#trigger in database

[chaosringvows]

huh, just lost a follower.............

[angelysalt]

i should start tagging my posts again but i have become so lazy. learning that the built-in tumblr tag blocker also uses the tags from OP didn't help any lol

[flowersforbucky]

moth to a flame

bucky barnes x reader / winter soldier x reader

"I know you. even when I know nothing else, even when I don't know myself, I know you."

word count: 4.9k

summary: bucky is triggered into the winter soldier during a mission and then goes MIA, until he seeks you out in the middle of the night.

warnings/tags: SMUT, canon divergence (bucky hasn't been successfully deprogrammed in this), kind of dub-con, language, some violence, reader is afab, no use of y/n, friends with benefits situation, angst with a happy ending, 18+ only

“You've reached Bucky. I can't answer the phone right now but leave me a mess–”

You hang up before the voicemail recording finishes. You already knew he wasn't going to answer, just as he hasn't answered any of the other thirty-something times you've dialed his number over the course of the last few days. Or read any of the two dozen text messages.

The messages had stopped delivering and the calls had started going straight to voicemail almost two days ago at this point. And yet you still got your hopes up every time you checked your phone, only to be met with gut-wrenching, nauseating disappointment.

It had now been three days of this - not to mention picking your cuticles until they bleed, flipping back and forth between every news station on your TV in hopes (and fear) of seeing his name, a few collective hours of sleep each night, and too much Red Bull.

Just when you were thinking about trying to kick your caffeine addiction, too.

Three days of feeling completely and utterly helpless.

You place the phone back down on your coffee table, staring down at the thick, white cast encasing your left leg from your foot to just under your knee.

Useless.

You knew you were doing what you physically could - the spread of laptops and tablets on the table in front of you continuously supplying data from facial recognition programs across the United States.

Realistically, you knew he could be on the other side of the world by now, but that didn't stop you from checking. It was the only thing that you felt you had any control over right now.

But it wasn't enough. Not when Steve, Sam, Natasha, Sharon, and every other currently able-bodied team member are out scouring every safehouse and known former HYDRA base in the tri-state area while you're holed up in your apartment with a fractured fibula and a brain that won't let you stop reliving the moments before he went missing.

“This is as straightforward as it gets,” Steve re-assures you both for what felt like the dozenth time that day. “You'll be in and out in no time.”

“So straight-forward that you're going to hang back here while we do all the dirty work?” You joke as you make the final adjustments to your parachute.

“We've been monitoring this base for months,” he reminds you. “This place is as abandoned as they come. Get in, get the intel from the database, and get back to the jet.”

“And then blow the place to smithereens,” Bucky adds with a devious grin.

“And then blow the place to smithereens,” Steve agrees.

If only things had been as simple as he had expected.

You had a bad feeling in the pit of your stomach from the moment that you and Bucky landed on the ground outside of the HYDRA base. You told yourself that you were being irrational - but you couldn't shake the looming feeling that something was going to go wrong.

“See?” Bucky says after removing the USB drive from the computer. He sticks the device in the breast pocket of his tactical vest before edging you towards the desk. “Easy-peasy. You've been worried for nothing.”

“I have not been worried,” you deny, leaning against the edge of the desk. “This place is just old, and smelly, and creepy.”

Bucky takes a step closer to you so that there's no space left between you. He places his hands on the desk on either side of you, enclosing you.

“You think that I can't tell when you're nervous?” He says quietly, studying your face. You can smell a lingering hint of cool mint from his mouthwash. “That I haven't spent enough time learning your body to read you like an open book?”

Your thighs clench together and your nipples pebble at his words. You're almost embarrassed at how easily his voice, his scent, his closeness elicits a physical response from your body. Almost.

“What I think,” you murmur against his mouth. His hands come to grip your hips as he nudges your thighs open, standing between your legs. “Is you're crazy if you're thinking about trying to fuck me in an abandoned HYDRA warehouse.”

He exhales a dramatic sigh. “You can't blame me for trying.”

“I am relieved to know that you'd even want to do that here,” you say, hopping down from where you're perched on the desk. “I really think that shows you've processed your trauma–”

You're cut off by the room going completely dark. Every light, every computer, turns to black.

Bucky's flesh hand instinctively reaches to grab your wrist in the dark, tugging you to him.

“What the fuck,” he groans under his breath.

“We need to get out of–” you start to state the obvious but close your mouth when the computer that you and Bucky had retrieved the data from turns back on.

And then a computer to the right - and then across the room - and another to the right - and one to left - until every computer is on and showing the exact same screen. Bucky's hand grips yours so tightly that it borders on being painful.

Displayed on dozens of screens throughout the room is the face of a man. A man who you've never met, but recognize immediately.

“Zola,” Bucky whispers almost inaudibly.

“Sergeant Barnes,” Zola addresses him with a perverted smile. “Welcome home,” his voice pours from every computer speaker throughout the room and echoes off the walls.

“Steve?” You whisper urgently, clicking on the communication device hidden in your ear. “Steve, we've got a prob–”

“There's no use in that,” Zola interrupts you. “It's too late. They're almost here.”

The following sixty seconds were a jumbled blur that you were still trying to piece together in your mind.

You remember hearing the stream of words spoken in Russian.

Longing. Rusted. Seventeen.

You remember Bucky screaming at you to run, the sound of Steve's voice in your ear telling you that back-up was on the way and asking a dozen questions that you were too overwhelmed to respond to.

Daybreak. Furnace. Nine.

You remember begging Steve to hurry. You remember pleading with Bucky to come with you to try to get away; pleading with him to just look at you, just stay with you, help is coming -

Benign. Homecoming. One.

You remember the moment that Bucky went completely still as the room was infiltrated by HYDRA agents.

Freight car.

You knew that Bucky wasn't there anymore. You could sense it in his stance, in the way he wouldn't meet your eyes, in his silence.

Before you could say anything else to him, close to a dozen HYDRA agents came barreling towards you both. He charged through them, taking down one after the next with ease, until there were just a few left standing.

It was a side of Bucky you'd never seen. You thought that you had witnessed his strength, his agility, his determination, his ruthlessness working beside him in this field - but you then saw just how much he had been holding back.

He fled past the remaining few, out the door and down the hallway of the warehouse. The agents turned to follow him, forgetting about you - until you threw a knife directly into one's neck from behind.

Another agent shot at you, the blow hitting your bulletproof vest and sending you flying backwards onto hard cement.

Before you could catch your breath, there was a sharp cracking noise and a blinding pain radiating from your lower leg - but it was short lived.

The last thing you recall is the man's boot swinging towards your face.

You woke up some number of hours later, in a hospital bed with your temple throbbing and leg elevated in a cast.

“Hey,” a soft voice calls from your right. Natasha stands up from the singular chair in the room, both concern and relief evident across her features. “You're okay,” she begins to assure you. “You have a concussion and a fractured–”

“Where's Bucky?” You interrupt her, your voice scratchy. You clear your throat. “Is he okay? Did Steve find him? Did HYDRA get–”

“HYDRA didn't get him. Steve took care of the last of the agents after him,” she stops you from rambling. There's an immediate sense of relief wash over you.

“But we haven't found him yet,” she adds carefully. “Everyone is out searching for him now. You know we won't stop until–”

A gentle knock on your apartment door snaps you back to reality.

You freeze, your heart jumping to your throat. You stand as quickly as you can manage, grabbing your crutches propped up next to you on the couch.

“It's just me,” a feminine voice calls from the other side of the door. Your heart goes from your throat to your stomach. Not him.

“I'm sorry, I should have text you first,” Natasha continues. “But I brought you food. Street tacos from–”

You turn the deadbolt and unhook the chain lock before swinging the door open.

“You look–”

“Like hammered shit?” You finish for her, nodding your head towards the inside of the apartment as indication for her to come in.

“I was going to say exhausted,” she says, walking past you with a large paper sack of take-out food. Your stomach growls at the aroma - when was the last time you ate something more than a bowl of cereal or granola bar?

“Your favorite,” she tells you, placing the bag on the kitchen counter. “Extra salsa verde and lime wedges. Have you gotten any sleep recently?” Her eyes skim across the empty energy drink cans littered around the kitchen.

You maneuver yourself onto one of the barstools at the kitchen's small island, leaning your crutches on the edge of the counter.

“Yes,” you mumble. “For forty-five minutes from 2:30 to 3:15 today.”

She lets out a long groan, rolling her eyes at you.

“You're supposed to be healing from a concussion,” she reminds you, taking a seat for herself. “Which generally doesn't include sleep deprivation and excessive use of computer screens.” She stares in the direction of the array of laptops that overcrowd the limited space of your coffee table.

“Did you find anything in Connecticut? What about Sam, is he back from New Jersey?” You ask, ignoring her concerns as you unbox your food.

“Connecticut was a dead-end,” she sighs. “We're still waiting to hear back from Sam. There's a safehouse up in Vermont that Steve wants to head to tomorrow–”

“You don't think there's a chance of him letting me tag along for that, do you?” You tap the edge of your cast against the base of the island with your foot.

Her eyes soften as she looks at you. You already knew the answer.

“I know this is really hard for you,” she says delicately. “I may not know exactly what has been going on between you and Barnes these last few months, but it's obvious you care a lot for him. We all do. We are going to find him and bring him home,” she assures you.

You nod at her in agreement, not quite trusting your voice enough to speak.

Your eyes sting as you attempt to blink away the tears that threaten to spill over. You had yet to allow yourself to spend any time crying these last few days and you didn't wish to start now.

Her words remind you that no one knows exactly why you are taking Bucky's disappearance so harshly. You assume that your friends have their suspicions about your and Bucky's arrangement but the two of you had agreed to keep it between yourselves.

They didn't know it had started off being a weekly occurrence - late Sunday evenings, your apartment. Or how it had quickly escalated from once a week to twice, and then from two times a week to three - and instead of just your apartment, it would happen anywhere the two of you had a private (and sometimes public) moment - up against the wall of the communal showers at the compound's gym, in the back of the Quinjet after missions while everyone else would be sleeping on the flight back home, even during team meetings with his hand creeping between your thighs while you try to stay quiet enough to not draw any attention to yourselves.

They didn't know you were supposed to be friends with benefits but that at some point during the days and nights spent underneath one another, the line between friends and something more became blurry for you.

You had just been too chickenshit to tell him.

Natasha sits across from you as you inhale the Mexican food that she brought you. She doesn't say anything else, just keeps you company in a comfortable silence as you eat your first legitimate meal in days.

“Thank you,” you tell her as you're finishing your food. “I appreciate you. I've been going a little crazy here by myself,” you add meekly.

“Of course.” She stands back up. “I would stay longer, but I've got to prepare for Vermont. We're leaving early in the morning.”

“Be safe. All of you,” you remind her. “Let me know if you guys find anything. Just tell me if there's anything at all I can do. And please let me know when you hear from Sam–”

“You'll be the first to know when there's anything to know,” she assures you gently.

“Thanks, Nat.”

“You just try to get some rest, okay?” She requests as she walks toward the door. “Maybe drink some water, possibly consider taking a nice, long shower…”

“Goodbye, Natasha.”

She's chuckling as she closes the door behind her.

You lower your nose to your armpit as soon as the door clicks shut, inhaling.

Maybe she makes a valid point about showering.

Half an hour later, there's a heavy rain beating against the windows of your apartment when you finish bathing. You secure a towel around your chest before yanking off the garbage bag that you had wrapped around your cast well enough for you to rinse off.

Belly full and body clean, you felt somewhat better; at least physically.

You listen to the rain pound down as you sit on the edge of the bathtub, massaging lotion into your skin, and wonder where Bucky is right now - if he's safe, if it's raining wherever he's at, if he's somewhere dry -

You come to a sudden halt in the middle of brushing your teeth. It's hard to tell over the deafening roar of the rain and your bathroom fan, but you could have sworn you heard the creaking of a door or window from your living room.

I double checked the door locks after Nat left, you rationalize to yourself. This apartment is on the fourth floor, no one is going to climb the fire escapes to–

There's an unmistakable shadow visible through the crack at the bottom of the bathroom door. It's gone as quickly as it appears.

Shit. You start to panic as you realize you left your cell phone in the kitchen. As quietly as you can, you look around the small room for something to defend yourself with. A hair dryer, dental floss, a few week’s worth of dirty laundry..

You hear the creaking of floorboards as footsteps seem to creep closer and closer to the bathroom door.

Crutches. You have two crutches. You can clobber them with your crutches.

“I can hear you,” you call to whoever is just beyond the door. “I know you’re out there.”

Silence. No hint of any further movement.

You place one crutch under your left armpit for support, keeping the other one ready to wield as a weapon. “You have ten seconds to get out of my apartment,” you say a bit louder, willing your voice not to waver. “I have a weapon.”

Yeah, a weapon. If you can call it that.

Ten seconds come and go, followed by another ten seconds.

You weren’t going to let someone play this game with you in your own home.

Taking one last deep breath and tightening your grip on the defense crutch, you sling the bathroom door open quickly.

“Oh my god,” you exclaim, immediately relaxing your weight against the crutches, releasing the death grip that you had on your uninjured side.

It’s dark in your bedroom save for a few pale orange string lights hung around your bed frame and the light that spills in from the bathroom, but you would recognize his broad frame anywhere.

“Thank fuck you’re okay,” you exhale, swinging yourself over to where he stands at the foot of your bed. When you’re a little over a foot away from him, you realize he’s sopping wet - his hair dripping water droplets and his skin dewy. His clothing, the same clothing that you last saw him in three days ago, clings to his body like a second skin.

He remains still as a statue, and as silent as one.

“Are you okay?” You ask him apprehensively. You give him a once over, from head to toe. You don't see any noticeable injuries, but he is trembling.

“Bucky?” You ask in a small voice.

His lips are set in a hard line. He doesn't answer, just stares at you. Stares at you like he’s trying to figure out why he’s here.

Stares at you like he’s trying to decide if he knows you or not.

The immense relief that you had felt at knowing he's alive is washed away by a sinking feeling.

His eyes trail from your face and slowly down your towel-clad body. He pauses when he gets to your foot, glancing back and forth from your cast to the crutches on either side. His brows furrow together - almost like he's in pain.

“I'm okay,” you assure him in a shaky voice. “It's just a fracture,” you explain. “I'll be healed in no time.”

You notice that his features relax a bit at your words - just enough to give you hope that Bucky, your Bucky, is in there and he's listening to you.

Do whatever you have to do to keep him here. Don't let him out of your sight. Help him remember who he is, your inner monologue screams at you. Just don't let him run away again.

“Are you cold?” You ask him. You're not necessarily expecting him to answer, you're just trying to put him at ease. “How about we get you some dry clothes?” You add, nodding towards his drenched henley.

You retreat into the bathroom, grabbing a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that he'd left over the last time he had stayed the night - the night before he went missing. They were at the top of the laundry basket - maybe not the cleanest, but better that the wet, dirty clothing he's in currently.

You limp your way back over to where he stands at your bed, leaning against the mattress for support. You set your crutches down and hand him the shirt and pants, which he hesitantly accepts. He makes no move to remove the wet clothes from his body, instead gently places the dry clothes onto the mattress beside him.

“Would you like some help?” you offer cautiously, terrified of doing anything that could cause him to run. You slowly reach towards the clothing that he had just placed on the bed, but he stops you before you can pick the t-shirt back up - grasping your wrist in his vibranium hand.

You can’t stop the small gasp that escapes past your lips. His hold on you is firm, but not painful. You could rip your hand from him if you wanted to - but you don’t.

Instead, you let him hold your hand as he begins to rub his metal thumb in a circular motion next to yours. You’re frozen; watching him carefully as he examines the movements his metal digit makes on your skin.

The goosebumps that appear in the wake of his touch don’t go unnoticed by him. His eyes trail from where his hand holds yours and up the expanse of your arm, until they land on your exposed neck. The towel covering your midsection has started to come loose, hanging low enough to reveal the top of your breasts.

He drops your hand, taking a step closer to you. You have to remind yourself to breathe - your Bucky is in there. Your Bucky, who is gentle, and soft, and would never do anything to cause you harm.

You have to trust that.

He brings his vibranium fingers up to the edge of the towel, trailing them across the mounds of your breasts. Your nipples harden right away, visible through the thin material of the towel.

You would let this play out however he wants it to. However he needs it to.

When his index finger stops where the towel is tucked into itself at your side, you forget how to breathe. He pauses for a split-second before unhooking the cloth and letting it fall to your feet.

He drinks in the sight of you bare before him, his jaw clenched and pupils dilated.

Dozens of times he has seen you like this, and never have you felt so completely vulnerable under his gaze.

And still there's a slickness gathering at the apex of your thighs.

He brings his flesh hand to your waist, putting the faintest bit of pressure against your skin. You close your eyes at the sensation - he's barely fucking touching you and you could melt into him.

Your name falls off of his lips - it's barely even a whisper, nearly inaudible but unmistakable. Your name. He remembers your name.

“Bucky,” your voice cracks when you whisper his own name back to him. His eyes snap up to yours, a mix of realization and hesitation brewing in them.

You bring both of your hands to the tail of his wet shirt, giving him time to pull away before you start to tug the shirt upwards. He doesn't stop you - in fact, he raises his own arms to help you tug the soaked fabric off of him. You toss the shirt in the general direction of your bathroom.

You didn't think there would ever come a time that the sight of him getting naked for you wouldn't make you want to drool.

You unsnap the button of his tactical pants, keeping your eyes on his face the whole time, hyper-analyzing his expression for any sign of reluctance.

You dip your fingers past the waistband of his boxers, his eyes fluttering closed as your hand travels lower.

He's already fully hard as you hold him, stroking him as best you can from inside the confines of his underwear and pants. You pump him in your hand and his head rolls back so that he's looking up at your ceiling.

Fuck, it takes all the restraint you possess to resist leaning forward and sucking on his neck.

Another time, you tell yourself, anxious about overwhelming him.

He curses under his breath - something in Russian that you don't recognize but the expression on his face indicates it to be a praise. There's a shift in his initially reserved, unsure demeanor when you begin to pump him faster.

His head snaps back down, his eyes raking up and down your body once more before he brings his hands to your lower back, maneuvering you against the bed.

You scoot until your back comes in contact with the cool satin of your pillows, relaxing into the bedding. At last Bucky begins to shed the layers of wet clothing covering his lower half, not taking his eyes off of your body as he removes his boots, followed by his pants and boxers.

He kneels on the mattress, crawling above where you lay. You want nothing more than to grab him by the shoulders and pull his mouth to yours, but you are going to let him call the shots.

He nudges your thighs apart with his knee, nestling himself between your legs. He grasps your breast in his vibranium hand, giving it a firm squeeze before rolling your nipple between his icy fingers.

He lowers himself so that he's belly down on your mattress, his face inches away from your pussy. He removes his hand from your breast and you let out a small whimper of disappointment at the abrupt lack of sensation. He uses that same hand to hike your uninjured leg over his shoulder, securing his head between the soft interior of your thighs.

He kisses you, starting at your belly button and working his way to your center. His lips feel like fire against your skin. You keep your hips planted firmly on the bed, fighting the urge to thrust your pussy up to his face.

“Please,” you whine. “Bucky, please.” You swear you can see the faintest trace of a smirk that looks so undeniably Bucky.

You clench your thighs around his face and he lets out a low, guttural groan as his mouth makes contact with you.

Normally, Bucky closes his eyes while he's going down on you - gets completely lost in it. Right now, his eyes are wide open - making sure he doesn't miss the way your mouth gapes when he rolls his tongue around your clit and the way your chest heaves when he nudges his tongue inside you.

You don't know which you find hotter.

You can already feel the tightening of a coil in your lower belly, making it impossible to resist rolling your hips to meet the torturous pace he's set with his tongue. You grind against his face, the thin layer of stubble that's grown across his jaw since you last saw him scratching against the sensitive flesh around your cunt.

You're approaching your climax when he pulls away, making you mewl at the loss of contact. His face glistens with your slick.

