6. "That's all for now, ma'am." [Leave.]

Let's follow up with Garte about the phone.

GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER - "Can I help you?" He arches an eyebrow.

2. "Garte, I saw another *thing* at the Whirling..."

GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER - "Another thing -- great. I love those."

2. "So the phone line is dead?"

GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER - "Yes, and the phone company is taking its sweet time sending someone to fix it." He shakes his head and adds: "Losers."

"That's pretty strange."

"Is it true that there was foul play?"

GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER - "It's not *strange*, it's inconvenient."

"Is it true that there was foul play?"

GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER - He wrinkles his nose. "Who told you that?"

"Lena."

"I would never disclose my sources. That would be dishonourable."

"It doesn't matter. I just want to know who you suspect."

GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER - "Fine, yeah, it looked like someone had messed with the wiring. It was shortly after the hanging, but I don't know if it's at all related... Plenty of assholes around here who aren't murderers."

"If you do find out who cut the line, though, let me know so I can forward them the repair bill."

4. "Good bye." [Leave.]

The tomatoes are so thinly sliced, you can see through them.

GORACY KUBEK - A thin man is smoking below an exhaust hood, occasionally sipping from his mug. This must be the Whirling's cook.

As you step in, he nods towards the table and says something in a completely foreign language. The only words you can make out are 'gorący' and 'kubek'.

LOGIC [Medium: Failure] - It must be his name. Gorący, Gorący Kubek... Sounds representative.