^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

_{Location: Southern Plateau - Pacific Royal Campus}

Hope in Hell #2.036: Dreaming While Awake

^{_{_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

_{Interaction(s):Interactions: Only to the dead and gone}

Previously: Leave the World Behind

Harper’s heart swelled as she took in the sight of her mother, the soft halo of sunlight framing her in a picture of maternal warmth. The kitchen was alive with the comforting scents of home—freshly brewed coffee, sizzling bacon, and the sweet aroma of maple syrup.

“Mom,” she said again, the word more confident this time, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Her mother’s eyes lit up, a reflection of the joy that Harper’s presence brought her. “There’s m’girl,” she beamed. “Come get breakfast, and tell me ‘bout yer mornin’ with yer daddy.”

Harper obliged, her steps echoing softly on the aged floorboards. She settled into her chair at the kitchen table, the wood cool and smooth beneath her fingertips. The entire moment felt so real, so tangible.

So perfect.

The conversation at the table flowed effortlessly, despite the topics mainly surrounding the mundane. The crispness of the autumn air, the vibrant colours painting the trees, the plans for the upcoming weekend—each topic ordinarily unremarkable, yet today, they held Harper’s rapt attention. It was as if she was hearing these stories for the first time, or perhaps the last, savouring the cadence of her parents’ voices.

Her father leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight, and began recounting a story from his time in the military. “There was this one mission where we had to…” His voice, calm and authoritative, painted vivid pictures of landscapes and strategies. Harper listened intently at first but stopped halfway through, her heart swelling with a bittersweet pang. She had heard this story before, she realized then, but now each detail seemed precious, as if it were a piece of a world she had long lost.

Her mother, ever the brilliant mind, followed suit. “And in the lab, we’ve been breakin’ new ground in genetic research….” She delved into the intricacies of her work. Harper did her best to absorb her words, though the scientific nuances often eluded her. This was Sierra’s realm, a world of hypotheses and breakthroughs that Harper was more than comfortable admiring from afar.

“You’ve been awfully quiet, darlin’. Everything alright?” her mother’s voice cut through Harper’s introspection, laced with a mother’s intuitive concern.

Harper offered a smile, one that reached her eyes, as she took a bite of the fluffy pancake before her. “Just lost in thought, I guess. It’s been a while since I felt so…at peace.”

Her gaze wandered the kitchen until it rested on a framed sketch adorning the wall. It depicted a solitary figure seated on a shore, the posture one of serene contemplation, the loose dress and exposed back suggesting vulnerability and strength in equal measure. The artwork, simple yet evocative, stirred something within Harper, a memory dancing just beyond her conscious grasp, as elusive as the morning mist that now covered the ground outside the kitchen windows.

She stared at the sketch, her brow furrowing slightly. “That’s a beautiful drawing,” she murmured, half to herself.

Her mother followed her gaze, a soft smile gracing her lips. “Y’always did have a knack for capturin’ emotions with your art, Harper.”

“Well…I don’t know about always,” Harper countered, a shadow crossing her features as she dredged up a memory best left forgotten. “I think I still remember what Sierra told me the first time I ever drew something.” Her voice trailed off, the words catching in her throat as she recalled the sting of her sister’s critique. It had been a casual comment, perhaps, but to Harper, it had cut deep, slicing through her young, budding confidence with the precision of a scalpel. The memory was vivid—Sierra’s eyes scanning her drawing, the slight curl of her lip, and then the words, “You call this art? Looks like hot ass, to me.” It was enough to make Harper hide her sketchbook away, vowing to never subject herself to such ridicule again.

Well, that was until. Until…

Harper blinked furiously, placing her head in her hands. What had made her pick up her pencil again? There had to have been a catalyst, a moment of such profound need for expression that she had braved the shadows of past humiliations to once again let her thoughts spill out onto paper.

A sharp, piercing pain erupted at the base of the girl’s skull, causing her to wince, her hands instinctively rising to cradle her head. Her fingers pressed into the tender flesh there, as if she could physically mould her recollections back into coherence. The memory she sought was elusive, fluttering at the edges of her consciousness like a moth around a flame—visible, almost tangible, but perpetually beyond her grasp. Each time she felt close to seizing it, to understanding the why and the how of her return to art, it danced away, leaving her grasping at the empty air.

“Are you alright, darlin’?” The concern in her mother’s voice was palpable, wrapping around Harper like a warm blanket, yet it couldn’t stave off the chill of frustration that settled in her bones.