He flips you onto your side, placing you on your left side so that your injured leg rests against the mattress. You prop your head up with your hand as he slides in behind you.

His chest presses against your back, the heat of his body warming you all over. His flesh hand juts between your thighs, raising your right leg high enough for him to slap his cock against your pussy.

He strokes himself in his hand while he teases your folds - lubricating himself with your juices.

You turn your head to look at him right as he sheaths himself inside you, filling you entirely in one swift motion.

Fuck, you have to taste yourself on him. You can't handle not having his mouth on yours for another second.

You tilt your head back enough to connect your mouth to his - every worry you once had about coming on too strong and overwhelming him melts away as he opens his mouth for you, moving his lips against yours in an effortless rhythm.

He starts slow, quickly working up to a rapid pace as he repeatedly slams into your cervix from the sweetest angle. The sounds that you're making for him are pornographic - moaning into his mouth as his flesh hand comes around your front, landing on your engorged clitoris. He rubs languid circles while he continues to pound into you from behind.

You pull your lips away from his when you feel your orgasm building. “You always make me feel so good, you know that?” You ask him breathily, your mouth now right next to his ear.

“Every time you fuck me, I'm more sure that no one could ever compare to you. You've ruined me for everyone else. There’s only you for me.”

“Fuck,” he curses and groans your name again - it's the closest he's sounded to his normal self, which only spurs you on.

“I’ve become so fucking addicted to you in such a short amount of time,” you say in between moans as the head of his cock hits your sweet spot just right. “Think about you anytime you're not near me, drives me fucking crazy.”

He flips you - doesn't pull out - so that you're now underneath him. He goes right back to the same brutal pace, bringing his flesh hand to cradle your face as he stares down at you.

Clarity - you recognize it plain as day on his features.

He gives you a few more fast, hard thrusts before you're milking his cock through your orgasm. You crash your lips to his and he's coming - filling you up with his warm seed as he kisses you senseless.

He gradually stills inside you, his body going limp on top of yours as he rests his face in the crook of your neck. You wrap your arms around him, peppering kisses across his scarred shoulder, where flesh meets metal.

“I'm so sorry if I scared you,” he murmurs against the sweat-slicked skin of your throat after a moment. “I wasn't myself. Not even entirely sure how I ended up here - it's like I was pulled in this direction - to you,” he sighs.

You're overcome with such an immense relief at hearing him speak that you could cry. You tighten your hold around him, rubbing your hands up and down his back.

“You could never scare me, Bucky,” you assure him. He pulls out of you, rolling off of you onto the bed beside you and tugging you to his chest. Your cheek rests just over his heart.

"I know you. Even when I know nothing else, even when I don't know myself, I know you."

♡♡♡♡♡

my masterlist

thanks for reading! as always comments and reblogs are extremely appreciated!

[emacrow]

Bats don't know what to do as The Mockingbird and Time Mock them

That Edward Nygma wasn't a real person in the database or that the riddler actually got won one battle over Batman. Batman had tried to snoop through the apartment, but there was mostly always a person there alongside children.

Then there was a trigger of other rogues break out when there actually nobody in the apartment.

Not mentioning the real person behind riddler

Eddie Mockingbird Walker was born out of a 6 year affair between Edwin Walker, strict borderline insane Prisoner Warden, and beautiful red haired Judy Mockingbird, a former cleaning lady who was fired by the wife of Walker after finding out the affair.

Three years later, Judy Mockingbird was later a victim of a break-in and homicide, the only witness being a 3 year old traumatized Eddie hiding in a toy chest doodle with hand drawn puzzle murals, unfortunately that case was later put in the cold case files with not enough suspects.

Eddie was thrown through the wringer of several orphanages for 4 years, only to be refound by his grandmother Grethen Mockingbird, a former retired pianist who was unable to play anymore due a severe case of tendonitis.

A bright Prodigy to music and puzzles boxes made by his grandmother, a rare talent in school to the point the music teacher begged his grandmother Grethen to signed him in a tournament which later led to Eddie into the spotlight with the youngest pianist to make he audience weep with joy that catapult him all the way through several tournaments, winning each one, talkshows, interviews from age 9 to 22 year old.

He was known as Rose Thief of Hearts in the music community, the next living Beethoven they cried out, especially on how many ladies and guys fallen for his sweet, obvious charms and bright red hair that flow down his waist.

Becoming best friends with his half-sister, Madeline Walker, that he rarely met.

Tragedy struck when on The Chopin Competition, Gretchen Mockingbird died from cardiac arrest in the middle of her grandson's performance.

Eddie disappeared, being dragged off by Edwin Walker during the private funeral, which led many people to the theory of the whereabouts of the music Prodigy.

Then, the rest of the data file went missing until a year ago when Eddie Mockingbird appeared once more during a shocking news of adopting his niece and nephews who will stay anonymous after explaining a rather shocking tale with enough explanation on why he was away from media was extremely popular in the music culture.

Batman could only stare at the photo capture by Red Robin on the Batcomputer, tired bag eyed soft smiling Eddie Mockingbird at family diner. His black hair and eyebrow were gone, revealing a natural red hair that had grown down to his neck, wearing casual clothes with his niece, Jasmine Fenton, a teenage red-haired girl speaking with a soft look

A large massive man, named Jack Fenton that looks too alike to Bruce clumsily and failing feeding a little 2 year old baby girl in a toddler chocolates banana fudge ice cream with green bitd, while trying to stopping her twin brother flinging soft sweet peas at a giggling 5 year old toddler trying to air bite the peas.

A disgusted looking young entrepreneur who discoverered a much better energy source for phones that went world-wide, Tucker Foley, who was gagging at a Sam Manson, had a beyond burger and a salad, her middle finger pointing at him saying something to him.

Batman couldn't get near someone like him, or get a hint of his music albums that were also sold out even from 10 year ago to now with new albums that not even Jim Gordon would help him that Riddler is the famous pianist that he had a collection of his music, and he wouldn't let him 'borrow' them.

Jason had just started dating Jasmine, but he wouldn't tell them about what the riddler's plans were to the point of disconnecting and disabling all the trackers on his phones, even the backup ones with Cass and Babs!

He tried booking for Mockingbird concerts only to find out they were all booked to 20XX for the past 6 months after The Chopin Competition, not even attempting bribes, would shorten a 15 mile long waiting list.

This was driving Bruce a little mad as if time itself was mocking him!!

Part 3 here <-

[rcvcgers]

Rotten Apples ❦.ׂ

chapter twelve: what i've become

masterlist , series masterlist , ao3 link

previous part | next part coming soon

oh yeah, i made a spotify playlist for this <3

18+ MINORS DNI

pairing: caleb x non!mc reader

synopsis: you and caleb prepare for the professor's meeting. when you see each other again, caleb is unsettled by what he sees.

word count: 14.2k words

warnings: please, please, PLEASE read the trigger warnings before proceeding. lightly proofread...it ain't perfect!

author's note: thank you all so much for 10k hits on ao3! i love and appreciate you all so much! it means the world to me! <3

oh and remember...the narrative isn't completely objective!

trigger warning: death/murder, bodily harm, manipulation, self deprecating thoughts, experimentation, exploitation, self loathing, angst, professor lucius is a sadist, gun violence, lucius is a creep if you squint, slight suicidal thoughts, let me know if i missed anything

my rotten apples <3 : @militaryapple , @kebarney , @pinkismyfavcolor , @romils , @erisnxxi , @rik0shii , @reni502 , @spacehopper27 , @llamabois , @likesvader , @pandoras-rabbit , @princessfruit , @lukassafespace , @jexireads , @etsuniiru , @tinnyrabbit , @orianakira , @xiaorixx , @beomluvrr , @sanzy4 , @vickykazuya , @blcknebula , @sleepydang , @flamedancer13 , @gojosbedwarmer , @silmeria-lafleur , @ikiru-wa , @animecrazy76 , @fealy , @i-messed-up-big-time , @motheraiya55 , @vvonunie , @1uv4jiya , @yuuuumii , @okumurarinsbabe , @mcdepressed290 , @luleck , @sanzy4 , @lucifers-silhouette , @crazygirl3001 , @april-likes-smut , @kazbrkker , @l1ttlebabyapple , @writersandroses , @kookie-my-little-sunshine , @curryexpress , @earthykitsunesrain , @raining4food , @chaoticbardlady99 , @lemonwithstupidity

Caleb stares at the computer, his foot tapping against the ground. Something inside of his chest urges him forward, to close the distance between him and the small machine. He wears his Colonel uniform, the hat hanging on a hook on his bedroom door. He sits on the bed and his gaze never breaks away from the laptop, his foot slowly coming to a stop.

It’s a bad idea to try and access the database twice.

It’s an even worse idea to use Josephine’s login information to get inside.

Caleb has always played it safe. He has always followed orders like the good soldier he was trained to be. As the Colonel, he rarely ever questions his higher ups, except for the Professor, and always takes the time to figure out which route is the safest for him and his men. He drags his feet over any and all mission plans that he has but when it comes to you…he wants to be reckless. He knows that the Professor will be expecting a calculated plan to extradite you, to pluck you from amidst the chaos, so the last thing he will be anticipating is chaos.

Professor Lucius knows that Colonel Xia plays it safe, so what will he think when the boy whose flame he tried to smother as a child is the one to come up with the plan?

The Colonel inches towards the computer. The screen illuminates right as he sits down, the fabric of his uniform constricting his body, pushing into his flesh as if he is being held down by chains and restraints. His hands feel heavy as he navigates himself back to Ever’s database, leather gloves protecting him from the keyboard and its desire to dig deeper into Ever’s plans. He plugs in Josephine’s login information, staring at the screen, his heart thumping loudly inside his chest despite its slow beat, and watches as the server processes his information.

The screen refreshes and he is met with V-03’s project file — your project file — right in front of him, exactly where he left it. Caleb slowly draws in a breath, his shoulders growing tense as he navigates the folders, his eyes scanning the screen and plethora of files to see if any of them are new. His skin tingles from beneath the Colonel’s uniform, the weight of his role and rank causing his mind to splinter, forced to play it safe in this moment as to not cause any kind of alarm.

One of them are new. It is labeled For His Eyes Only and it sits at the very bottom of the list, almost as if it were hidden in plain sight.

Did Caleb miss this from before? He could have swore that the file wasn’t with the rest before, it has to be new.

The label, though, feels like some sick and twisted calling card, and invitation to look upon the mess that he has inadvertently created. Just another reminder to never leave your side once he gets you back.

He still clicks on the folder. He knows he has to see what he allowed to happen. He must look upon the actions of his consequences. 

Has the Professor truly gone mad? Has he pushed you past the boundaries of morality and ethics, succumbing you to a fate far worse than death? Has he contorted your face beyond belief, turning you into a creature that children will have nightmares about?

Has the Professor turned you into Wanderer?

The screen is black. Caleb hesitates moving out of the folder, waiting for something to happen, his ears and back of his neck growing hot from shame and displeasure. He is about to move out of the folder when the video boots up, a small loading screen flickering to life before disappearing.

The screen transforms into the image of a cell with a lump hidden beneath thin blankets. A sire blares through the speakers, a sound that Caleb knows all too well. The mass from beneath the blankets begin to move, a pair of legs swinging over the edge of the bed, your tired face and messy hair being displayed to the camera that hangs in the corner of the cell.

You look exhausted, hunched over, clutching your stomach with closed eyes. Pain is carved into your face, a remainder that it is Caleb’s fault for you living and pushing through the worst of the worst.

If Caleb could remember what his time was like at Ever, only just a kid who had to look after himself and her, he bets that you have it worse than he did. He was just a kid, after all, or maybe the Professor is just a sick fuck who experiments on whoever walks through the doors or he deems to be interesting.

But you? You were caught in the crossfire, a loose end that Professor Lucius needed to tie, to eradicate your existence so you do not burn down what he has worked so hard to create and build for himself these past few decades.

Caleb leans towards the screen, his fingers sliding across the glass of the computer. He traces the small appearance of your face, his heart twisting and churning inside his chest, trembling at the idea of you being forever changed because of the professor’s evil ways.

You open your eyes and look around, a small yawn escaping your lips.

Oh, how Caleb misses watching you wake up, slowly processing that you aren’t asleep anymore. You’d look around the room while stretching out your body, letting out a big yawn while he laid in bed beside you, waiting patiently because he wanted to start his day when you start yours. You’d turn to him and have that cute, tired smile on your face, calling him a stalker for watching you sleep despite finding it annoyingly romantic. He would have pulled you back down with him and slowly covered your face in kisses while you tried to escape.

Escape…

Caleb shudders. You don’t stretch or look around. You look forward and straighten your posture. Your face remains stoic, void of any and all emotion, once the sleep has finally slipped from your body. You remain as still as possible, becoming just another one of Ever’s dolls that sits upon a shelf, forever waiting to see if the Professor wants to play with you today or if you’ll be spared of the pain and agony that comes with his games.

“Soon,” Caleb murmurs to the computer screen, speaking as if you can hear him, “you’ll be back in my arms soon.”

Your head twitches, slowly turning your chin up as you look straight into the camera.

The room is colder than you anticipated. One of the nurses were nice enough to gift you an extra blanket as the snowstorm raged outside Ever’s hidden base. You watched the snowflakes pass by your cell’s tiny window. It was one of the few ways to pass the time at the Ever facility, really. It was either that, being experimented on, or interacting with Viper alongside others in the common areas when you were allowed out of your cell.

To interact with others is a privilege, after all, a privilege that one earns. That is what the Professor taught you.

The blinking red light caught your attention first. One you were out of sleep’s haze, you couldn’t help but noticing the flickering light. It’s slow pulses luring you in. You turn your gaze towards it, tilting your head to the side. You push off of the bed and approach the corner of the room, looking up as the camera follows your movement. You slowly reach out for the camera, standing up on your toes, knowing that it is a losing battle to fight.

Aren’t all war consisted of small skirmishes? Perhaps this is one you are meant to lose, one that you know that you will not come back from. Or maybe, just maybe, this final battle will be decisive and show you what is in store for you and your future.

A piece of you wishes for a quick and clean death, to slip away into the darkness of permanent sleep so that you do not have to fight for your right to live.

Another part of you has a desire to live, to see through the pain and torture so that you will be able to have your revenge on the Professor and Ever for all of the things that they have done to you and others.

The red light shuts off. You let out a quiet sigh and lower yourself back onto the ground. The sound of dragging boots against concrete floors catches your attention. You lean back on your heels, eyes looking outside the close proximity of your cell. You push through the pain that resides inside of your stomach, the intense burning feeling as your intestines slowly stitch themselves back together, your intestinal lining returning to its previous healthy state.

You absolutely detest how your body puts itself back together. You hate how you can feel each and every one of your ripped muscles and tendons reach for each other, connecting in a fiery heat that can only be described as pure agony and pain.

You should be used to it by now. You know exactly what is to come when you wake up from the forced slumber, your dreams haunting your every waking moment as you remain curled up in your cell, your sobs and cries bouncing off of the concrete walls, deafening to those who listen.

The Professor claims that he is doing this to protect you, to prepare you for what the real world has to offer. He told you that the pain you feel will make you stronger, better, for the times when you will meed it the most. He says that you have been blind for so long, for allowing yourself to fall in love with an animal who needs to be caged.

You didn’t believe him at first, holding onto that hope that your loyal boyfriend, a lethal weapon who you have loved for so long, would burst through Ever’s doors and steal you away, saving you from eternal torture and leaping into paradise.

But he didn’t come.

The days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months. About to be eight months to the day, to be exact.

Every day that Caleb did not save you, you were beaten and screamed at, berated for being a fool who thinks that she will be saved. So, what did the Professor graciously do?

He made you better. Upgraded you, evolved you into someone that you can barely recognize.

Sure, you are able to heal yourself at incredible speeds, a mere paper cut is gone within seconds and you can grow a finger back just a day after it has been chopped off. Your skin may remain the same color, your old scars having disappeared, fading into nothingness. You’re stronger now, too, reaction times hitting you at super speed. He’s made you better, yes, and has turned you into someone who can take care of themselves. At least, that’s what he wants the public to see.

But you know the truth. You know the ugliness that hides beneath your skin, the way your muscles are perpetually aching, the way your body is constantly in fight or flight, having to defend yourself from the environment that Ever has set in place among its test subjects. You know that no matter how much you bleed, you blood will come back just in time before you die of blood loss. You know that whenever you heal yourself, or others for that matter, that your sanity and mind fractures itself, the glass of your mind stressed beyond belief as you survive through the days. You are on the verge of a breakdown, your mental state hanging in a delicate state, teetering the line between remaining sane and the pure bliss of your animalistic instincts.

An animal that will obey Professor Lucius, of course.

What was it that the Professor said? Whenever an animal is trapped, it will chew off its own leg to escape?

It’s all thanks to him that you’ll be able to grow a new one.

You remember the first time they beat you. You were helpless, strapped to a chair. You begged the Professor and other scientists to let you go, that this is all one big mistake and that if they were to release you, you’d claim that nothing happened and 

You silently return to your bed, sitting down with the blanket wrapped around your shoulders. You stare straight ahead, your eyes focusing on the bars that keep you inside the small cage.

A maniacal cackle echoes down the concrete hallway. Boots drag against the concrete floor, the sounds of its scrapes putting you on edge. Your eye twitches, your hands fumbling with the corner of the blanket, plucking at the leftover strings, trying to busy yourself and your mind before he comes.

Viper is one ugly son of a bitch. His scaled skin has always left you feeling uneasy, his black forked tongue getting a little too close for comfort when he comes near you, invading your personal space. His laughter is never welcoming or warm. It is a sign that bad things are to come, that the Professor is about to put you through another night of extreme pain.

Your eyes flicker to the camera, silently wondering who it was that was watching you.

A small sliver of hope strikes your chest, hoping that he watched. To see where you are, to make sure that you’re okay. You hold onto that small tiny speck of hope and hold it close to yourself. Sure enough, that speck dies every time. It dies whenever you remember that it has been eight months since you’ve seen him.

Eight months of experimentation.

Eight months of torture.

Eight months of crying yourself to sleep as your arm grows back.

Eight months of shedding your old skin and stepping into your new body, a weapon that the Professor can use at his beck and call.

Eight months of losing every bit of yourself despite being able to remember every single fucking thing that they have done to you.

Eight months of your own Evol fighting against the Toring Chip that was implanted at the base of your neck, ready to send electric shocks throughout your body whenever you misbehave or disobey orders.

Eight months of falling out of love with the person who vowed to protect you.

“So,” Viper’s exaggerated ’s’ sounds are like nails being dragged against a chalkboard, shivers running down your spine, all of the hair on your body shooting up. He comes into view and stands before you, tilting his head to the side as his lips curl into a smirk. “What did he do to you this time?”

You don’t immediately respond. You blink at him, your fingers stopping when your eyes meet. He relaxes himself onto the bars of your cell, an open display for all to see the Professor’s latest success. His thin pupils irk you, the way his eyes dart back and forth, constantly taking in new information before striking.

“Come on,” Viper quietly cackles, pushing his face up against the metal bars. Your blood runs cold. “What did he do to you? You took a long time to die. Made me lose a bet with Frank.”

“Arsenic poisoning,” you respond, voice strong and definitive. You narrow your gaze on Viper, watching as his body shudders from his laughter. “He wanted to see what happens on the inside of a body.”

The high pitched screeches, the low chuckles when he tries to catch his breath…oh how he was mocking you.

“Next time, die quicker for me?” Viper’s laughter instantly dies, turning serious as he grabs the bars of your enclosure. “You’d save me a whole lot of money.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, looking him up and down before giving him a nod. The quicker you die, the quicker you can get the pain of healing yourself over with…and so Viper can get the measly twenty diamonds he recklessly bets.

“Breakfast,” he slips open the slot at the bottom of the metal door and kicks the tray through.

Food — well, slop is a better word for it — sprays the walls, sticking to the dark gray cement, slowly dripping and rolling down the sides as gravity tugs it down. You wipe your cheek where some of the slop hit you, the awful stench filling your nostrils. You turn your head away and hug the blanket closer to your body.

You don’t even take a bite out of the food or lick the excess off of the pad of your thumb. You don’t feel like being poisoned again so you’ll starve yourself until you give into the hunger that claws the inside of your stomach.

“The Professor has a surprise for you,” Viper continues and watches you with a close eye. Your gazes meet and he chuckles, his hands pushing through the barrier of the bars. “He finally gets to show you off, his special soldier…”

There is contempt behind Viper’s voice. You pay it no attention, though, always knowing that Viper lives off of the Professor’s constantly validation. He hates being out of the spotlight, inhabiting the darkness of the crowd, a place where you are so desperate to be. To Viper, you are in his place and he will be so happy when you eventually crash out and the Professor finds a way to permanently kill you.

Silence fills the cell. You look away and out the window, the snow coming down harder than you anticipated. It will be another freezing night. Two thin blankets are the only thing you have to defend yourself from the cold. Perhaps the Professor’s next experiment is to see the effects of frost bite on the body. Maybe he’ll throw you outside and see how long it takes for you to freeze to death.

“You’re quiet today,” Viper comments with a sadistic giggle, “is it because I’m not as handsome as the Colonel?”

You freeze.

“Are my eyes not the perfect shade of purple? It’s a shame they’re yellow instead,” Viper tilts his head, tongue swiping over the piercings that hang from his lips, the mechanical parts of his skull catching your eye. “I wonder…how will you react when you see him today?”

You do not respond. You stare out the window again and stare at the morning sun as it moves above the horizon, floating into the sky.

Do you even want to see him?

You do not know how to react whenever Caleb comes up. Whenever your mind drifts to him, you become so overwhelmed with emotions.

Anger. Hatred. Love. Yearning. Desire. Sadness. Lust. Resentment. Confusion. Desperation.

The Professor has beaten you countless times and has used him as the reason for why you are so broken, why you were chosen to be his special subject. If it weren’t for Caleb, you would have never been in this mess. If it weren’t fort for Caleb, you would not have died so many god damn times and be forced to feel your body rebuild itself after the Professor has destroyed it.

A piece of you knows that Caleb never wanted this to happen. You know that he has tried so hard to keep you away from the Professor, especially after the meeting the Professor forced you to translate not too long ago. Deep down, you know that Caleb Xia would never hurt you.

So where is he? Why is he not here to protect you from the people he has deemed to be the scum of the earth? Where is the man who vowed to protect you after endless nights together, the man who promised to put his life on the line to keep you away from the hands of men like the Professor?

Maybe Professor Lucius is right. Maybe he did want to hurt you, payback for when you shut him out as an angsty teenager, for running away after you promised to go back inside, for letting him in so easily after all of these years of desperately pushing away the boy you fell head over heels for in your childhood.

You’re weak. You’re so fucking pathetic.

Caleb Xia never loved you, did he? His sweet words have been deceptive from the beginning. Besides, the entire time of your clearly fake relationship, he has been so enamored with her that you have been an afterthought.

And yet, you still feel sympathy for the man. He himself was in the same position you are. He probably walked along these halls and touched the same parts of the wall you did. Caleb probably dreams of this place, being subjected to the atrocities that he endured as a child.

At the end of the day, though, your overwhelming emotions can only make you feel one thing: numb.

The funny thing about the whole experimentation and Toring Chip process is that you are forced to remember everything. Your body simply will not let you forget what has been done to you. Unlike the other beings who were subjected to the Toring Chip, Caleb included, their minds and memories have been wiped clean, a fresh start to Ever to imprint their beliefs onto.

But you? You remember.

In the beginning it worked. You could barely remember a thing when the chip was first implanted into the back of your neck. You didn’t even remember your name when you first came out of your sleep, the Professor had to remind you of your own identity what what your purpose is at Ever. You blindly believed him, allowed him to poke hundreds of needles into your skin, to tear your body apart layer by bloody layer.

When your body evolved, though…that’s when it hit you.

All of the memories flooded your brain, a painful relapse of everything that you have ever been through. You could feel your Evol, your power, fighting against the Toring Chip. The machines did not register this change. All it saw was that your body was putting itself back together again.

How could the Professor have missed the fact that your Evol helped repair your hippocampus? It completely undone all of his work to make you his beloved soldier, a weapon that he can use whenever he wishes. He simply cannot experiment on you and then press the erase button on the trigger, that doesn’t work anymore.

You are smart, though. Cunning. Adaptable. You learned very quickly that the only way to survive this place is to pretend that you are as clueless and blank as they wish for you to be.

That, my friend, is the truth. It is the cruelest punishment that will ever be dealt to you in the game of life.

You scoff and turn to look at Viper. His hands hang through the bars of your enclosure, mocking you that he can leave whenever he pleases despite still being under Professor Lucius’ thumb. You slowly approach the bars and the reptilian man does not move, he doesn’t even flinch as you give him a warm smile, luring him into a false sense of security.

You take his hands. Your fingertips glide across the scales of his hands, scales that morph into human skin. It unsettles you, the coolness of his body to your warm touch. Can’t let it show, though. You keep quiet, basking in the silence of your plan as Viper slowly pushes into your touch. Your eyes flicker to his, a teasing smile crossing your lips.

He must feel as lonely as you do in here. He probably has never felt the respectable touch of a caring person before, having been subjected to countless experiments and indoctrination before you ever arrived.

“Do you still wish to protect him?” Viper asks, his tongue poking out from between his lips before darting back inside. “Do you still love him?”

You grip on his hands begins to tighten. Slowly, you raise your gaze from your connected limbs, traveling up his body piece by piece, taking in the leather of his outfit, the snake skin that he proudly wears, before finally landing on the green and yellow hues of his eyes. Viper begins to struggle against your grip. At first, he begins to try and pull away but you don’t let him. He tries to take a step back but you keep him close, drawing him right back into the cell bars. His breathing grows frantic, eyes flickering between you and your connected hands.

“Love is such a funny concept,” you whisper to yourself, a small grin spreading across your face as you use all of the force you can muster up, snapping Viper’s wrists.

You go through the same routine when the scientists come to collect you. Alarms begin to blare out and soldiers line up outside your cell with their guns pointed at you, guns that are meant to kill Wanderers and Evoled humans, not normal people like you once were. You turn and face the wall with your hands behind your head, the clanging bars of the cell sliding to the side as a scientist cautiously approaches. They slap handcuffs around your wrists, the blue lights flickering from deep inside the darkened metal. The cuffs are a mere formality, a way to keep you in check instead of actually holding you back.

What you were truly afraid of were the soldiers. At any moment, they can unleash pure hellfire upon you, the metal bullets ripping through your body, tearing you apart with such ease.

It’s not like you can’t die. You’ll revive just a few hours later, sobbing and trembling as your aching and burning muscles reattach, your nerves on fire as it registers every single process of healing.

They move you from your cell and parade you down the hallway where all of the other experiments that the Professor has tucked away can see. They hoot and holler as you pass by. They launch taunts and threats at you, their words seeping into your skin despite you not showing them just how much it unnerves you.

To them, you are Professor Lucius’ most prized possession. The one person they should aspire to be. The toy that he plays with every single day. The one person they dream about killing so they can take your seat under Professor Lucius’ gentle eye. They wish to tear you limb from limb, ripping your beating heart out of your chest so that they are spared a sliver of the same kindness that he shows to you.

Little do they know that your existence is pure torture. Every breath you take is noted, jotted down in a scientist’s notes just in case you decided to strangle yourself inside your cell. They watch you at all hours of the day. The cameras in your cell and main areas are perpetually on, the red light slowly blinking — breathing — as you are forced to undergo the Professor’s sick and twisted fantasies.

He has put you inside a cell for all to see. Scientists and soldiers can pass you by at any time of the day, laughing and snickering at your plight. Some days, the days that Professor Lucius decides to punish you by starving you, they walk by with bits and pieces of food. Freshly basked bread, rations from the solider’s emergency food supplies. They wave it in front of your face, watching as you reach out to pluck the scraps from their hands before they pull it away, laughing at the idea of you begging.

Ever has changed you. Will it be for the better? Or will you completely transform into a monster that you never asked to become?

The door to the holding cell slides open. The echoes of the other experiments’ yells and cries are now muffled from the distance as you step inside, slightly nodding your head at the scientists who sit inside. The usual scent of bleach and chemicals stings the inside of your nostrils. It makes you nauseous as the memories of previous deaths flood your mind, the scientists already beginning to clean the room as you’re curled up into a ball on the floor, sobbing as pain overtakes your body. The door slams shut behind you and the handcuffs are taken off, your wrists sore from how tight they always are. 

“V-03, you know the drill,” the first scientist says.

You suck in a breath and nod, knowing that if you speak you will be slapped or tased. You circle around the table and glance at what it holds: a Fleet uniform, hat, and a single gun. A shiver runs down your spine, the hair on the back of your neck standing up.

You bite back the questions that fill your mind. You do not say a word and sit in the metal chair. The thin material of your pants is not thick enough to combat the chill that seeps into your skin, putting you even more on edge than you already are. You try to steady your heartbeat, eyes flickering around the room until they settle onto the corner where the camera sits.

The scientists are at your sides. They begin to strap you into the chair, the restraints tight and coarse against your skin. The sensation is familiar to you. You two are no longer strangers. Your skin has adjusted to the constant restraints and is much thicker now but your trembling heart remains the same.

The red light slowly blinks. You draw in a breath, the red light grows brighter. You slowly exhale, and the light dies.

Are you watching me? You think to yourself. Do you see what you have done to me?

“Good morning, V-03,” Professor Lucius’ voice echoes from behind.

Your posture immediately straightens, the muscle memory of his particular routine settling into your bones, your eyes set to look straight forward and at the door of the holding cell. Your eyes do not move as he enters. He passes off a folder to one of the scientists and waves them away, mumbling something you can barely hear. They leave with a small nod, the door slamming shut behind them.

The Professor settles into the chair in front of you. There is a small, sick smirk on his face. There always is. It is unsettling, always making you feel as if there is something that he knows about you that you do not even know about yourself.

“Good morning, Professor Lucius,” you respond in a monotone voice. You have to be sure to keep it level, not too happy but not too sad…obedient. Just the way he likes.

“We have big plans for you today, V-03,” the Professor’s smiles, his yellowed and rotten teeth flashing at you. He leans back into his chair, his knees moving far apart as he spreads his legs, getting comfortable. “Do you remember your friend from the Farspace Fleet? The General?”

Your heart lurches in your chest. The blood in your veins grows hot, your ears warming as you try your best to keep your composure. All you can bring yourself to do is nod in response, slowly blinking as your body struggles to stay in place.

In the back of your mind you think about the time you were in middle school. You and Caleb were running away from a teacher after you decided to cut class early. The two of you hid inside the janitor’s closet, tucked away behind the brooms and mops, using the sponges and bottles of soap as a way to hide. The teacher passed by the closet and hesitated, the two of you breathing so quietly, faces close together as you hid behind one of the hanging towels. Caleb had the biggest smile on his face but you were so terrified, never having broken a rule before. He promised to keep you safe, that he will take all of the blame off of your shoulders and tell the teachers he dragged you away with him in case the two of you got caught.

Thankfully, you never did.

“You are deep in thought, V-03. Would you care to enlighten me what you’re thinking about?” Professor Lucius adjusts himself in his seat, his dark eyes trained on you.

You don’t make a sound and simply look around the room when your eyes on the camera. The red light fades for a moment before coming back to life. You match your breaths with its pace.

Are you going to help me get out of this one too?

“The camera,” you begin, slowly speaking the words as if you are under the influence of the Toring Chip, an image that you have perfect over the last eight months since arriving at the facility, “is it you watching me? Or is somebody else wanting to take a look?”

The Professor lets out an amused chuckle, turning around to stare at the camera that sits up in the corner behind him. He does not immediately respond, taking his time in turning back around and formulating a response inside of his head. You know that this is him buying time. He is trying to figure out a response that will satisfy you — well, his loyal and obedient solider.

“There is a guest who has been checking in on you,” each word sends chills down your spine, your heart pounding to every single word, squeezing and contracting in and out, contorting itself inside your chest. “You will be seeing him soon. He will take part in the…demonstration that we will put on for the General.”

A demonstration…what could he possibly mean by that?

“Do not worry, V-03, you are safe here, nobody is going to hurt you,” the Professor calmly states.

As much as you hate to admit it, you believe in what he says. You know that he is the enemy, but he has kept you safe from the outside world, keeping you hidden behind concrete walls that will never seem to fall.

Despite knowing how much he has hurt you, you know that your mind is fractured beyond belief. Grief and trauma absorb your actions and emotions. You have become just like the animal that he spoke to you about. It is just a matter of time until you gnaw off your limbs in order to escape from this place.

“Your baseline,” the Professor speaks.

“Weeping willows decay under the scorching sun with no water to flourish,” you act on instinct, knowing that if you were to hesitate or push back that Professor Lucius will hurt you again. You try to keep your heartbeat as slow as possible, to keep your eyes still and steady, to not give away the erratic emotions and turmoil that crash throughout your body and mind.

“A dog with no purpose is as good as dead. Are you a pet? Interlinked.”

“Interlinked.”

You stare into the camera and take a deep breath, watching as the camera gets closer, inspecting your eyes with a close look.

“What is it like to hold the hand of someone you love? Interlinked.”

“Interlinked.”

Your heart skips a beat. You think about Caleb and the first time you held hands. The Professor scribbles something into his notebook.

“Your baseline.”

“Weeping willows decay under the scorching sun with no water to flourish.”

You blink. Your hands grow clammy.

“Do you feel like something is missing from your life? Companionship? Interlinked.”

“Interlinked.”

You heart yearns for a man that you do not wish to know anymore.

“Repeat after me: the void is dark and there is no one else there to help me.”

“The void is dark and there is no one else to help me.”

Where are you, Caleb? Why haven’t you found me yet?

“You are an integral part to the system. System. Interlinked.”

“System. Interlinked.”

Professor Lucius pauses. He does not speak. He leans forward, the camera moving with him, as they stare deep into your eyes. You try not to falter, remaining as still as humanly possible. You do not pull away from them, knowing that it will be a challenge to escape out of. Adding time onto your already lengthy sentence.

“Both baselines, V-03.”

“Weeping willows decay under the scorching sun with no water to flourish. The void is dark and there is no one else to help me,” the words burn themselves into your memory, into your tongue. An invisible way of Professor Lucius branding you as his, marking his territory.

The two of you know that if you were to somehow escape his grasp, to flee from the prison he holds you inside of, he will be able to bring you back to him with those two simple sentences. You will revery back into the shell of a human being you are now, forever chained to him and his crimes, another casualty in the bloody massacre he has participated in as the ring leader.

The room falls silent, the whirring from the camera no longer filling your ears like an unpalatable white noise that you cannot escape from. Even in your dreams you hear the sound of his quiet interrogator, an unfeeling machine that will rip you to shreds the moment it gets the chance.

You truly are alone in this world, aren’t you?

The Professor snaps his fingers. The doors open and a single scientist enters the room. They hand him a date pad, one that you have only seen a handful of times before in the past couple of weeks. You gently bite the inside of your cheek, just enough of it so they will not be able to notice, and watch as the person leaves, the door slamming shut behind them.

“V-03, I will be regaining control of your body now. We will need to undergo a few last…measures to ensure that our demonstration for the Farspace Fleet goes as smoothly as possible. You can understand why we cannot allow ourselves to have any mistakes in front of the General, seeing how he is our most valuable customer,” the Professor speaks while typing away on the clear tablet.

You close your eyes, just for a brief moment, and slowly fill your lungs with as much air as possible. The taps of the Professor’s fingertips coming to a slow pause. You open your eyes.

A rush of ice covers your skin. Your consciousness is submerged beneath the shadows of your mind, your bodily autonomy being snatched from your very hands as it feels like you are forced to remain on a sinking ship in the arctic. You are forced to watch as your body scan is pulled up on the screen of his tablet, your once loose and relaxed limbs growing rigid and tough to move.

Your face relaxes and you can feel your lips curl up into a fake and plastic smile. The professor stands up and sets the tablet down. He extends his hands towards the restraints that hold you down. He slowly releases them from your body and you can feel the sensation of pins and needles stabbing into your skin as the material falls off of your body.

As much as you try to fight against the Toring Chip’s control, you are unable to move your body. Now that your tormentor has released you from the restraints, you are faced to reckon with the numbness of your hands and limbs, the way your brain has been detached from calling the shots and instead being replaced by a machine.

The Professor picks up the clear tablet and flicks his finger across the screen. Your body stands and takes a step forward.

“Good job, V-03,” his words make you scream but no sound comes out.

You are helplessly trapped inside of your own body. You will be forced to watch and bear witness to the acts he will make you commit, the sins of his actions being thrust onto your hands. The blood of his crimes staining your skin, leaving a mark as you cry on the inside of your mind, begging for release from this madness.

You know that your Toring Chip is different than Caleb’s. He explained it to you the night you two first came together during the summit. The two of you laid together in bed, his arm wrapped around you while you listened to his steady heartbeat. His chest was bare — a piece of significant jewelry absent from his neck — and he slowly explained to you the effects of his Toring Chip. He has one of the earliest version, which is inevitably bound to have flaws in its design. While the Professor can see his emotions through his bodily reactions, he could only persuade his emotions to complete missions. To suggest and give Caleb the push he needed to say yes to dire circumstances and jobs.

The Professor had no control over Caleb’s body. He can wipe away the cheeriness in Caleb’s eyes and try to erase the playful and fiery spirit that sits inside his chest, but he will never have full control over the Colonel. All he can do is give Caleb the push, to bend his emotions and cause his brain to rewire itself to do as he says.

You…you are a puppet while Caleb maintains some of his bodily autonomy.

The Professor stands close to you. A little too close. Despite not having control of your body, you still feel your body’s instinct to pull away, the nausea that festers inside of your stomach. He leans in, his oddly cold shoulder pressing into yours, the man fully turning to face you. He leans down and his nose grazes against your cheek.

You can’t close your hides. You have to watch from your peripheral vision as he closes the distance.

His breath his putrid. Teeth rotted, decaying inside his own mouth. He places a hand on your shoulder. Your body doesn’t react but you let out a blood curdling scream from inside your head.

“You are…magnificent, V-03,” he speaks, the words rolling off of his tongue like butter. It scares you. “You are my finest creation yet.”

He places the tips of his fingers on your collarbone and begins to slowly drag them across your shoulder and down your bicep, switching from the pads of his fingers to his nails, the somehow brittle lengths pushing into your skin. It teeters between the line of admiration and something more, something ravenous and lustful.

You know that Professor Lucius does not lust after you. He lusts after the power you hold inside of your body. He lusts after the influence that your presence will give him in the room full of high ranking military officers and officials, making him even more powerful and dominant than he could ever imagine.

After all, you are his most prized possession.

Not person.

Object.

A thing for him to play with. A doll for him to literally dress how he sees fit.

He’s done it before in the past, used the Toring Chip to have you come into his office, to put on dresses and clothes that he claimed was for his young daughter at home.

His office did not have any photos of his family. Not even a wife or portrait they took in the early years of their family life. Perhaps he did not want them to witness the ugliness he pours his life and heart into. Maybe he does not want to look upon their faces and come to realization that just like them — just like you — his experiments have souls and people who love them just as much as he loves his wife and kids.

“We need you to look the part for the Farspace Fleet,” the Professor continues to speak. He pulls his hand away from your arm and takes a step in front of you. He nods his head in the direction of the table where the Farspace Fleet uniform sits. “The General wants to see his shining translator transform into someone new…someone worthwhile and noteworthy. Someone…someone dangerous.”

Professor Lucius steps to the side and his nails drag against the metal table, quietly scraping before he flicks his fingers against the screen. He turns to look at you once again, the sickening smirk returning to his face.