Harper managed a smile, a facade of normalcy that didn’t quite reach her eyes this time. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a headache,” she lied, the words tasting of falsehood on her tongue. She reached for her coffee mug, the ceramic radiating a comforting heat into her palms. The rich aroma of the brew filled her senses, a familiar scent that should have brought comfort. Yet, as she took a sip, the liquid warmth did little to soothe the throbbing in her head or the turmoil in her mind.

Despite the confusion clouding her mind, Harper’s gaze was inexorably drawn back to the sketch. It was as if the drawing itself was a beacon, its silent lines and curves calling out to her, beckoning her to remember. “I started drawing again because…” she began, her voice trailing into silence.

Her father’s hand, warm and steady, was a familiar comfort as it closed over hers. “You don’t have to worry 'bout that now, Harper. Yer here with us, and that’s what matters,” he said, his voice a deep and gentle rumble that had always signified safety.

His words were meant to soothe, but they only heightened her unease. Harper closed her eyes, trying to push past the fog in her mind. She could almost see herself in those days following some…some tragedy it felt like, adrift in a sea of grief that threatened to pull her under. The world had become a blur of gray, each day indistinguishable from the next, as she moved through life like a ghost, untethered and insubstantial.

Her mind continued to wander, lost in the labyrinth of hazy memories—snippets of sleepless nights spent staring at the ceiling, the endless days where she wandered through her routines, numb and disconnected. She remembered the oppressive silence of a new and unfamiliar house, the absence of laughter and chatter that had once filled the rooms of the old. It was in those moments of solitude that she had felt most lost, a ship without a compass, drifting aimlessly in an ocean of sorrow.

The overwhelming feeling that had threatened to drown her was not just sadness—it was a profound sense of isolation, as if she had been severed from everything and everyone that had once anchored her to reality. The people and places that had defined her existence seemed distant, as if they belonged to another life, one that she could no longer claim as her own.

That is, until one quiet evening that found Harper knee-deep in the remnants of what felt like a former life to her now, surrounded by the clutter of her closet. She’d been sorting through the remains of the past, deciding what to keep and what to part with, when her fingers had stumbled upon the familiar texture of a sketchbook’s cover. It had been slightly worn at the edges, the spine cracked from use, and it lay buried under a pile of forgotten trinkets, coated in a fine layer of dust—a testament to the time that had elapsed since it had last been opened.

Curiosity piqued, Harper had flipped through the pages, each one a portal to a time when creativity had flowed freely, unmarred by grief. Because that’s what she’d felt then, she realized. Grief.

The sketches were his—lines and shapes that he had conjured into existence with effortless strokes. She could almost picture him there, hunched over his desk, the pencil an extension of his soul as he brought his visions to life.

Tears had blurred her vision as she’d traced the outlines of his work, each drawing a bittersweet reminder of his presence. It was then that she’d noticed the pencil, its wood darkened from the oils of his hands, nestled in the spine of the sketchbook as if waiting for her. The weight of it in her hand had felt like a piece of him, solid and real, anchoring her to the here and now amidst the storm of her emotions.

And so, she’d begun to draw. The page before her had been blank, a canvas of possibilities. She’d sketched a scene that had been etched into her heart—the two of them on a beach they had loved. She’d drawn herself as a child, small and trusting, her hand clasped in his, their silhouettes cast against the backdrop of a setting sun whose dying light seemed to set the ocean aflame. It had been a simple drawing admittedly, the lines uncertain and the composition basic, but it had been imbued with the rawness of her emotions—the love that still warmed her, the loss that still haunted her, and the longing that lingered like the afterglow of the sun on the horizon.

It was this drawing, this act of remembrance and homage, that had reignited the spark of life within her. Through art, she’d found a way to bridge the gap between the world and her wounded spirit. It had been a silent vow to keep his legacy alive within her as well, to honour the bond that not even death could sever.



Harper’s mother’s voice, gentle yet laced with an undercurrent of concern, tugged at the edges of Harper’s consciousness, pulling her back from the precipice of her thoughts. “Harper?”

Blinking away the remnants of her reverie, Harper refocused on the here and now, the kitchen materializing around her like a scene coming into sharp resolution. She nodded slowly, the motion deliberate, as she mustered a smile. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Just…thinking about some stuff,” she murmured. “Some stuff that I thought I’d forgotten about but now…now I think it wasn’t quite that.”

A heavy silence enveloped the space, thick and tangible as if the very air was waiting for her to unravel the mysteries of her own mind. The kitchen, once a cocoon of warmth and security, now seemed to contract around her, the walls inching closer, the ceiling pressing down. The comforting embrace of the room transformed into a smothering presence, a blanket too dense, too heavy, threatening to stifle her under its weight.

Yet, within that oppressive silence, Harper discovered a newfound strength, a clarity that pierced through the fog of the simulation. She found herself peeling back the layers of the scene before her, each one a veil that had obscured her true memories, her true self. Memories long buried, pushed to the darkest corners of her mind, began to resurface, buoyant and unbidden. They floated up through the layers of forgetfulness, emerging one by one into the light of her awareness.

There were memories of laughter and tears, of triumphs and defeats, each one a thread in the intricate tapestry of her life. There were moments of pure joy, so vivid she could almost hear the echoes of her own carefree giggles, and there were shadows of sorrow, so profound they left a hollow ache in her chest. These were the memories she had locked away, some deliberately, in an attempt to shield herself from pain and others that had simply slipped through the cracks of her busy mind.

Harper remained seated at the kitchen table, her mother’s eyes locked onto her with an intensity that spoke volumes of her worry. The memories, once fragmented whispers, now cascaded through Harper’s mind with the force of a river breaking through a dam. Each one surged forward, filling the gaps in her consciousness, painting a picture of a life that was rich and textured, yet punctuated by profound loss. The warmth of the kitchen, which had initially enveloped her like a comforting embrace, began to ebb away, replaced by a cool clarity as if a window had been flung open, inviting in the crisp breath of reality.

As the tide of recollection continued to rise, Harper felt a sharp twinge of discomfort, a stinging sensation that crept up her arms like a swarm of invisible insects, each tiny prick a hot needlepoint of pain. She winced, the sensation foreign yet alarmingly real. An instinctive urge to soothe the irritation arose, and she lifted her hand toward her cheek, only to halt midway as the pain intensified, blossoming into a throbbing ache that seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat.

The edges of her cheek felt raw as if grazed by an unseen force, the skin tender to even the suggestion of touch. Harper’s hand trembled in the air, a hesitant guardian against the pain that no longer felt like a mere figment of her mind. Something was happening to her. Something she couldn’t see.

Where am I?

Simultaneously, a dull, persistent ache throbbed at the back of her head, a relentless drumbeat that pushed against the inside of her skull. Her fingers brushed tentatively at the nape of her neck, searching for a wound that refused to manifest, yet the sensation was undeniable.

Suddenly, Harper’s arms were engulfed in an inferno of pain, the initial pinpricks escalating into what felt like deep, methodical lacerations. Each sensation was precise, a deliberate etching that sent shivers of horror down her spine and twisted her stomach into knots. With trepidation, she cast her eyes downward, bracing for the sight of crimson wounds, but was met with the contradiction of her unblemished skin. It was a surreal experience, her arms appearing untouched, yet the agony she endured was as tangible and acute as any injury she had ever suffered.

Her breathing became laboured, each inhale sharp and ragged as panic began to set in. The once comforting surroundings of her parents’ kitchen seemed to deteriorate before her eyes, the vibrant hues leaching away to a monochrome blur, the familiar sounds distorting into an unrecognizable cacophony. Desperately seeking stability, Harper pressed her palms firmly against the wooden table, the solid reality of it offering a fleeting anchor in the maelstrom of her senses. But the pain was unyielding, an insistent tide pulling her towards an unseen shore, a reality that lay shrouded in shadows just beyond her perception.

The voices of her parents, once the embodiment of comfort and safety, now felt as though they were being carried away on a breeze, growing fainter with each passing moment. The physical torment eclipsed their warmth, casting Harper adrift in a sea of confusion and distress. She clenched her eyes shut, concentrating with all her might, attempting to pierce through the veil of suffering to the root of this torment. To finally pull that frayed and solitary thread.

Wake up!

“I,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyelids fluttering against the onslaught of pain, “I missed this. Just talking to you both. Being here with you.”

Her father leaned in, his brow creased with worry, his eyes—a mirror of the love and care that had defined her childhood—searching her face for signs of what ailed her. But Harper raised a hand, a gentle plea for pause. She needed to articulate this feeling, to acknowledge the preciousness of their presence before the dream—or was it a nightmare?—slipped away.