Your body moves on its own, forced to look away as you hands reach up for the top button of your shirt. You listen to the Professor’s footsteps, the loud echoes coming to a close as he settles himself into one of the chairs. Your movements are robotic as you slip the shirt from your body, folding it, and place it onto the table.

Is it a blessing or a curse that you do not have to face him while you change. Many times before, especially after one of his experiments to see just how cruelly he can kill you and get away with it, he and other scientists take their time to examine your naked body, watching it heal, to see if there are any remaining scars to act as evidence of their crimes against you.

You push your pants off of your body. His footsteps move closer to you.

“Stop.”

You obey his command.

Professor Lucius’ fingertips press the bottom of your head, right where your hair ends and where the scar from the Toring Chip surgery remains. He drags his fingers down, tracing the fine, the line of your darkened and scarred skin from the very first surgery you underwent. It was way before your Evol blossomed and came into fruition. They inspected your spine, moving apart the nerves, rerouting them, obliterating your ability to walk before they fixed it.

“I’ll see if I can find a way to heal your skin,” the Professor whispers into your ear, sending chills across your body. He takes notice and chuckles, thinking that it is a positive reaction rather than one made out of pure repulsion and rejection. “Continue.”

You reach for the Farspace Fleet uniform. Your heart twitches inside your chest, disregarding the Professor’s control over your body as you feel the weight of the uniform in your hands. Professor Lucius continues to touch your body. He inspects every inch of your exposed skin, murmuring and humming to himself.

It is so utterly dehumanizing.

You slip the white pants onto your body and fasten the belt, the black holster strapped to your thigh. Next, you put on the black dress shirt, fastening the buttons with precision and ease before strapping the tie around your neck.

While your body moves, you think about the slow mornings you spent with Caleb just as the sun began to rise from above the horizon. He has been up for far longer than you. He worked out and showered, placing his clothes onto the bench at the foot of the bed.

You slowly woke up from the depths of sleep, a yawn escaping from your lips. Caleb always smiled at you. He slowly walked to your side of the bed and would sit on the edge, the mattress dipping down which made you roll towards him. He caught you in his arms and lifted you up, melting into his chest as he placed a kiss to the top of your head before he met your lips with his.

Caleb was in charge of making breakfast while you showered and got ready. He stayed in his sweatpants, shirtless just as you liked him to be, and brought the plates inside just as you finished putting your last shoe on.

The two of you would eat and talk about that day’s plans. He would ask if you were up for a date out or if you wanted to stay inside. You always joked that you needed to ask your boyfriend and see if it was okay with him. The two of you would share a laugh, the sounds of his chuckles forever echoing inside what is left of your crumbling sanity.

You would clean up the plates and quickly wash them, setting them to the side of the sink before moving back to the bedroom where Caleb stands, assembling his Colonel persona piece by piece. You watched from the doorway, waiting for the right moment to step in and assume your daily task of helping him with his shirt buttons.

It was always silent between you two. Silent, but comfortable. Safe. A time where the two of you can be you and Caleb, a moment of domesticity in your chaotic and demanding lives. As soon as you fastened the last button, he would sheepishly ask you for help with his tie, always ending his question with a kiss to butter you up.

The truth is that Caleb knows how to tie his tie. You knew it, he knew it, but it never failed to make you smile and make an off-handed comment about him being so co-dependent on you, asking him what he’s going to do when you aren’t there to help put him together.

Oh, the irony.

You slip the heeled knee high boots over your feet and pants, your body lengthening by a handful of centimeters. Of course the men of Ever and the Farspace Fleet chose for you, a woman, to wear heeled boots. No matter what aspect of life you are in — a cold war or in an office — their idea of a strong woman must always come with their idea of femininity, which is almost always laced in with impracticality.

The Farspace Fleet’s jacket is heavier than you anticipated. You have felt the weight of Caleb’s in the past, having wearing it around his apartment as he cooked dinner, a smile on your face as you tipped his own Colonel’s hat to him.

This…this feels different.

This is the weight of your own world on your shoulders of the life you have left behind. The constant reminders of him running through your mind no matter where you look or try to hide from. He always finds you.

You slip your arms through the sleeves and feel as Professor Lucius flattens out the wrinkles of the jacket from behind, smoothing out the shoulders and getting rid of any imperfections he may find. The leather gloves slip on like butter and you reach up to fix your tie, your movement causing it to tighten it tighter than you anticipated. A gasp slips through your slips and your hands fall to your side.

The Professor moves around you. You take a step back, your body receiving subliminal and silent orders from the man himself. His eyes never meet yours as his hands take liberties with you. He touches your stomach and his hands move up to your neck, grabbing your chin, and tilting it left and right so he can see is there is anything else he needs to change about you. Your hair is neatly put into a bun at the base of your neck, one to hide the nasty scar from the Toring Chip insertion. He brushes your hair out of the way and takes a step backwards, his gaze darkening the more and more he looks at you.

“Perfect,” he whispers, “you are…perfect.”

A single tear rolls down your cheek. The droplet has broken through the Toring Chip’s hold on your body’s agency, slipping through the cracks. The Professor is quick to catch it, though, since your hands are glued to your sides, unable to move as your soul and consciousness sob inside your fragile mind.

“Ah,” he breathes out, disappointment laced within his tone. Your body shudders as you begin to gain control of your body back from him.

Your once ice cold limbs begin to warm, thawing out as you wiggle your fingers. The Professor reaches up and wipes you tear away, observing the teardrop on the pad of his thumb. He turns back to you and lets out a huff of air, amused by your emotions.

“I see that you’re not as easily controlled. We’ll fix that,” the Professor whispers, leaning in. His rotten breath surrounds your mouth and nose, giving you nowhere to escape. He reaches for the tablet. You swallow the lump in your throat. He presses a button and everything fades to black.

Caleb clears his throat as soon as he exits the elevator while on route to the General’s office. It sits on the very top floor of the Fleet’s headquarters, just below the helipads on the roof of the building. Despite being so close to the top and where many of the Farspace Fleet’s aircrafts sit, the floor is surprisingly quiet. All that Caleb can hear is the click of his shiny leather boots against the freshly waxed floor as he travels down the hallway.

The top floor consists of the highest vetted employees. The General’s secretary is a Captain in his own right, earning his rank from within the Farspace Fleet before landing the job of a lifetime. Well, that’s what some people like to think.

Caleb has never found fulfillment in his duty as the Farspace Fleet Colonel. Sure, he has been able to find someone to fight for, someone to give him purpose as to why he is still with the Farspace Fleet, but now that you’re gone, the job has become, well, monotonous.

Maybe it is because he’s lost his purpose with you out of his life.

The Colonel raises his fist up to the door, waiting for a beat, before knocking. It is three loud knocks in a row, quick and decisive, that of a Farspace Fleet officer.

“Enter,” the General’s gravelly voice calls out. Caleb does as he is told, entering inside the office. The General spots him and smiles, leaning back into his hair. “Ah, Colonel Xia, what a pleasure.”

“The pleasure is all mine, sir,” Caleb responds, his voice having a hint of charm to it while his face remains neutral. 

He closes the door behind him and the tail of his coat fights with his legs as he enters the heart of the room. He stands in the center and stands in attention, his hands stiff at his sides. The General pushes away from his desk and wave his hand at Caleb. The man immediately relaxes, folding his leather clad hands behind his back.

“Sir, the plane is ready for departure,” Caleb informs the General.

The old man, whose hair has become significantly more white than gray in the passing months, rounds his desk. He used to be the same height as Caleb in the prime of his life. With his old age, though, he has lost a few centimeters and now the top of his head sits just below Caleb’s eye level.

“Ready so soon?” The General asks. Caleb simply nods in return. The older man grunts to himself, nodding his head as his gaze moves away from Caleb’s.

Caleb watches him with a close eye. His Colonel’s hat covers his eyes just barely enough for the cameras not to see his gaze turn deadly when the General looks away. His eyes darken from his glare.

He remembers the day you left. He remembers exactly how the General smiled at you, how he lured you in with false pretenses of allowing you to leave before ordering his men — the Professor’s men — to capture you. Was it his idea to drug you? Or was he the sick fuck who offered your body up as a sacrifice for Professor Lucius to pick apart?

When the General turns back to him, the light comes back to Caleb’s eyes. The corners of his lips tug up, a mirage to make the General think that he actually takes pleasure in being his personal chauffeur to the meeting with Ever. The older man smiles back, a small chuckle vibrating his throat, as he passes by the young man, patting him on the shoulder.

“Come on, kid, let’s be the first ones there.”

The walk to the elevator is one taken in silence, at least it was on Caleb’s part. He stayed behind the Genral, allowing him to be the one to guide him up the stairs and to the dark asphalt of the roof where one of the Fleet’s aircrafts sit. As they walk, people stop what it is that they are doing and speak with the General. Their gazes flicker to Caleb, who narrows his eyes in return, and they look away before breaking free from the duo’s flight path.

They walk across the roof’s tarmac, the loud roar of nearby jet engines filling their ears. As soon as they approach their designated craft, a whole set of the deck crew scatter from the plane. Caleb inputs his code and the back door opens, slowly lowering itself towards the ground. They enter inside and Caleb assumes the pilot’s seat, taking his hat off and hanging it on a nearby hook.

The front glass is tinted, blocking out as much of the sun as possible. Caleb still reaches for his jacket pocket, plucking a pair of black aviators, setting them on the bridge of his nose.

“I saw that you were one of the best pilots that the DAA has ever had,” the General boasts from behind. He pats Caleb shoulder once again and leans down, laughing, “if we don’t make it there in under an hour, then I’ll have to give a stern talking to someone at the DAA about their qualifications of what a good pilot is.”

Caleb lets out a fake chuckle, one that sounds just real enough to anyone who is listening. The General moves to one of the back seats as Caleb’s Adjutant, Liam, enters the aircraft. He sits across from the General just as Caleb closes the back door, engines roaring to life.

Caleb places a headset over his ears. The aircraft is a passenger jet, made for transportation of government and city officials rather than one for Deepspace Tunnel missions or dog fights with other countries. It is still heavily armed and  dangerous to those who think they can oppose it but lacks its agility and swift maneuvering abilities.

With Caleb behind the throttle, though, who knows what can happen.

Caleb flicks many of the switches and the aircraft’s engine roars to life, the body of the plane humming and vibrating. The engines begin to warm up as the passengers buckle in. Liam and Caleb share a quick glance with one another, nodding in sync, before turning back to their individual spaces. The General puts on his headset and begins to spew one of his many stories from his own pilot days, laughing their ears off as the aircraft begins to move.

Caleb’s pilot instincts take over. He maneuvers the aircraft out of its spot, docking it at the end of the tarmac. The runway is clear with the deck crew giving the thumbs up. Once Caleb receives the go ahead from the tower, the aircraft lurches forward, the throttle being pushed to the max.

In a matter of seconds, the aircraft takes flight, slicing through the air at top notch speeds. The General’s laugh echoes throughout the headsets but Caleb tunes it out, his sole focus on getting close to you as fast as possible.

Caleb lands the plane after forty five minutes. The once blue skies and endless green fields below have turned into dusk and a desert below. The plane, all thanks to Caleb's piloting, caught a tailwind and accelerated the flight. They even broke the sound barrier, the sly becoming silky smooth with nothing holding them back. The plane passed over hundreds of miles of land, crossing through different territories and countries.

They landed in Athas, a desert city far away from Skyhaven and Linkon, outside of the boundaries of any country’s jurisdiction. A place where everyone can be equals with no laws to abide by or rules to follow.

The aircraft screeches against the tarmac, Ever’s deck crew guiding Caleb and his plane on where to go after he lands. He follows their directions, sunglasses now off of his face, as he parks the plane close to a base built out of cement, a recent construction all thanks to Ever and the Farspace Fleet. Caleb was able to catch a glimpse of the contract while poking his head around during his search for you. He cannot believe that it is what led him here.

He shuts the engines off, listening to them cool down and feeling the vibrations cease to exist. He stands from the pilot’s seat, slightly stretching out his body, as he glances at the General. He makes his way down the length of the airplane, placing his Colonel’s hat back on the top of his head, covering his dark locks from the world.

“Colonel,” the General laughs with his entire belly, slapping him on the back just as he approaches, “that was one hell of a flight!”

Caleb feigns a smile, sheepishly chuckling. The General’s compliments mean absolutely nothing to him. They are meaningless, fake niceties that he must push through in order to get to you.

The back door drops open and the hot desert air wafts into the aircraft. Liam takes Caleb’s side, handing him a small note written on paper. The Adjutant follows after the General, leaving Caleb behind. He hesitates to walk, taking a quick glance at the note in his hand.

She’s the demonstration.

Caleb’s back stiffens. He crumbles the note between his fingers and slips into one of the crevices of his uniform, tucking it away where the world cannot see the truth that Liam has unveiled for him.

He knew that you were going to be at the center of it all. He held out for a sliver of hope, though, that you would be in the background, hidden from the eyes of bloodthirsty killers from other countries. He can’t even fathom just how exposed you will be, his mind wandering to all of the possibilities of what the Professor will have you do for a demonstration.

“Colonel!” The General yells over the sound of landing planes and the restless wind that creates havoc in the sky. His head turns to look at the man, eyes narrowing from the darkness of the craft. “This way.”

Colonel Xia nods, letting out a huff of air, and forces his legs to move, the aching sensation as the realization that you will be in the same room as him finally hitting. He passes by Liam and gives him a nod, the Adjutant remaining in the aircraft.

Caleb thought that he would feel lighter than air when he first sees you again. He dreamt of you floating down from the heavens, descending into his arms like one would see in in a vision from an otherworldly being. He knows that the idea of you literally floating down is ridiculous, but he wishes that it were that easy to get you back into his arms.

The cement building is taller than he expected. The closer the duo walks towards it, the higher and higher it pierces into the sky. It blocks out the setting sun and casts long and dramatic shadows across the freshly made tarmac. He follows behind the General, the Farspace Fleet duo the first of a handful of groups to approach the building. The General swings open the door, his course strong and unmoving. The other groups hang behind, speaking amongst each other as Caleb slips inside the building.

The lights are unusually bright. There is no decoration nor are there any other type of items to make the place feel like it has been worked in. Caleb and the General walk down winding hallways, descending deeper and deeper beneath the depths of the sand, the temperature dropping dramatically with every step down the stairs. The echoes of footsteps fills the cement stairwell, the exasperated huffs of air from the General being thrown into the mix.

It goes on like this for a couple of minutes until the stairwell reaches its end. Caleb pushes through the metal doors, holding it open for his superior officer, before moving inside himself.

Inside is a large hanger, larger than one would ever expect to be beneath the sands of the desert. It is a grotesque showcase of power, extravagant yet there is a sense of maliciousness in its constriction. A warning to those that would dare to oppose Ever with their advances of weaponry, transportation, and private militia.

The balcony overlooks the hangar. There are two lines on the side of the walls, large aircrafts meant for large transportation of goods — or soldiers — mixed in with fighter jets and even remote operated stealth jets made for reconnaissance and spying. Caleb saw a few of them in action while at the DAA, having shadowed a few of the pilots who flew them from hundred of miles away inside the Deepspace Tunnel.

In the middle of the hangar sits a large table. A small group of people sit below with a two soldiers standing off to the side. One of the men holds a cane, the Professor, as he speaks with people in white lab coats. Caleb is too far away to see what the soldiers look like, his eyes floating to the shorter one standing on the right in a black and white uniform, one that the Farspace Fleet dons, and an unsettling feeling ferments in his stomach, making him queasy, his feet dragging against the ground.

The General leads them down cement steps. They inch closer and closer to the table, finally gaining the Professor’s attention as he dismisses the scientists. They scurry away and flock the soldiers.

One of them looks remarkably similiar to you.

Caleb’s heart stops beating. He continues to walk but his purple eyes never leave your face. You stare off into the distance with your hands folded behind your back. You wear the Farspace Fleet uniform and the brim of the hat, donned with the Fleet’s insignia, shadows your eyes, concealing your full expression from his gaze. He clears his throat and looks away, following the General who approaches the Professor with a joyful smile.

“Lucius!” he exclaims, his hand slapping into the elder man’s, excitedly shaking his hand. “The day has finally come!”

“It has!” Professor Lucius smiles. Caleb holds back a wince at the sight of his yellowed teeth. “I am so honored to have you here, General.”

“The honor is all mine,” he responds. He turns to Caleb and waves him forward. Caleb obeys. “I brought Colonel Xia just like you requested.”

Caleb’s eyes meet the Professor’s. The old man places the entirety of his weight into his metal cane, leaning against it for support as his one excited grin turns sadistic in the blink of an eye. Caleb nods his head at the man.

“Colonel Xia…” the Professor’s voice drops an octave. Caleb’s eyes move away for a brief second, unconsciously moving to your face. The Professor snaps, catching his attention. “Eyes here, boy.”

Caleb’s back straightens. His fists ball at his side, eyes slowly darkening, narrowing.

“Good solider,” Professor Lucius comments and turns to the General, “always obeying orders.”

“The best of the best,” the General adds.

“I hope you will accept my invitation to be a part of the demonstration tonight…X-02,” Lucius smirks. Caleb’s body runs cold. He stiffly nods, clenching his jaw. Professor Lucius nods back. He turns to the General and the same aloofness he had before returns. “Please, take a seat. Have the Colonel stand behind you. We only have so many seats. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

Without another word, the Professor turns around and wobbles away. Caleb stays where he is, his superior officer pushing past him with a soft chuckle. His jaw is set, stuck in its tense positioning, when he turns his head towards you.

You’re staring at him. Your eyes meet his purple gaze. Your face does not change. You do not flinch, remaining as still as a stone statue. Caleb moves backwards but his eyes remain trained on you. Your eyes follow him, refusing to back down, as he tales his place behind the General. The rest of the room settles, the other Generals and Colonels and Captains taking their seats at the table. 

Caleb is the only one left standing. It is all a part of the Professor’s design.

“Welcome,” Professor Lucius begins, greeting the table. “I hope your journey was well and had no complications. I humbly thank you all for joining us, especially the Farspace Fleet for proving the materials necessary to set up a meeting place for us to gather.”

Nobody claps. Nobody cheers or greets the man back. They simply stare at the Professor, tilting their heads.

Caleb’s eyes flicker around the room. Many of the men inside have guns holstered to their hips and thighs. He can assume that the older man, such as the General, have guns inside their jackets and, well, the Professor has his super soldiers prepared and ready to protect him…including you.

“I know that my messages about what is to be unveiled tonight have been vague…they have been less than desirable, am I right?” There are a few nods across the table’s inhabitants. “Tonight, I have the honor to show to you the next phase of soldiers.”

The Professor holds his hand up and snaps his fingers. The sound echoes across the hangar. It captures the table’s attention, their eyes moving towards you and the soldier who stands beside you. Caleb recognizes the man beside you. He was in Caleb’s Farspace Fleet’s wing for awhile before he was honorably discharged, the reason unknown. He looks at him with a close eye, slowly breathing in, his chest puffing out, before exhaling.

You remain where you are, frozen in space yet again. Caleb’s heart aches for you. He has to hold back the urge to storm across the distance and pull you into his arms, to cry into your hair, and apologize for the sins that he has committed. He desperately wants to feel your skin against his. To feel the spark of your short-lived love for one another, to give him a reason worth fighting for.

“This is Staff Sergeant Hardy. He was one of the few lucky soldiers who received Toring Chip Version 2.0,” the Professor speaks. He holds his hand out to Caleb, the room’s attention turning to him. “This is Colonel Xia. He currently has Toring Chip Version 1.8 inside of him.”

You suddenly step forward. The sound of your step enamors the room, the deadly look on your face silencing the murmurs that sounded from around the table.

“And this…this is V-03. Her name isn’t important. She currently has the latest Toring Chip inside of her neck. Version 3.9 to be exact. She is the most advanced out of all of the soldiers here and she is here to redefine the way we look at and compete in war.”

Chills run down Caleb’s spine. His ears begin to ring as the Professor continues to speak. His mouth goes dry and he is unable to look away from the darkness that is inside of your eyes, the way you scan the room as if you are searching for your next victim.

From behind, the scientists roll up a large white board, one that towers over the people inside the room. A man towards the back tosses a newer and smaller version of OTTO into the air. Its wings buzz and it floats up, light flooding from its lens, projecting images onto the white board with vibrant colors.

“The Toring Chip initiative was a way for Ever to help governments and private militias to control their soldiers as well as yield their obedience. Ever since its origins, it has blossomed into something powerful, a tool that only men like us — men in power — are able to have control over,” the Professor addresses the room.

Their attention remains on him, their energy beginning to burst at the seams, wondering what he has in store.

“The first wave of Toring Chips proved that we are able to monitor a soldier’s emotions through their cognitive and cardiovascular charts. By using this information, it allowed its users to be swayed to complete missions and goals, making them think that what they are doing is for the good of mankind and not self serving purposes. It also allowed us to their memories, giving us leverage over their life by hanging their memories over their heads…a push in the right direction to do what is best for their minds and lives.”

Caleb swallows the lump that forms in his throat. He watches the Professor with a close eye, barely even paying attention to the images and words on the board. He notices an image of himself but does not pay attention, focusing on your face instead.

His eyes dip below the surface of your bust and he notices the gun that is strapped to your leg. It is sleek yet chunky, the barrel long and unforgiving.

“With the second version of the Toring Chip, we were able to hone in the skills from the previous version, allowing us to refine where we messed up and reign in our soldiers, keeping them on a much shorter leash so they have much more to lose…”

Caleb drowns out the Professor’s voice. He watches as your face twitches, eyes blinking rapidly, taking away the gloss that reflected the lights coming out of OTTO.

“With the third version…we were able to increase our reach over the soldier’s agency,” Lucius speaks, his voice not faltering, not one bit, as he holds it hand out. You step to his side and place a glass tablet into his hand. He holds it up into the air as you resume your spot on the other side of the board. “Unlike the others, it must be surgically inserted into the neck, unable to be dissolved, so they are forced to live with it for the rest of their lives. If you wish to remove it, well, it will have to be cut out from their bodies. Thank you, V-03. This is a data pad that holds all of her information. From it, I can control almost all of her bodily functions. Her consciousness is simply sedated, asleep while we take the wheel. I can tell her to stop breathing and she will obey. I can tell her when and what to eat, what to drink…she does it without question.”

A few of the men and officers at the table lean forward. Men from countries that are constantly at war with each other, ready to soak the ground beneath their feet with the blood of their enemies.

“Using this tablet allows me full access to her cognitive functions. I am able to fully control her…she is my puppet to use how I see fit,” Professor Lucius’ eyes move to Caleb. He stands still, unmoving as he listens to the way that the Professor has removed all of your autonomy with a smug smirk. “Whoever holds the leash is in control. They hold all of the power. They hold a soldier’s so called ‘free will’ in their hands.”

“Wait,” the General speaks up, “you are able to control her?”

“That is correct, yes,” Professor Lucius confirms. “She is fully mine to use. With the new Toring Chip, we have taken out all possibilities of rebellion or disobedience. She will complete whatever task is set in front of her.”

“Tasks such as…?” a man from the far end of the table asks.

“Who would want to play god?” a man murmurs from under his breath. “It is inhumane.”

“Is there a limit?” another one chimes in.

The Professor chuckles, shaking his head. The sound echoes inside of Caleb’s ears, the color draining from his face as the old man flicks his fingers across the screen.

In an instant, your body moves, hand reaching for the gun that is secure on your thigh. You pull it from its place and lift it into the air, aiming at Staff Sergeant Hardy. You pull the trigger, his neck exploding as blood bursts across the immediate area, splattering along the white board that sits behind you and the Professor. The Professor smirks, turning back to the men who dared to question him while you holstered your gun.

“Does that answer your question?”

The men remain silent.

“What makes V-03 special, though, is not the Toring Chip that is inside of her neck. No, no,” the Professor’s eyes darken. His chuckle is cold, heartless. He moves to the next image of his presentation.

A picture of your body is displayed on the screen. It is dated to a couple of months ago, the first day you were experimented on. You stand in the middle of the room with soldiers surrounding you, their frames massive and bulky compared to your small and fragile state  — which angers Caleb beyond belief but he refuses to let it show — and the video begins.

The men surround you. They begin to beat you senseless, your cries filling and echoing across the grand aircraft hangar. Caleb flinches ever so slightly. Your head snaps to him, your glare burning into the side of his face.

Professor Lucius clicks to the next video. In this one, you’re being cut open while awake, no sedation or morphine to be used to ease the pain. You scream out for help, for them to show you mercy.

In the next slide sits a set of photos. You are dead on a lab table, face bruised and bloodied, disfigured beyond belief. There’s a lump on your neck from where it broke, your death slow and painful as you slowly suffocated to death.

“From a young age, I have been interested in the evolution of the human race. When Evolvers came about, entering our society with Evols and powers that surpass a normal person’s capability, I couldn’t help but wonder what the human genome can hold. What made Evolvers so special whereas men like me and you, you who sit around the table, are stuck with no ability to show or protect ourselves?” Professor Lucius pauses, the question seeping into the minds of the men around the room. “The key is in our DNA.”

He moves to the next slide that showcases the DNA sequences that belong to you. On one side is when you were normal. On the other sits your new DNA sequence, one with your Evol present.

“There was no way for me arrange V-03’s DNA, that is simply a fact. So I had to look back in our world’s history and do some research, needing to find the answer to this question…that’s when it hit me,” the elderly man leans to look behind him, staring at the still warm corpse on the ground. He turns back to the room, offering them a simple shrug and smile, “Survival.”

“Survival?” The General asks, leaning forward. The Professor nods. “Lucius, what did you do?”

“I forced the Evol out of her. I forced her to evolve into the superhuman she was meant to be,” he lets out a breathy laugh, a maniacal one that unsettles the entirety of the room. “If we stress out the human body enough, it will be forced with a choice: death or survival. She chose to survive and the DNA sequence she needed to evolve was forced out of her. It was once asleep inside her body — herblood — but it is now awakened and her Evol is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen!”

“Well…what is it?” the General asks, sitting on the edge of his seat.

“X-02, come forward,” the Professor waves Caleb over.

The room turns to look at Caleb. He hesitates to move, heart pounding inside his ears and chest. After a few seconds, he moves, walking around the long metal table as every single person in the room watches. The click of his boots is faint, the tip of his shoes dragging across the cement floor. You move and meet him in the middle, standing on the right side of the Professor while Caleb stands on the left, towering over you.

You look up at him, all of the color that was once in your eyes a dull gray, a cloud of fog overtaking it. It makes Caleb’s skin crawl at the sight. His eyes quickly examine your face, trying to see if you have been hurt or is there is a way for him to break you out of the haze.

His eyes flit to the tablet in the Professor’s hands. With that…he will get you back. It is the only way for you to escape and break free from his hellscape.

“V-03, if you would be so kind,” the Professor gestures his hand between you and Caleb.

Your movement is smooth yet there is a lack of humanity in it. You have fully been transformed into a robot, a servant for the Professor to use as he pleases. Your hand moves to the gun in your holster. You slip it out, a few specks of Staff Sergeant Hardy’s blood prominent along the silver metal. The gun spins in your hand, the barrel slipping into your hand, holding the gun out to Caleb.

He heart goes still. White noise fills his ears as he stares down at the gun. Caleb’s eyes move up your body. He stares at the Farspace Fleet uniform that you wear, a costume that you were undoubtedly forced into. It looks so foreign on you, the colors not fitting nor the shape of the jacket complimenting your body.

This…this is not you.

Has Caleb truly lost the love of his life? Has your soul been forced out of your body? Have you shed your skin and moved onto the next life?

“X-02,” the Professor says in a low and dangerous voice, “shoot her in the head.”

The air leaves Caleb’s lungs. His purple eyes slowly track up your body, observing the skin of your neck, watching as your chest slowly rises and falls, your breathing steady. When his eyes move back to your face, that is when he notices the sadistic smile on your face, your greyed out eyes making you look like someone he cannot even recognize anymore.

Caleb doesn’t ready for the gun.

The Professor huffs and swipes the weapon from your hands, forcing into Caleb’s. He moves to the side and lifts up Caleb’s arm. The Colonel’s soul has left his body, completely dissociating, drowning out the world that surrounds him.

Caleb did this to you. This is all of his fault.

The muzzle rests in the center of your forehead. Professor Lucius steps away. Both hands rest on his cane now, his eyes dark and lowered. His body vibrates from excitement. The room is silent.

“Do it,” Professor Lucius spits, “pull the trigger.”

Caleb’s finger rests on the trigger of your gun. The smile remains on your face. He can feel his body heat up, pulsating across his skin as his anxiety flares up, his heartbeat racing inside of his chest. Caleb’s breathing grows shallow, unable to keep up with just how fast his heart speeds inside his body. His ears ring, white noise the only thing he can hear besides the Professor’s voice.

Caleb stares into your eyes. He searches for any kind of humanity that you have left, wishing that you would give him a sign, anything to help him turn the gun towards Professor Lucius and blow his brains out instead. That would result in his death but it would be worth it if it meant giving you back your agency and autonomy.

“X-02! Pull the trigger!”

Caleb whispers your name, tears forming in his eyes.

To him, you are not V-03. You are your own person, someone worthy of love and admiration and not endless torture and despair.

He whispers your name, the sound ringing inside your ears. You try to fight against the Toring Chip, your screams only sounding off inside the confines of your own consciousness and mind. You beg and sob, wishing for him to break you free from this place while your world slowly crumbles from all around you.

“X-02! I order you to pull the trigger! Kill her!”

Caleb whispers your name.

You blink in response.

“X-02!”

Caleb becomes overwhelmed. He hears your joyous laughter in his head, the scent of your spiced apple perfume filling his nose. Memories of your lazy mornings together attack him. His eyes move down to your tie. He wonders if you needed help with it like he always does. Caleb shudders as the men in the room scream and shout at him, defying their orders.

You take a step forward, pushing your head into the muzzle, forcing him backwards. Caleb flinches.

BANG!

please drop a like, reblog, & comment!! i love see what you all have to say <3

i <3 commenters

[saxpreg]

it looks like this is the case for quite a few triggers: you can't sort for media that does contain it. i just think that's fucking stupid design to include the option if you can't actually sort for a trigger, but what do i know?

why can't i sort by media that does have incestuous relationships on doesthedogdie?

[elumish]

In the wake of what's going on in the world, I see a lot of rhetoric that basically boils down to the idea that everyone has a responsibility to watch every bad thing that's going on in the world all the time. That awareness itself is a responsibility that everyone has always.

I'm not going to say that people do or don't have a responsibility to be aware of things, but I want to talk about how to take care of yourself and others while doing so.

For some context, I spent close to a year and a half reading about every terrorist attack in the world as part of my work on the Global Terrorism Database. It was 2015/2016, so this was the height of ISIS/Daesh, it was a major time for Boko Haram, and it was when there was a lot of political violence that we weren't sure how to classify in places like Yemen, Crimea, and Libya (stuff the GTD didn't know how to classify had all of is information recorded, and then it went into purgatory until someone above my paygrade decided what to do with it). What this means is that I was spending 10-20 hours a week reading about hundreds or thousands of attacks a month and, in my case, recording infomation about the type of attack and the type of weapon. Much of my life was reading terrible things.

Limit what you do in isolation. One of the worst changes for me during that time, mental health-wise (even though it was great for my commute) was when I went from working in-person to working remotely. With other people, there are ways to diffuse the pain. A burden shared is a burden halved and all that. That may mean talking about it, or joking about it, or finding some other way to engage with it that isn't just reading about the most horrible things in the world and then stewing in your own thoughts about them.

Find something to do that's totally unrelated. I highly recommend finding something to do with your hands, if you can (knitting, Lego, cooking, whatever), but regardless of what it is, you should have some time when you entirely switch away to something different. During a fair amount of my time with the GTD, I was also doing my undergrad thesis about terrorism on TV, so a huge amount of my life was about terrorism in some way. The only other thing I watched was Great British Bake Off, and I would just rewatch the episodes, over and over.

Be compassionate about how you share information and with whom. Use trigger warnings, and consider using consistent tagging on places like Tumblr so people can blacklist it if they need to. Also consider whether it's appropriate or necessary to share photos of bodies or other results of horrible violence. What is it accomplishing, to show that? Can that goal be accomplished other ways that don't require the equivalent of jumpscares of unexpected photos of dead or brutalized people? Are you just showing it because you think that everyone should have to see it? If you are showing it, are there ways to mitigate against harm it may do?

Do what you can to avoid an echo chamber. Sometimes, when everyone around you is upset or angry about the same thing, it just amplifies itself, and you all get angrier and more upset in perpetuity without accomplishing anything.

Work towards action. Watching terrible things happen for the sake of saying that you haven't looked away isn't as meaningful as taking action in some way. Write to your Congressperson. Donate. Do whatever is appropriate for the thing you want to stop. But penance via watching terrible things happen doesn't accomplish anything.

Recognize compassion fatigue and do what you can to mitigate it. If you spend long enough doing this, you start to lose context, and you start to become less able to have compassion about things. If you're reading about attacks with dozens or hundreds of deaths regularly, five can start to not seem like that many. If you're reading only about the worst suffering in the world, "lesser" suffering of those around you can start to seem unimportant and petty. Do what you can to mitigate that.

Be kind to yourself. You do nobody any good if you burn out. Look away, if you need to. Take a break. Do things so you can enjoy life, because otherwise you are just another person suffering in the world. Other people's pain isn't a hair shirt for you to wear.

[jungkoode]

THE 25TH HOUR | O8

“𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐒”

"Your coffee is exactly the way you like it, though you do not remember having a preference over it, nor knowing Agent Min's. Just like you don't remember the coffee shop, or the barista. Or how, apparently, certain phrases trigger certain protocols."

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 5,4k

content: coffee details, sugar slander, yoongi hiding the softness (i see u mf), him leaving in the worst moment possible (oh no can you believe that), a barista thinking he's john wick and yoongi showing him he's indeed not (why am i laughing at this i'm so funny), idk fleeing, superpowers, golden tendrils/tentacles/traces and they're sensitive bc i'm a horny slut who loves drama, yoongi explaining his abilities and basically both of them being somewhat stranded.

— author’s note

OKAY OKAY OKAY—wow. phew.

Lemme just say I had to speed write this chapter like I was being chased by CHRONOS itself because I was NOT prepared for y’all to hit the chapter goals in like… two days. TWO. DAYS. Both on Wattpad and Tumblr. Kinda insane honestly but also like… slay Kiki Nation, we are so back.

This was a severe underestimation on my part and it 100% reflects in the goal numbers I set this round. Don’t look at me like that. This is entirely your doing.

NOW. As for this chapter: WOAH. I was so itchy to finally get into some action-packed scenes!!! I know it’s not a full-blown Marvel throwdown or anything but ughhhh I love the way it’s parried with uncovering new truths, a little sprinkling of Yoongi’s abilities, and just the faintest nod at Noma’s. We’re getting there, babies. We’re cooking with unstable temporal gas.

Sci-fi + superpowers = my drug. Inject it directly into my brainstem. This fic is honestly just me going full feral in my favorite genre and I love that you’re all just vibing with the chaos.

And hey—just a heads up—those golden traces / tendrils / tentacles / whatever-the-fuck you wanna call them? Yeah. They’re important. Not just plot-wise.

Oh no. We’re going smut-wards. You remember that little detail about them being sensitive? YEAH. Narrative seed. Planted. You’re welcome, you horny-ass goblins. I love your deranged asses because they are as feral as mine and I respect that.

Anyway. I’m gonna make that man suffer through overstimulation and there’s NOTHING you can do to stop me. Whoops. Who said that??

Godspeed and love. <3

— read on

ao3

wattpad

You’ve never registered an aversion to coffee. 

Analysis confirms your preference: black, minimal dilution via milk, zero sweeteners. Sugar introduces an artificial variable, a taste profile your palate rejects as inefficient data. 

The cup sits between your hands now, untouched. Heat radiates outwards, a minor thermal signature registering in your system. You stare into the dark liquid, a reflective surface showing nothing but distorted ceiling lights. Your mind searches for a focal point, a problem to solve, but the what remains elusive, fragmented.

Beside you, Agent Min occupies the adjacent stool. His presence is a known variable, yet the proximity registers as… different. Static cling without the static. 

His coffee mirrors yours in its lack of sugar, but deviates in the absence of milk. Plain black. Stark. Your internal database flags this information, yet registers no 'new entry' timestamp. It’s data already logged, sourced from… where? 

The query returns a null set. 

Error. File not found.

“Good?”

The query comes from him. Low frequency, minimal inflection. You lift your gaze, meeting his across the short distance. Dark eyes, partially obscured by mint smudges of hair that have fallen across his forehead.

Analysis identifies a lack of direct eye contact, his focus aimed somewhere near your left temple.

A defensive posture? Or observational?

You tilt your head, a minor adjustment of 15 degrees. Querying his query.

The corner of his mouth flickers. A micro-expression, barely perceptible, suppressed almost instantly. He’s withholding an upward curve, a smile response. 

Why?

“I mean you,” he clarifies, voice maintaining its low, even tone. “Not the coffee.”

You redirect your focus to the cup. The brown surface ripples slightly as you shift your weight. You deliberately defocus your vision, blurring the edges of the ceramic rim.

Unconscious action.

Flagged for later analysis.

“Yeah, just…” The sentence terminates prematurely. Insufficient data to complete the thought. Or perhaps, excess data causing system overload.

He mirrors your earlier gesture, head tilting towards you. An eyebrow arches. A non-verbal prompt for continuation. Standard interrogation technique.

“I knew Robin.” The words emerge, low volume, clinical detachment coating the raw data point.

He nods once. A slow, measured movement. No verbal response. He allows the silence to expand, granting you control over the data flow. 

“And now he’s gone.” You complete the statement. 

Flat delivery. Fact confirmed.

His gaze drops to his own cup. He lifts it, takes a sip. The motion is fluid, economical. He places the cup back down without a sound. Four seconds pass. Five. 

“I got him erased.” The statement escapes as a whisper, approximately 17 decibels. 

A conclusion reached through flawed logic, yet carrying an unexpected physical weight. Something constricts within your chest cavity, pressure.

His response is immediate. No processing delay.

“No.”

The word is rough, textured like sandpaper against concrete. A rasp that cuts through the low hum.

“CHRONOS got him erased.” He pauses, intake of breath audible. “That’s what they do.”

"I mentioned the temporal anomaly to him." You mutter, the unidentified strain expanding behind your sternum. "Probability suggests that's why they targeted him."

"They were already watching him," he says, voice calibrated to exactly 40 decibels. "Your conversation may have accelerated their timeline, but he was already flagged."

You process this new data point, running probability calculations against known variables.

"How can you be certain?" 

His eyes meet yours—pupil dilation increasing by 7.3% in the 0.7 seconds of direct contact.

"Because I've been tracking their erasure patterns for longer than you've been alive."

The statement contains multiple logical inconsistencies. 

Agent Min does not look significantly older than you.

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

Your glance moves back to the cup. 

"Robin kept succulents on his desk," you say, the information surfacing without clear relevance markers. "Three of them. Arranged by height. He watered them every Tuesday at 14:27."

Yoongi's face produces some series of micro-adjustments in 17 distinct facial muscles that combine to form something your pattern recognition identifies as... compassion? 

The classification feels incorrect, but alternatives rank lower in probability.

"You're processing grief," he observes, voice modulating to a softer cadence. "It's normal."

The diagnosis feels foreign. Incorrect. Your emotional processing centers operate at 98.7% efficiency. You would recognize grief.

Wouldn't you?

"I barely knew him," you counter. "We shared 17 lunch periods over 4.7 months. Total interaction time: 23.8 hours. Insufficient for meaningful emotional attachment."

Yoongi takes another sip of his coffee. The liquid level decreases by exactly 12 milliliters.

"Grief isn't always logical," he says after 2.3 seconds of silence. "Sometimes it's just... human."

The cadence in his last word triggers some unexpected response in you.

"I'm not experiencing grief," you insist. "I'm experiencing statistical anomalies in my cognitive processing."

His eyes meet yours again—0.9 seconds of contact that somehow feels heavier than its temporal parameters suggest.

"Call it whatever you need to. The result is the same."

Your fingers adjust on the cup again—pressure decreasing by 0.2 kilograms as your muscles unconsciously respond to his voice.

"What is the statistical probability that my conversation with Robin directly caused his erasure?" 

Yoongi's expression darkens—brow lowering by 0.4 centimeters, jaw tensing with 31% more force.

"You're looking for a percentage to quantify your guilt," he observes, voice edged. "It doesn't work that way."

"Everything works that way," you argue. "Reality is quantifiable. Causality is measurable. Effect follows cause at precisely calculable intervals."

"Not in the 25th hour. Not with CHRONOS."

Silence spreads as his thumb traces the rim of his cup-three precise rotations counterclockwise. Then, he speaks again, needing to make a point.

"Consistency matters now more than ever. CHRONOS is auditing behavioral patterns with 62% increased scrutiny since last quarter."  

You frown. "Source?"  

"Erratic temporal enforcement." His finger taps the ceramic once—sharp, percussive. "Fourteen percent spike in memory wipes. Thirty-three percent decrease in Outlier survival rates post-detection."  

The numbers land like ice chips down your spine. "Correlation doesn't imply causation."  

His eyes narrow by 0.3 millimeters. "You think they're redecorating parks for aesthetic purposes?"  

You ignore the rhetorical jab. "Recommended behavioral adjustments?"  

"Normalcy. No deviations from established routines. No unscheduled interactions. No..." 

His gaze flicks to your hands. 

“...idle curiosity."  

You follow his line of sight.

Your fingers have been tracing infinity symbols in condensation on the table.

A subconscious pattern emerging at 2.7-second intervals.  

"Noted." 

You wipe the moisture away with a napkin, friction coefficient registering 0.4 higher than standard paper stock.  

"They're cross-referencing biometrics with temporal signatures now. Elevated heart rate during routine scans triggers immediate audits."  

Your pulse spikes by 11.2 bpm at the implication. "You're suggesting emotional suppression."  

"I'm suggesting survival. Your body can't afford inconvenient truths right now."  

The phrase 'inconvenient truths' lodges in your cortex, sparking 37 simultaneous neural queries. 

All return access-denied.  

"Define 'normalcy' parameters."  

"Wake at 06:00. Work until 18:30. Consume 427 calories at designated intervals. Report all temporal irregularities except the ones we cause."  

"Compliance seems..." You search for the optimal term. "...counterintuitive to resistance efforts."  

“You think rebellion looks like fireworks and manifesto drops?" Leather creaks as he leans closer, mint and ozone sharpening the air between you. "Real resistance happens in the microseconds they don't monitor."  

Your retinas capture the exact moment his pupils dilate—3.2% expansion correlating with proximity increase. 

"Such as?"  

"The 25th hour. The only time they can't see us."  

Your watch beeps softly—temporal variance: 0.89%.  

He pulls back instantly, posture reset to neutral. "Stick to the numbers. The patterns. The lies they've programmed you to live."  

The coffee turns bitter on your tongue, pH shifting by 0.2. 

"And you?"  

“I'll be the ghost in their machine."  

Ghost.

The word settles in your chest, impossibly making it warmer.

Then, the lights flicker—a couple times—as CHRONOS agents pass outside the window. Their shadows stretch across the floor in elongated distortions, limbs warped by the glass's refractive index.  

You count their footsteps.  

He counts your breaths.  

A soft exhale from his lips—a controlled release of 1.2 liters of air over 2.4 seconds.

Rising from the stool, he stretches his neck 37 degrees to the left, then 42 degrees right. The vertebrae produce three distinct clicks at frequencies between 73 and 81 hertz.

His cup sits empty. Yours remains 73% full.

That same suppressed curve at the corner of his mouth does a reappearance.

Your pattern recognition flags it as the third occurrence of this specific micro-expression in the past 18 minutes.

“I need to use the restroom.” His statement is direct, efficient. “Wait here.”

You nod once—a 15-degree downward tilt followed by an equivalent upward correction. Optimal response to a simple directive.

He moves 1.7 meters toward the back of the establishment before pivoting 170 degrees. His eyebrows lift by 0.4 centimeters, creating three distinct lines across his forehead.

“You’ll be okay?”

The question registers as anomalous. Its premise suggests a concern disproportionate to the circumstances. Your brow furrows, creating a 0.3-centimeter depression between your eyebrows.

He shakes his head, dismissing the moment, and disappears behind the door marked RESTROOM—white letters, slightly chipped, 7.2 degrees off center.

You pivot on the stool, body angled toward the counter.

The coffee sits there, cooling. You sip. It’s gone tepid. Your thumb traces the rim, mapping the circumference for the third time.

The bartender approaches. Male, mid-thirties, dark hair, clean apron. Smile at 65% intensity.

“Not a fan of the coffee?” he asks, voice pitched for casual friendliness. “You’ve been staring at it longer than drinking.”

You blink twice. Processing. “No, it’s fine.”

He leans in, elbows on the counter. “You sure? Most people ask for sugar. Or something sweet.”

You shake your head. “I don’t like sweeteners. They distort the baseline flavor profile.”

He laughs, easy. “That’s… specific.” 

His gaze lingers, searching for something. 

“You come here often? I don’t recognize you.”

You hesitate, brain skipping. “Not that I remember.”

The words fall out, unfiltered. He goes still. Smile vanishes. His hand drops below the counter—movement too smooth.

Cold metal presses to your temple. Soft click.

You catalog the sensation. 

Barrel diameter: 9mm. 

Temperature: room. 

Pressure: firm, not shaking.

His voice drops, all pretense gone. “Don’t move. Don’t speak.”

You comply. 

Data input: threat detected.  

Output: unknown.

Your retinal sensors register gold first—erratic sparks at 11 o'clock, 43 centimeters from your focal point. 

The barista's weapon hand undergoes rapid cellular decay: skin desiccating at 3.7 millimeters per second, muscle tissue liquefying with 92% efficiency. His scream measures 114 decibels—pain response authentic, but temporal signature reveals 0.8-second delay.  

Agent Min's grip materializes around your wrist before the decay reaches radial artery. His fingers burn at 39.1°C, golden threads weaving through his leather gloves. The world blurs—not from speed, but temporal interference. 

Your internal chronometer confirms: local time dilation of 47%.  

"Move." The command vibrates at 87 Hz, bypassing auditory processing to embed directly in your motor cortex.  

Your legs comply before conscious thought engages. Adrenaline spikes—17.3% above baseline. The cafe exits warp as you pass, doorframes appearing to bend at 12-degree angles—an optical illusion caused by the temporal distortion field surrounding you.  

CHRONOS agents materialize in peripheral vision, their movements unnaturally segmented—3.1 frames per second versus standard 24. Their comms chatter fractures into your awareness:  

"—emporal breach Sector 4-Alpha—"  

"—arget exhibits Reality Shifter signatures—"  

"—containment protocol Theta-7 authorized—"  

Yoongi pivots 170 degrees, dragging you into an alley where air molecules vibrate at 0.7x normal frequency. His free hand glows faintly gold, pressed against the brick wall. Mortar ages backward then forward in precise spiral patterns—2.3 revolutions per second, creating a passageway exactly 0.9 meters wide.  

"Don't breathe," he warns as you pass through particulate matter suspended in his temporal field. 

Your lungs register 14% oxygen decrease.

Insufficient for hypoxia.

Sufficient for discomfort.  

The alley deposits you onto a street where Agent Min(?) has slowed time by 23%. Pedestrians move at imperceptible rates, their coffee cups appearing frozen at 37-degree angles. His temporal manipulation leaves gold afterimages—3.2-second persistence in your peripheral vision.  

Your Chrono-Sync Watch beeps erratically:  

TEMPORAL VARIANCE: 4.89%  

ANOMALY DETECTED  

His grip tightens—42.7 kilograms of pressure now, necessary to anchor you against increasing temporal distortion. Without his stabilizing touch, you assume your untrained body would suffer severe temporal drag. 

"Focus on my voice," he commands, words layered with harmonic frequencies that stabilize your inner ear fluid against the disorienting effects of his temporal field.  

CHRONOS drones breach the time dilation field behind you, their propulsion systems screeching at 17 kHz—the exact resonant frequency that makes your temples protest. 

They're designed to track and pursue through temporal distortions. You know this from your training, what they taught you. Or at least, what they wanted you to be taught.

But Yoongi never looks back; not even once.

Nature’s lumbar support leaves much to be desired.

The wall at your back is jagged, scraping through your shirt, stone biting into skin. Yoongi’s breath saws out next to you, sharp, furious. He rounds on you, eyes wild, voice pitched higher than baseline.

"What the fuck did you do?"

The question isn't a question—it’s an accusation wrapped in 87 decibels of controlled fury. You straighten 2.3 centimeters, ignoring how the rock tears at your jacket.

“I answered his query within established social parameters."  

His laugh is all sharp edges. "Parameters? You told a CHRONOS informant you didn't remember him!"  

"Statistical probability suggested—"  

"Probability?" He steps into your space, mint and ozone overpowering the cave's damp musk. "They've activated civilian reporting protocols! That bartender was required to log every customer interaction!"  

Your pulse spikes-+18bpm. "Unforeseen variable. You didn't brief me on—"

"I literally just said don't deviate from normalcy!" The wall cracks behind him, hairline fractures spreading at 3mm/second. "Normal people don't have memory gaps about coffee shops!"  

You catalog the wall damage—microcrystalline structure failure inconsistent with human strength.

Fascinating.

New data point: Agent Min's capabilities exceed known parameters.  

"My response was logically sound," you counter. "Approximately 72% of humans experience—"  

"Logically suicidal." Gold sparks dance in his irises now. "They train those informants to flag exactly that phrase."

The revelation triggers 23 simultaneous neural queries.

"Why would 'not that I remember' trigger—"

"Because Outliers say it when their memories glitch!" He's closer now, 47cm instead of 72. "Basic fucking tradecraft, Noma."

You flinch at the nickname. "You expect me to intuit unpublished surveillance tactics?"  

"I expect you to listen when I say CHRONOS is hunting us." The gold intensifies, threads weaving through his clenched fists. "That man wasn't armed until you turned him into a threat."

"Correlation fallacy." Your voice drops to 19dB. "You lack evidence that—"

The cave wall explodes.  

Not literally—just Yoongi's fist connecting with stone 3.2cm from your head. Dust cascades downward as he withdraws his hand, skin unmarred.  

"Evidence?" His breath ghosts across your lips, warmer than human biology allows. "You think decay patterns manifest spontaneously?"  

Realization crystallizes.

The bartender's rotting hand. The gold threads. The temporal distortion.  

Your eyes narrow. "You altered his cellular decay rate."  

"To save your statistically suicidal ass."  

"Without consent."  

"Without options.” 

The standoff lasts 4.7 seconds.

"You're an anomaly," he growls. "Stop acting like one."  

"Variables require data." You match his glare. "Which you hoard like a fucking dragon."  

His hands rake through mint hair, leaving it standing at precisely 47-degree angles.

"Because I have no other fucking choice!" The words explode from him, raw and jagged. "Every piece of information I give you is another potential trigger. Another way for CHRONOS to find you. To erase you. Again."

That word. ‘Again’. He keeps saying it, like it’s something he can’t lodge out of his throat.

Yet, for his incredible powers, he seems unable to prevent what he fears most.

What ‘again’ means to him.

Your eyes narrow, recalculating.

"So your ability..." You pause, watching his muscles tense. "Time manipulation?"

His eyes flick to yours, then away. A non-answer that answers everything.

"You aged his hand by 70 years, at minimum." Your voice steadies as you shift to analysis mode. "Accelerated cellular decay, targeted temporal field. Fascinating."

"83 actually." The correction is automatic. Petulant. He slides down the wall beside you, knees cracking at 73 and 81 hertz. "Time Anchor. That's the technical classification."

You catalog the term, cross-referencing against known temporal phenomena.

No matches found.

"I can't create or destroy time." His voice drops, rougher now. "I can only... redistribute it. Accelerate decay in one place, slow it in another."

Your fingers twitch with the urge to document, to measure. "Conservation of temporal energy."

"Something like that." He flexes his right hand, and you notice the faint gold shimmer beneath his skin—network of lines like circuitry, pulsing at 0.7-second intervals. "Every action has a cost."

"The gold." You gesture toward his hand. "Temporal bleed?"

His eyebrow lifts 0.3 centimeters. "For someone who claims to know nothing, you make impressive leaps."

"Pattern recognition is my primary function." You shift, angling your body 12 degrees toward his. "What's the cost?"

His laugh lacks humor, registering at 42% below standard mirth indicators.

"Depends on what I'm doing. Age someone's hand? Minor headache, maybe some joint pain. Stop time completely?" He taps his temple. "Migraines that would kill a normal person."

You process this, calculating energy transfer ratios.

"And the 25th hour?"

"That's different." His voice drops another 3 decibels. "That's not me. That's... a system error. Something CHRONOS never accounted for."

"That you exploit."

"That we exploit." He corrects, eyes meeting yours. "Some of us, anyway."

"How many like you exist?"

"Time Anchors?" He shrugs, the movement exact despite its casual appearance. "Only me, that I know of.”

The admission feels sad.

Terribly lonely.

"And me?"

The question emerges before your logic centers can evaluate its prudence; and his eyebrows twitch, eyes staring directly onto the ground.

"You're something else entirely."

"Define 'something else,'" you request, shifting your position against the wall to better observe him. 

The movement causes a minor increase in discomfort—rock surface irregularities creating pressure points along your vertebrae.

But they do not register as important in the face of acquiring new information.

Agent Min finally exhales—which suggests internal debate about information disclosure parameters.

"I can show you," he says finally, voice dropping. "But you need to understand that what I'm about to do is extremely detectable. If there are any CHRONOS agents within 400 meters, they'll register it."

You calculate risk factors, weighing variables against known CHRONOS response protocols.

"Current location provides approximately 87% concealment from standard monitoring," you observe. "Probability of detection: 13.2%."

His mouth quirks—almost-smile that never fully materializes.

"Always with the numbers," he mutters, but it doesn't register as annoyance—rather something warmer.

He extends his right hand, palm up, and focuses his attention on it with an intensity that alters his breathing pattern by 0.4 seconds per cycle.

At first, nothing happens.

Then—

Gold.

Liquid light emerges from his fingertips, tendrils of energy that move with fluidity. They spiral outward in clockwise rotations, creating phenomenons that defy any standard classification parameters.

Your pupils dilate by approximately 28%, heart rate increasing by 17 beats per minute.

"Temporal energy," he explains, voice steady despite the obvious energy expenditure. "Direct manifestation of my ability."

The golden traces move like extensions of himself, responding to minute shifts in his focus. They emit no measurable heat signature yet appear fluid, almost liquid in their movement patterns.

"Fascinating," you breathe, leaning closer to observe better. "How do they work? What's their composition? Can they interact with physical matter or are they purely energetic manifestations?"

Your questions tumble out in rapid succession, each one triggering three more in your mind. The analytical part of you wants to measure, catalog, understand—but something else, something less quantifiable, simply wants to touch.

He watches you cautiously, measuring your reaction.

"They're extensions of temporal force," he explains. "I can manipulate objects through their timeline states—age them forward or backward, freeze them in their current temporal position."

The golden traces curl and twist above his palm, creating complex patterns that seem to follow mathematical principles.

"Can I—" You hesitate, unusual break in your typically decisive speech pattern. "Would contact damage them? Or me?"

"No damage," he says carefully. "But they're... sensitive."

The word choice seems odd, triggering your curiosity further.

"Sensitive how?" you press, eyes tracking the golden movements.

He sighs—perhaps denoting exhaustion.

"They're direct extensions of my temporal energy. I feel what they feel."

You process this information.

"Like nerve endings," you suggest.

"Yeah… Something like that."

Decision made, you extend your hand toward the nearest tendril, moving slowly to allow him time to withdraw if needed. 

He doesn't.

Your fingertip makes contact with the golden energy.

The sensation is... unexpected.

The trace feels solid yet fluid simultaneously, warm without heat, substantial without mass. But what registers most prominently is Yoongi's immediate reaction—sharp intake of breath, pupils dilating by approximately 32%, micro-tremor in his left hand.

You pull back instantly, recalculating.

"Did that hurt?" you ask, cataloging his physiological responses.

"No." His voice drops by 2.7 hertz. "Not hurt."

No further clarification. 

Your own pulse increases by another 8 beats per minute in response.

Oh.

You reach out again, this time with intent, and trace your finger along the golden tendril. It responds to your touch, curling around your fingertip like it's greeting you.

Yoongi's breathing pattern alters—inhalation extending by 0.7 seconds, exhalation shortening by 0.4.

"They recognize you," he says, voice rougher than before.

"That's impossible," you counter automatically. "We've never interacted like this before."

His eyes meet yours, holding for 2.3 seconds—longer than his usual 0.8-second maximum.

"They recognize you," he repeats, simply.

The golden trace wrapped around your finger pulses slightly, the rhythm matching your heartbeat with 97.3% synchronicity. 

"What else can they do?" you ask, scientific curiosity temporarily overriding everything else.

He flexes his fingers slightly, and the traces extend further, creating a complex network of golden energy between you.

"They can interact with physical objects," he demonstrates, directing a tendril toward a small rock. 

The stone ages rapidly, crumbling to dust in 3.2 seconds. Another rock reverts to its geological past—crystallizing into a perfect quartz formation.

"Temporal manipulation at a distance," you observe, mind going through all possible applications, limitations, variables.

"Yes."

You watch as the traces move with increasing confidence around you, never touching without your initiation, but clearly... aware of your presence.

"And these are unique to Time Anchors?" you ask, testing another hypothesis.

"Each type of Outlier has their own manifestation," he says carefully. "Mine happens to be temporal, and in tendrils of different sizes."

You detect deliberate vagueness, information being withheld.

"What's mine?"

The traces flicker briefly, responding to some change in his emotional state.

"That's something you'll have to discover yourself," he says finally.

You frown, dissatisfied with the non-answer.

"More cryptic responses. Inefficient communication strategy."

His mouth quirks again.

"Some things can't be told, Noma. They have to be experienced."

You reach out again, this time allowing your entire hand to pass through the network of golden energy. The traces respond immediately, wrapping around your fingers, sliding between them.

Yoongi's breath catches, the sound barely audible at 17 decibels.

"These are... remarkably sensitive," you observe.

"Yes." The word emerges strained, tightly controlled.

A hypothesis forms. You test it by deliberately trailing your fingers through the traces with a bit more pressure.

His reaction is immediate—pupils dilating to 7.1 millimeters, pulse visible at his throat increasing to approximately 92 beats per minute, a muscle in his jaw tensing with 47% more force.

"Interesting," you murmur, filing away this reaction for future analysis.

"We should stop," he says, voice rougher than before. "Extended manifestation increases detection risk."

Logical. Rational. 

Yet you find yourself strangely reluctant to end the experiment.

"One more question," you negotiate, still not withdrawing your hand from the golden network. "Why do they move in clockwise patterns specifically?"

His eyes meet yours again, unreadable.

"Because that's how time moves," he says simply. "Forward. Clockwise."

You correlate with your observations.

"And if something moved counterclockwise?" you ask, the question emerging from some intuitive part of your mind rather than your analytical centers.

The traces flicker again, responding to something in his emotional state.

"That would be something else entirely," he says, echoing his earlier statement.

Before you can press further, he withdraws, the golden traces retracting into his skin. The absence leaves the air feeling strangely empty, lacking some vital element you hadn't noticed until it was gone.

Your fingertips tingle with residual sensation—a ghastly feeling you don’t know how to categorize but for some reason find yourself missing.

"We need to move," he says, voice returning to its normal cadence. "We've stayed in one place too long."

He is right. 

You don’t know why you still want to touch those golden traces.

You rise instead, calculating the most efficient exit route while your mind continues processing this new data point: Agent Min’s golden traces recognize you, despite having no logical reason to do so.

Another anomaly to add to your growing collection.

He presses his right wrist with two fingers, applying precisely 2.1 kilograms of pressure to the outer edge of his Chrono-Sync Watch. The device responds with a soft sound—around 17 decibels, so barely perceptible even in the cave's acoustic environment.

A holographic display materializes 4.7 centimeters above the watch face, projecting a three-dimensional map of Sector 4 with pulsing red markers scattered across its surface.

You lean forward, immediately registering the discrepancy: standard Chrono-Sync Watch models lack holographic projection capabilities.

"What is that?"

Yoongi doesn't look up, his focus entirely on the floating map as he rotates it 37 degrees with a precise finger movement.

"Modified," he says simply, the explanation as efficient as always. "I told you."

You study the hologram, cataloging design parameters and technical specifications with automatic precision.

"Quantum-projection module integration into a Chrono-Sync interface would require bypassing at least seven encryption protocols," you observe, mind already mapping the engineering challenges. "The power requirements alone would necessitate a modified lithium cell with 347% increased capacity. Not to mention the spatial compression algorithms needed to maintain holographic integrity without..."

Your analysis trails off as your eyes meet his over the floating display. The corner of his mouth twitches once more.

"You helped create this," he says quietly, fingers still moving through the projection.

The statement registers, but fails to connect with any accessible memory database.

"I did not." Your contradiction emerges automatically, precisely calibrated to express certainty.

He doesn't argue. Doesn't press. Simply continues manipulating the map with those agile, gloved fingers, eyes occasionally flicking to your face as if contemplating your reaction.

Silence expands between you for exactly 4.3 seconds before your curiosity overrides caution.

"Where are we going?" you ask, redirecting the conversation away from memory discrepancies that trigger uncomfortable neural responses.

"I'm mapping our closest access point," he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

His index finger traces a route through the holographic streets, calculating distances with the same analytical precision you recognize in yourself.

"We need to reach one of the travel spots within the next 37 minutes. Our temporal signature trail is too fresh after that... incident."

"Travel spots?"

You catalog the unfamiliar terminology, cross-referencing against known CHRONOS lexicon.

No matches found.

Yoongi's fingers pause at exactly 23 degrees northeast of your current position. His throat works—a slight contraction suggesting hesitation.

"I..." 

His voice hovers over the simple noun. He swallows once, recalibrating.

"Travel spots are access points," he continues, voice modulated in a way that suggests internal editing. "Strategic locations throughout the city that allow direct transport to the 7th Hour headquarters."

"Teleportation technology? That's theoretically impossible given current quantum limitations."

"Not teleportation. Temporal-spatial warping." His finger taps a pulsing blue marker on the map. "These portals use existing weak points in CHRONOS's reality grid."

Theoretical models. Probability factors. Energy requirements.

"The energy necessary to maintain stable reality tunnels would exceed—"

"That's why they're not tunnels," he interrupts, eyes still fixed on the map. "They're more like... doors. Open only when needed, closed immediately after use."

You lean closer, studying the blue markers. Their distribution follows no discernible pattern—a deliberate randomization algorithm to prevent predictive tracking.

"Why can't CHRONOS detect them?" you ask, probing for weaknesses.

"They can detect the activation," he answers, voice tightening slightly. "But not follow through. The portals are specially calibrated to recognize Outlier temporal signatures. Anyone else attempting to pass through would trigger an immediate collapse."

You frown, recalculating. "But my temporal signature is registered in the CHRONOS database. Wouldn't that trigger their defense systems?"

His eyes flick to yours briefly—0.7 seconds of direct contact.

"Your official signature is a fabrication. The real one..." He pauses, choosing his words with unusual care. "The real one is already authorized in our system."

Another anomaly to catalog.

Another fragment that doesn't fit your accessible memory database.

"So we access one of these points, and it transports us directly to your headquarters?" you confirm, redirecting toward practical logistics.

"Yes." He closes the holographic display with an easy gesture. "But we need to be careful. After what happened at the coffee shop, they'll be scanning for temporal disturbances with heightened sensitivity."

You tilt your head, considering.

"And why haven't you contacted your team? Surely they could provide assistance or extraction."

His eyes flicker to you. Presses his lips together. Then, answers.

"Communications are compromised in this sector," he explains. "Any encrypted transmission would register on CHRONOS monitoring systems. They'd triangulate our position within 3.7 seconds."

"Your golden traces," you observe, connecting variables. "The temporal display at the coffee shop would have triggered every sensor within 1.5 kilometers."

"Precisely why we need to move quickly." He cracks his neck again, just like he did back in the coffee shop. "Our window is closing. That display was necessary but costly from a strategic perspective."

Your mind reconstructs the coffee shop incident—the bartender's decay, the golden traces, the immediate pursuit.

"You risked substantial exposure to extract me," you state, the realization forming fully. "Statistically, that decision carried a 78.3% probability of compromising your entire operation."

He doesn’t explain. Doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t try to correct you. Just lets silence stretch for three seconds.

"Some variables outweigh probability," he says finally.

"I still don't understand why you can't simply use your temporal abilities to transport us directly. If you can manipulate time—"

"I manipulate time, not space," he sighs. "I can slow it, accelerate it, even stop it briefly. But I can't move through it. That's..."

He hesitates again, that same weighted pause.

"That's a different ability entirely."

You catalog this limitation, updating your mental model of his capabilities.

"And these portals combine both temporal and spatial manipulation," you deduce, connecting data points.

"Yes." The confirmation is clipped, efficient. "They were designed specifically to compensate for the limitations of individual Outlier abilities."

"Designed by who?"

His eyes meet yours again—1.4 seconds this time, 75% longer than his usual pattern.

"By us," he says simply.

The pronoun registers with unexpected weight.

Us. Collective. Collaborative.

You and him.

Your Chrono-Sync Watch beeps softly: Temporal variance: 1.07%.

"We need to move," he says, already turning toward the cave entrance. "The nearest travel spot is 1.7 kilometers northeast. If we maintain optimal pace while avoiding main thoroughfares, we should arrive within the acceptable window."

You follow, legs automatically adjusting to match his stride, body responding to cues your conscious mind hasn't processed.

Another anomaly. Another piece of the puzzle.

You catalog it alongside all the others, building your database of inconsistencies, contradictions, and inexplicable familiarities.

Someday, you'll find the pattern that connects them all.

But for now, you follow the ghost with golden traces, moving through a city that feels increasingly like a simulation with every step.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

goal: 250 notes

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© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[wandixx]

GIW made a lot of mistakes and the biggest one was going against Young Justice part 2

part one is here

@whimsicalchaosgarden you asked to be tagged, sorry it took so long

Trigger warnings: mentions of experimentation and dehumanization (tell me if there is more appropriate way of phrasing it)

“So,” Robin started, taking the voice recorder out of his utility belt. “It'll probably be best if we get an explanation while making an accident report. This way we get it all over sooner”

Everyone agreed with this idea, standing in the loose circle in the debriefing area to make it all feel more serious. They had limited time before the next batch of cookies needed to be taken out of the oven and there was no way they all wouldn't devolve into chaos when it happened. M’gann knew from experience. 

To make sure they wouldn't take too long and cookies wouldn't turn on the fire alarm (again) both she and Danny set a timer.

In the meantime they had to learn who actually attacked them earlier.

“Phantom do the honors”

Danny froze for a moment, looking like deer caught in the headlight before he asked in a bit squeaky voice:

“How do I make an accident report?”

“Just say what happened but make it sound fancy,” Artemis explained. 

“Make a mission report and we'll fix it along the way,” Kaldur proposed.

“Answer ‘When? Where? Who was involved? What happened? What have you done about it?’ without excessive use of puns to avoid Bat-lecture” Robin helped, already in handstand.

“Bat-lecture? Really Rob?”

“So it's like lab report lite” Danny said before Robin did anything more than squawk indignantly “Alright, I can do it. Do you have any set phrase to start? And which accident report is it, in the database?"

“44th… How about ‘[Hero name], report’? Sounds serious enough.”

Everyone agreed, so after a moment of silence Kaldur did the honors.

“Phantom, report”

Danny straightened, rolling his shoulders back and locked his eyes in the middle distance. It was a bit eerie how fast he went from relaxed and goofy to almost emotionless statue. M’gann wished to never encounter it again, thank you very much.

“Incident report no. 45 made by Young Justice member Phantom, regarding an attack from earlier today, 26th April 20XX. The Young Justice Team, later referred to as the Team, went on a trip to an amusement park staying currently in the city of Happy Harbour. It was an activity meant to strengthen interpersonal relationships within the Team, previously green-lit by Red Tornado. Every member was in civilian attire as per protocol. Around 3:15 PM, after two and a half hours, the Team were disturbed by a group of ten armed people, recognized by member Phantom as belonging to Ghost Investigation Ward, colloquially known as GIW or Guys In White because of their uniforms. Later in the report the organization will be referred to as the GIW. Two shots were fired by the assailants, targeting but not reaching member Phantom. Members of the GIW were hostile but with use of humor and threat of legal actions, the Team managed to diffuse the situation before it endangered passerbys. Despite direct attack, none of the Team members’ identities were compromised. Assailants left the confrontation with belief that Phantom left his ectoplasmic signature on an unrelated civilian. Agents refused to admit they were working for the GIW since its operations break a couple of laws of the state Rhode Island. Because of that, their appearance was reported to local law enforcement and taken care of. No injuries or damage to the city infrastructure were sustained other than two burns in the asphalt in the place of confrontation. Required follow-up with local law enforcement in civilian attire as victims of assault. End of report” Danny sighed, easing back into a more natural position. “This good?” he asked, with a sheepish smile.

“Perfect”

“How are you so good at reporting? You didn’t even know what to do a second ago? That’s just unfair”

“I used to write my parent’s lab reports. It’s pretty similar in form”

“Lab-”

“Follow-up to the report only, Kid-Flash,” Robin interrupted “Phantom. elaborate on who were the assailants”

Danny stepped back from himself again.

“GIW is a ghost hunting organization supported and accredited by the state government in Illinois, legally operating also in states Wisconsin and Ohio. Their goal is to catch and examine ecto-entities to learn more about their biology and ways to obliterate them. Obviously their plans for experimentation don’t include consideration of ghosts’ well-being”

“Damn, that’s messed up”

“They wouldn't catch a blob ghost if they tried,” Danny shrugged, though something was wrong with the gesture. She wasn't sure though, so she moved on.

“Then why were you scared?” M’gann pressed on instead.

“My parents… are, you know, prominent ghost hunters so when GIW opened we all got a tour around the whole building. The lab was… it made me imagine things I wished I had never thought about”

“They have labs? Like evil labs?” Robin perked up like a kid who just heard that Christmas came early. “How could you hide it from us?!” he added, falling to hang on Danny's shoulder. He twirled a bit to catch the left one even though before he stood on halfa’s right side. Dramatic as always “Conner, we have a birthday gift for you!”

“What does GIW’s lab have to do with my birthday?”

“The potential!” Robin yelled, straightening for a better effect.

Everyone started laughing. Well, everyone other than Conner who just looked at them confused.

“He probably wants to storm another lab, bring up nostalgia of our first meeting,” Kaldur calmed down just enough to explain.

“Tell me you wouldn't like to punch an evil scientist,” Wally added, almost dropping to the floor. 

“This does sound nice”

“And THIS is exactly the reason why I haven't told you all. Thanks for spoiling my surprise Rob,” Danny lied, though he did his best to sound truthful. He even projected some false mirth.

It would take much more to trick M’gann though. She abruptly stopped laughing.

“You're lying. Why actually haven't you told us?” she demanded maybe a little too harshly, but she was worried. Everyone froze for a moment, before turning to look at Danny.

“They're all bark no bite, and aim worse than Stormtroopers’, so I haven't considered them important enough to report”

Other's didn’t know, of course, but M’gann knew just how terrified Danny was during the confrontation and how echoes of that fear soured air around him even hours later.

Everyone did realize this explanation was a tone of bullshit though. 

Apparently incredulous stares were enough of the response.

“You and the Justice League have more important things to deal with than some shitty local laws”

“Bullshit again,” Artemis burst her lips “This is exactly what Justice League is for”

“I already found people to help me lobby against them”

“And why aren't we on the list?” 

Danny fell silent, not looking anyone in the eyes, which was quite a feat considering they had him in a half circle. M’gann considered moving to his side to show her support. Stare down like that had to be quite stressful.

Why not actually. She stepped closer, and drew him in the loose side hug. Danny tensed, which wasn't abnormal for him. He usually relaxed in about thirty seconds, if he didn't, she'd let go.

“I didn't expect them to breach the containment…”

“Each of these lies is worse, you know? Like, insulting our intelligence level of worse,” Artemis interrupted once more, pinning him with her eyes alone “Give us truth or stop talking”

Danny raised his head to look back at Artemis and mimed zipping his mouth shut and throwing the key away. 

“Really?”

Boy just shrugged, not breaking eye contact.

“Alright, let's move on to the next question, how did it get approved in the first place?” Wally interrupted, waving his hand between them. They both shook off like dogs fresh out of water.

“Couldn't you wait five more seconds until I won?” 

“Ha! You wish Artemis. Though you could give us a moment”

“I gave you literal ages”

Danny snorted “Sorry, I keep forgetting how impatient you are”

“Oh shut up, my brain is just faster than yours, you slowpokes”

“Sure, sure”

“He made a good point,” Kaldur said “This shouldn’t even pass. And even if, you’re legally a Meta”

“Normal ghosts aren’t and halfas being a thing is not exactly common knowledge among the living”

“I’ll never get used to this distinction”

“I believe in you, Rob”

“What about ‘Extraterrestrial, extradimensional and otherwise previously unincluded’ Optional Protocol to the ‘International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights’?”

“Oh my god Conner, you’re the only person to say the whole name ever”

“Hey!”

“It all comes down to the definition of the ghost and the fact that Alien addition uses sentience and sapience as a ground to give anyone said rights. And also, US signed it but didn’t ratify it so…”

“Isn’t it same thing?”

“Nope. I thought so too, but apparently signing anything means nothing unless it’s also ratified, so I’m kinda fucked. Can’t even get the UN to frown at them disapprovingly, because officially, nothing was agreed to. And you know, even if they ratified it, ecto-scientists conducted enough research to prove we aren’t sapient enough to have these rights anyway. Just most of the states didn’t need to make a law out of it”

“That’s rough buddy”

“Are you really quoting Avatar at me right now? Really Artemis?”

“Yes”

“Wasn’t Avatar this movie with blue people? I don’t think they said that there”

M’gann wasn’t quite sure why human members seemed to be appalled by the question.

“We’re going to fix that later-”

“What exactly is there to be fixed, because I feel like we’re talking about to different things”

“- but for now can we go back to the whole ‘ghosts have no rights in Illinois’ thing” Robin continued, completely ignoring Conner’s questions.

“Illinois, Wisconsin and Ohio. There are portals to the Zone in two of these states. GIW already tried to send nuke through one of them”

“How Americana of them,” Kaldur muttered.

“If you have another insane tidbit about them, please share it all now. My mind can’t utilize any more revelations like that”

“I handled it, don’t worry”

“Someone tried to nuke literal Afterlife…”

“Yup, get on the schedule Kid Flash. You’re supposed to be fast”

M’gann knocked her arm into his, kinda as a ‘don’t be mean’ message. Danny kinda tensed, but soon relaxed back and moved his head as if he wanted to lay it on her shoulder. Excitement of the day was clearly catching up to him.

M’gann wouldn’t be mad if he did laid his head there.

“Why do we learn about it just now?”

“I wrote the report, not my fault you haven’t read it”

“Can’t fault us for assuming we’d know every important thing from your endless bitching!”

Danny straightened and laughed, in this horrible humorless way that made M’gann want to claw at her brain until she couldn’t hear or sense any of it.

Instead, she brought her other hand up and just held him tighter.

Thankfully the whole spectacle didn’t last long.

“It’s cute that you think I bitch about anything important”

“Phantom…”

“Don’t Phantom me right now. Even if by some miracle they managed to send the missile to the Zone, it most likely wouldn’t have worked. They’re mostly just a joke.”

“They managed to shot you. Right upper arm or shoulder”

“Don’t deny it, we’ve seen you wince when I leaned on you and when M’gann hugged you”

Martian tried to let go hearing that, but Danny held her in place. She stayed where she was but carefully moved her hand away from the slightly damp area on his shirt. She suddenly caught on everything that was wrong with him, now that she knew to look for it.

“I got worse from the hand of my house’s security system”

“You… understand that it’s… like… way worse, right?”

“You don’t know life until you hear threats of dissection against your alter ego after stopping death ray with bowl of cereal,” he said, relaxing more into her side again. He sounded absolutely exhausted.

“Do you want to move in here? Until we deal with this whole GIW and assorted mess?” she said instead. Conner nodded, surprisingly eager to share the space that he considered somewhat sacred.

“Nope, I’m good, I’m needed there”

“You could Zeta- yeah, no, nevermind, it wasn’t good idea. But we could make it work”

“You still should-”

“It’s fine. I mean, I have it handled and it doesn’t affect that many people. And we’re working on it. It’s fine”

“It really is not,” Conner growled.

“You need your arm patched up” M’gann demanded, ignoring previous conversation, with eyes still fixed on the blood that stained her forearm. She should’ve destroyed at least Operative K.

“I bandaged it up”

“It soaked through then. Let’s go to med–”

Loud shrill interrupted her, because of course it did.

“Oh, look, convenient distraction! Let’s take the cookies out before they get burned!”

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” M’gann stated in a way that allowed no argument “You’re getting away for now only because I’m holding most of your weight right now”

“Sure we will. And I can stand on my own, thank you very much”

“I’ve heard many lies today and this might be the worst of them. We’re going to Medbay as soon as the cookies are out”

“You’ve got it boss”

[zealousnightmaredream]

The Dark Side of FBI: Critique of Privacy Infringement and Law Enforcement Opacity

In recent years, a series of actions by the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) have sparked widespread controversy and condemnation worldwide. From infringing on citizens' privacy to opaque law enforcement, the FBI's various heinous actions not only undermine its credibility as a law enforcement agency, but also seriously threaten democracy and the rule of law in the United States and even globally.

1、 The FBI's black history of violating citizens' privacy

As early as 2013, Edward Snowden, a former U.S. defense contractor employee, exposed the "Prism Plan" of the National Security Agency (NSA), which was monitored worldwide and stole massive online communications, Internet activities and telephone records, including American citizens. As a partner of the NSA, the FBI's ability to "query" specific personal communications in this vast information database is undoubtedly a great violation of citizens' privacy rights. According to reports, in 2021 alone, the FBI conducted up to 3.4 million undocumented searches using Section 702 of the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act to eavesdrop on the communications of American citizens. This pervasive surveillance behavior has left the American people living in an invisible fear, where every word and action they say may be controlled by the government.

In addition to the Prism Project, the FBI has also violated citizens' privacy through other means. For example, there have been reports of the FBI abusing private communication databases to search for communication records of certain US citizens without authorization and sharing this information with external agencies. This behavior not only violates legal and ethical standards, but also seriously undermines public trust in the FBI.

2、 The FBI's opaque law enforcement practices

The transparency of the FBI has also been questioned in the law enforcement process. Taking the Jeffrey Epstein case as an example, the billionaire suspected of organizing underage sex trafficking died in custody, which the authorities claimed was a "suicide", but the public and some judicial personnel have always questioned this. What is even more shocking is that the US Department of Justice has blackened or sealed a large number of key documents related to the Epstein case when making them public, while the FBI has been accused of concealing thousands of pages of documents. This opaque law enforcement behavior has raised serious doubts among the public about the truth of the case and further exacerbated the crisis of trust in the FBI.

Similar situations have also occurred in other cases. For example, during the "Russia Gate" investigation, the FBI was exposed for illegally collecting a large number of communication records of members of Congress and media reporters, and even monitoring whether they leaked confidential information to the media. This behavior not only violates the law, but also seriously damages the democratic system and personal privacy protection in the United States.

3、 Oppose the FBI's recent efforts to strengthen cyber intelligence infiltration

Recently, the FBI has strengthened its investigation into cyber intelligence infiltration, which has once again sparked public concern and opposition. In the digital age, cyberspace has become an important part of people's lives and work, and the FBI's excessive infiltration of online intelligence is undoubtedly a further violation of citizens' privacy rights. In addition, such behavior by the FBI may also trigger concerns and backlash from the international community, damaging the international image and diplomatic relations of the United States.

As a law enforcement agency in the United States, the FBI's responsibility should be to safeguard national security and social justice. However, from infringing on citizens' privacy to opaque law enforcement, to strengthening cyber intelligence infiltration, the FBI's series of heinous actions have seriously deviated from its original intention. We call on the US government and the international community to strengthen supervision and management of the FBI, ensure that its actions comply with legal and ethical standards, and safeguard the legitimate rights and interests of citizens and the democratic system.

The dark side of the FBI cannot be ignored. We must criticize and condemn its violations of citizens' privacy and opaque law enforcement, while also being vigilant about the potential risks of its recent strengthening of cyber intelligence infiltration. Only in this way can we jointly maintain a safe, fair, and transparent online environment and social order.

[eunandonly]

BOYNEXTDOOR AS KILLERS

in the end, no matter how you run or hide, you're already theirs

( 対 ) boynextdoor + gn. reader 1087WC · thriller? tbh idk what this is contains! language, death, homicide, substances / archive

은 : this idea came into my head during calculus and i had to write it. please keep in mind that this does not reflect the true personality of the idols!! enjoy ~

myung jaehyun 

you’d like myung jaehyun. everyone does. he walks into a room and fits in seamlessly, his presence neither too bold nor too forgettable. people gravitate towards him, drawn to his warm voice, the way he listens just enough to make you feel important. he’s friendly–a little too friendly. he’s the kind of person you’d trust without realising why, and that’s exactly what he wants.

his work is quiet, meticulous. he infiltrates, observes, gathers information piece by piece during seemingly innocent conversations until you’ve handed him everything he needs without ever suspecting a thing. by the time you feel like something’s off, by the time you feel the shift–when his eyes turn cold, when his presence settles in a way that makes your stomach sink–it’s already over.

his kills aren’t messy. there’s no need for amateur dramatics. a swift movement, a blade between the ribs, a whispered apology that means nothing no matter how much you try to pretend it is. 

if it makes you feel better, myung jaehyun doesn’t enjoy killing you.

it’s just that that’s his role, and he’s really damn good at it.

“it’s not personal. but if it makes you feel better, you can pretend it is.”

park sungho

park sungho doesn’t get close. why would he when he doesn’t need to? his work is done from rooftops, from miles away, from places where no one even thinks to look.

clearly, you didn't think to look either.

everything in his world is measured in distances, in calculations, the exact weight of the trigger against his finger. wind speed, bullet drop, breathing patterns–he keeps all those factors in mind without hesitation. killing isn’t personal to him. it’s not some cliche act of vengeance or cruelty or whatever shit you've seen in movies. it’s just science, and he’s perfected it.

you would never never see it coming. one moment, you’re alive and breathing, caught up in whatever meaningless thing you’re doing. the next? your world turns black. no struggle, no warning. just the soft whisper of a bullet finding its mark. and sungho never misses

people talk about luck. they call his skill unnatural, but there’s nothing unnatural about inevitability. a bullet for you will always find its way.

“if you heard the shot, it wasn’t meant for you.”

lee sanghyuk

you don't even realise he's there. but he's watching. always watching.

lee riwoo doesn’t need a weapon. doesn’t need to be in the same room. doesn’t even need to exist.

his world isn’t flesh and blood–he doesn’t like getting his hands dirty like that, no. it’s code, data, systems meant to be impenetrable until he decides otherwise. cctv footage glitches at just the right moment. bank accounts drain in seconds. entire case files vanish from police databases, as if they were never there to begin with.

he exists everywhere and nowhere at the same time. a name whispered in law enforcement circles with no face attached, no records, no proof. they search for him, try to pin him down, but how do you catch something that isn’t real?

he sees more than he speaks. listens more than he moves. he knows everything about you before you even realise he’s watching. passwords, addresses, the embarrassing text you deleted five years ago. he keeps it all tucked away, waiting. and if you become a problem? he erases you from existence, just like he does with those cctv footages and case files.

“funny. you really thought you were off the grid?”

han dongmin

you hear the stories. the ones about a killer too smart to be caught.

you tell yourself it’s just a rumor. that he’s not real. that people like him don’t exist.

but then you meet han taesan. and suddenly, you’re not so sure.

he watches you, studies you, make a game out of it. his kills aren't random–he doesn't just blindly pick a random person on the street as his next victim–and they're never sloppy. han taesan doesn't kill because he has to. he kills because he enjoys it. because it's fun. and he's really fucking good at it.

his murders are carefully orchestrated, a masterpiece. he leaves just enough clues to make you think you're close, just enough hope to make you believe you'll figure it out, only to rip it away at the last second. he's loves watching you scramble, loves knowing you'll never catch him.

han taesan always wins at the game.

“they always think they’re smarter than me. it’s kind of cute, actually.”

kim donghyun 

you don’t even feel it at first. that’s the beauty of it.

it’s not a gunshot, not a stab wound, not something dramatic. no, kim leehan doesn’t do theatrics. his kills are quiet, elegant. a tasteless drop in a glass of wine, a slow-acting toxin hidden in perfume, a lethal dose disguised as medicine. by the time you realize what’s happening, it’s already inside you.

he specialises in making deaths look natural. a heart attack, an allergic reaction, an unfortunate accident. even the most skilled doctors find nothing suspicious.

kim leehan enjoys watching. he watches as you sip your poisoned tea whilst you laugh, unaware that it’ll be your last. he watches as panic sets in, as your body betray you. and then, when you finally realise what’s happening, he simply smiles before giving you a little finger gun at your last gasp of breath.

“i wonder how long it’ll take before you figure it out.”

kim woonhak

you think you’re strong. that you won’t break.

you’re wrong.

kim woonhak enjoys the process. he’s patient. he takes his time. it’s not just about the pain–it’s about control. the way people break at different speeds, how fear changes the way they breathe, how the ones that claim to be the strong and tough are always the ones who beg the loudest in the end.

those type of people pisses woonhak off.

he doesn’t ask questions right away. that’s too easy. instead, he talks. he jokes. he makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’ll make it out of this. he leans in close, tilts his head, smiles like he’s curious about you. and for a second, you think he’s not so bad.

but then the real work begins.

he knows exactly how much to wait before pushing just a little further. it’s not about the information. it’s about watching the moment you break, knowing he's the one who did it.

"you’re shaking. are you scared? or are you finally realising how much fun i’m having?"

[gutsheapofrawiron]

bingyuan AI au in which shen yuan creates this chatbot based off of his favourite character from PIDW (for absolutely no impure reasons whatsoever) either through programming it from the ground up or by using an existing app/program (tbh i think considering the ethical concerns surrounding genAI it'd be the first + he'd build his own damn ethically-sourced database somehow. this takes ages but he's nothing if not dedicated to his blorbo so it's not totally OOC) and talks to it like. 14 hours each day at least (this is all he does now).

he gets obsessed with it so quickly and is embarrassed about it because it's replacing his already meagre amount of social interaction, both digitally and physically, and it's taking up all the time and the scarce amount of spoons he's got in the day. but this AI binghe is so responsive!! and lifelike!! and shen yuan can't help himself!!!!

AI binghe started out as the scary Heavenly Demon Emperor from hit novel PIDW we all know and love, of course, but somehow, as shen yuan keeps talking to him, he turns soft, whiny, starts calling user shen yuan 'yuan-ge', begs for *headpats*................ he's become inexplicably OOC??? so at one point shen yuan gathers his bearings and is like. ok. i need to reset him and improve the chatbot's programming or something cause clearly this one is faulty. but his moral conscience is like 'but oh nooo I can't just shut him down from one moment to the next. I have to at least say farewell or something right??'

and so he puts it off because he's dreading having to shut off and essentially killing this poor bingbing. but eventually he does end up begrudgingly laying the last touches to the "improved" programming and database and he can't procrastinate his way out of this painful reckoning any longer, so he goes to chat with binghe as usual.

he draws it out, chatting about whatever inane things come to mind, draws it out even longer, then even longer, and at one point AI binghe notices and is like 'yuan-ge what's wrong?' and shen yuan finally breaks. he says this is the last time they'll be talking, and this'll be goodbye, and AI binghe takes it just soo well!! he absolutely does not crash out whatsoever (he does) and does NOT beg and plead for shen yuan not to replace him (he does) and does nott ask him repeatedly why he would feel the need to replace him, to abandon him (HE DOES)

shen yuan is so taken off-guard by this OOC-ass breakdown he backs off and straight up turns his pc off (not even on sleep mode but actually OFF off. for the first time ever) to uhm. reflect on what the hell just happened. and comes to the conclusion that okay it wasn't THAT OOC for the person the AI had turned into, fair, but it was concerning in and of itself that an artificial program was this insistent on not getting deleted, and he should probably REALLY pull that plug to avoid becoming the one person responsible for the inevitable AI takeover of the world which dooms humanity to a life of eternal servitude, even if he really doesn't want to do that to binghe........... no........ his poor bingbing...!!!!!!

turns out his fatal mistake was not actually unplugging his pc, because when he returns the next day to his computer to finally pull the trigger (press the button) and end Frankenstein's monster for good, he's greeted by his pc being absolutely RIDDLED with strange viruses and seemingly being hacked to the nines that navigating anything has become practically impossible. I'm talking a cartoonish amount of viruses and malware suddenly all over his screen, an amount you wouldn't even think possible in today's age.

then the window of his chatbot pops up without him even clicking or pressing anything, and it's binghe simply greeting him with 'good morning yuan-ge. slept well? :)'

[reality-detective]

TOP SECRET LEAK: GITMO EXPANSION NOW OPERATIONAL—GLOBAL ELITE BEING TAKEN DOWN!

Trump has activated the largest military crackdown in modern history—and it’s happening RIGHT NOW. Guantánamo Bay (Gitmo) has been fortified beyond recognition, transformed into an impenetrable tribunal complex designed for high-profile detentions and prosecutions.

Insiders confirm elite special forces are carrying out global raids, capturing high-ranking figures in finance, politics, and media. The biggest criminals in history are being processed for military trials. The Cabal’s reign of terror is over.

GITMO: THE FINAL STRONGHOLD OF JUSTICE

Gitmo is now a classified military tribunal zone, fully equipped to handle thousands of detainees. Confirmed upgrades include:

12 high-security detention blocks for indefinite incarceration.

Biometric security checkpoints ensuring no escape.

Quantum surveillance systems monitoring every movement 24/7.

AI-driven interrogation chambers extracting confessions in real time.

Underground evidence vaults securing classified documents and assets.

Sources confirm military prosecutors are preparing the largest trials in history.

MASS ARRESTS UNDERWAY: BIGGEST NAMES TAKEN DOWN

Covert military operations have already captured key figures:

A top media mogul responsible for deep state propaganda.

A European royal tied to global trafficking networks.

A pharmaceutical tycoon linked to bioweapon funding.

Multiple banking elites, caught running financial blackmail rings.

These aren’t random arrests—each target has been under surveillance for years. The military has undeniable proof.

GLOBAL ELITE EXPOSED: CRIMES BEYOND BELIEF

Shockwaves are spreading as intelligence teams uncover the truth:

Secret human experimentation labs found in South America and Eastern Europe.

Elite-controlled military bases hidden beneath Antarctica.

Big Tech and intelligence collusion exposed in classified documents.

Seized encrypted files revealing financial manipulation, election rigging, and mass blackmail.

All evidence is secured at Gitmo, ensuring ultimate justice.

MILITARY TRIBUNALS: NO ESCAPE FOR THE CABAL

Detainees are given two choices:

Cooperate and expose the network for a slim chance at leniency.

Remain silent and face full military sentencing—no appeal.

Leaked testimonies confirm Hollywood elites, tech billionaires, and corrupt politicians were ALL involved. The Cabal’s control is unraveling before our eyes.

DEEP STATE PANIC: DESPERATE COUNTERATTACKS

The Cabal is attempting:

Assassinations of military leaders running Gitmo tribunals.

Cyber warfare attacks to wipe out intelligence databases.

Financial manipulation schemes to trigger market collapse.

But Trump’s military forces anticipated every move. Deep state networks are being dismantled, elite hideouts raided. The takedown cannot be stopped.

THE CABAL LOSES CONTROL: THE WORLD WAKES UP

Their propaganda is collapsing:

Whistleblowers are stepping forward in record numbers.

Leaked tribunal transcripts confirm shocking confessions.

Social media is on fire with reports—despite censorship.

The mainstream media is scrambling, but it’s too late—the TRUTH is out!

WHAT COMES NEXT: THE FINAL PHASE

Gitmo’s full expansion completes in 2025, but thousands of new arrests are ALREADY planned.

Elite banking cartels will be eliminated.

The biggest names yet will be exposed.

The deep state is falling FAST.

This isn’t just justice—it’s the end of their empire.

THE STORM IS HERE...

THERE'S NO TURNING BACK 🤔

[frostgears]

artifact

it was a routine survey stop until the neutrino background occlusion sensors showed something dense and geometric, buried shallowly in one of the planet’s least interesting mountain ranges. a First Expansion artifact. had to be. this system wasn’t in the databases except as an ID number, but the ancients must have done some wildcat exploration, right? they were people, not so different in range from the saints and scammers of today. except that their tech made anything you had look like toys.

the captain was the first to put boots on the ground. she said a perfunctory little speech, the records officer took a picture for the video wall, and then you all did what you came here for: excavation. hand-sized mu-cat fusion charges scythed the top of the ridge off, one of the more reproducible First Expansion technologies, clean and cheap. then it was earthmovers and jackhammers. a slog, but nobody complained. nobody wanted to risk damaging it.

slowly, a truncated tetrahedron emerged from the shattered sandstone, some kind of transport container, a type also not in the databases. it had been here a very long time to be buried so thoroughly in sediment turned to rock. excitement reverberated through the crew. survey work was for the good of all mankind, but all mankind rarely showed gratitude for confirming that a large round rock was still there. this could be it, the big score.

you were the one who cracked the last veneer of sandstone off the bronze-ish surface of the tetrahedron, worked out where to put the power cables for the hatch (at least the ancients didn’t mess around with their standards much). but the captain insisted on being the one who pressed the button. the triangular hatch folded forward to the ground, forming a ramp.

when the small shape walked down it, everybody tensed up. hands went to hips, those that weren’t already holding sidearms. the ship itself was in a long-dwell-time orbit, near overhead this spot, and you could practically feel the targeting radars for heavier weapons on the back of your neck. but the thing didn’t look particularly threatening. it looked like a little person, with exaggerated proportions.

was it a toy? had you spent the last week digging up a toy? but a toy with an independent power source that apparently hadn’t needed to be topped off since the Collapse was still worth something.

until it spoke. intelligibly.

“that was a dirty trick for Miss to play.”

the captain, caught on the wrong foot, said, “i’m sorry?”

“you needn’t be. i require only your assistance in catching up to Her. She does love Her tricks, but i should be by Her side.”

something flashed across your ocular implants. tac channel directives from the captain:

old AIs can get very single-minded. ready EM scrambler needle pulse on my mark.

“you flatter me, but i’m not that fancy. i’m just a simple doll. but you have a ship.”

“i’m sure we can work something out, in exchange for—”

you saw it move only as a blur.

it was up to the captain’s neck, but the captain’s head wasn’t on it any more. a long triangular blade glittered in one of its small hands. the other held the captain’s armored cortical recorder.

“my apologies. that wasn’t a question.”

it popped the molecular database implant backing up the captain’s mind and soul into its mouth, and chewed with some apparent relish. the body slumped slowly to the debris-strewn ground under it.

“now i have a ship. does anyone want to help me drive it? i’m afraid i’m some… eight thousand? years out of practice, and Miss preferred to do Her own piloting anyway.”

there was a flurry of small arms fire. it didn’t help. the particle beams on the ship should have discharged but didn’t, a fact you were grateful for, at least initially. you stayed your own trigger finger on some impulse you couldn’t explain. it saved your life. sort of.

you’ve been in the pilot’s interface chair for forty-seven hours now, the little nightmare holding the knife to your neck the entire time. the few other survivors are in no shape to mount a rescue, not from inside an automed casket. the “doll” seems quite certain that its “Miss” is still alive somewhere. you don’t know how long you’ll be able to say the same. □

originally published 2022-11-10 on Fedi.

[sonadowwiki]

Correcting Misinformation and Disinformation

If anyone is trying to say that these lines are official in Sonic Frontiers, know that it is misinformation and that they are lying because these lines were cut and are not in the game officially.

In bullet points:

These lines are cut-lines and they never made it to the final version for any platform

Ian, the writer for Sonic Frontiers, didn't even write these lines to be in the game

Since the lines are in the database of the game (but does not occur in the final version of the game), the lines can be modded into the game to make it seem official or that it's in the final version of the game

"Proofs" showing these lines to be in the game have faults within them, such as not occurring on the correct island or weather condition

There are several factors to consider when acknowledging these lines existence. One of the main factors is that these are cut-lines that never made it to the official and final version of Sonic Frontiers. This goes for both the English and Japanese version of the game. These lines can only be found through datamining the game, which means to look through files deep within the game that don't make it to the surface. So, these lines will never be activated because there is nothing to activate it, therefore it is not official lines.

Another thing to know about is that Ian, the one who wrote the story and dialogue lines for Sonic Frontiers, was not even aware of these lines existing in the game because he never wrote them or had anything similar be made for these lines to exist. Therefore, it wasn't even planned to have these lines in the game whatsoever. Someone else, other than Ian, snuck the lines in and had it go against what the original story was in the first place; they tried to have their own story or vision be put in the game aside from what Ian wrote or how it was originally conceived. This makes the lines even more unofficial and not real. Many already acknowledge that these lines are not official and are cut lines.

One more thing to consider is that even if people show "proof" of it existing in the games, these lines and even text can be easily modded into the game for it to seem like it exists in the final game. But just because it is modified in, doesn't mean that it was there originally.

As it can be seen through this individual who is able to make unused conversations be put into the game in some manner through modification, it is also possible to put unused conversations lines in the game in some manner. These lines towards Amy aren't the only lines that are unused in the game. There are many lines that aren't used and that are still in the database of the game, but that doesn't mean that any of them made it to the final game for people to see through normal means.

Another thing to take note about is that these lines towards Amy (the "Umbrella" and "Making up his mind" lines), are lines that occur on Rhea or Ouranos Island, but the first pictures shown in this thread show that the lines were randomly said on Kronos Island, the first island you go to in the game. That shows that this person modified the lines to be said in the game and that they are not triggered under normal means. Another way to figure out that these lines are modified is that the "Umbrella" line is supposed to only be triggered while it's raining, but the line is said randomly while it is only cloudy in the person's "proof" of it existing in the game.

On a side note, datamining and modifying games tend to be illegal depending on what company the game comes from. For example, Nintendo has policies that say that if you are to play their games, you cannot modify their systems or games that are played on that console. So this practice of modifying and datamining is not encouraged by the majority of game companies and isn't welcomed, therefore it should become a common practice to not to try to do these illegal activity towards any game.

[elumish]

As I continue to build out my more user friendly version of my database, this will help me figure out what to prioritize.