“I used to draw,” Harper said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the already breaking illusion. “Dad, you…you taught me. After you were gone, I started again. To feel connected to you.”

She paused, her gaze unwavering as she studied the image of her father. Tears breached the dams of her eyes, tracing silent paths down her cheeks, but she paid them no heed. Instead, she anchored herself in the deep, resonant ache that filled her chest, a hollow space where her father’s presence used to reside.

Her father’s comforting presence seemed to flicker, like an old film reel struggling to stay in focus. Harper’s gaze locked onto his eyes, those familiar eyes that had always been filled with strength and love, but now appeared shadowed by an unknowable distance.

A distance she could not cross, for she was not ready to let go of the illusion, not ready to face the finality of his absence. She clung to the image of him, to the sound of his voice, to the warmth of his hands guiding hers as she made her first tentative strokes on paper. In those moments, he had been more than a father; he had been her mentor, her guide, her gateway to a world where emotions could be captured with pencil and line.

Tears continued to cascade down Harper’s cheeks, unrestrained, as the dam of her emotions broke. Her voice, once steady, now quivered with the weight of her confession. “I never got to apologize for yelling at you. I’m so sorry. I’m really, really sorry,” she uttered, each word soaked in regret. She had been young, her emotions a tangled web she couldn’t navigate, and in a moment of youthful frustration, she had lashed out at the one person who had always stood by her. That moment, that heated exchange, was seared into her memory, a scar that time had not healed. How could it? It was the last thing she’d spoken to him.

Harper’s gaze shifted, her eyes finding her mother’s form as she moved closer, enveloping her in an embrace that felt like coming home. The warmth of her mother’s arms wrapped around her, a sensation so deeply missed that it carved through the numbness that had settled in Harper’s heart since her passing. She leaned into the embrace, her face pressed against the soft fabric of her mother’s shoulder, inhaling the scent that was so intrinsically linked to her—a blend of lavender and the faintest hint of vanilla—that had always been a signal of comfort and maternal love.

“I miss you both so much,” Harper whispered, her voice muffled by her mother’s embrace. “Every day, I wish you were here. I’ve felt so alone without you.” The admission was a release, a small crack in the dam she had built around her grief, allowing the sorrow to flow through.

The words, meant to bridge the gap between her and the memories of her parents, seemed to echo back to her, amplifying the sense of loss that lingered like a shadow. She clung to her mother, her hands gripping the fabric of her clothing, as if by holding on she could anchor herself in this illusion a little longer, as if she could somehow will this dream into reality. She tried to etch into her memory the feel of her mother—the solid, reassuring presence that had always been her sanctuary in times of distress.

But even as she sought solace in the embrace, the persistent pain that marred her dream refused to be ignored. The sting on her cheek, a raw and throbbing reminder of an unseen wound, the pulsating ache at the back of her head, and the sharp, needle-like sensations that marched up her arms—all served as harbingers of a reality that was calling her back. They were insistent, a chorus of discomfort that pierced the veil of her mother’s comforting presence, reminding her that this moment was fleeting, that the time to wake up was drawing near.
That it was now or never. Do or die.

Harper took a hesitant step back, her hands trembling as they brushed away the wet trails left by her tears. “I think I know how I got myself into this mess.”

Her father’s frown deepened, the lines on his forehead becoming a map of his worry. “What are ya talkin' ‘bout, Harper?” he said, his voice steady but tinged with an undercurrent of confusion.

She shook her head, a gesture of denial that felt as if it could shake the very foundations of the dream. “This… this isn’t real. It’s a dream...I think. I can feel it. The pain… I can’t see it but it’s too real to ignore.” It was as though her mind was shrouded in a dense fog, obscuring her vision, yet the agony was a beacon, cutting through the haze with merciless clarity.

The dream’s hold on Harper was indeed formidable, its grip on her senses tightening like a vice in response to her inner turmoil. It was as if the dream itself was sentient, aware of her distress, and in a cruel twist, it magnified every sensation, every emotion, to an unbearable degree. The world around her, once a haven of solace, now seemed to conspire against her, each detail intensified to a pitch that threatened to overwhelm her.

“I need to turn it off,” Harper whispered, the realization dawning on her with the weight of a thousand suns. “My enhanced vision… it’s amplifying everything. I need to turn it off to break free.”

But how….

With a deep, steadying breath, Harper closed her eyes, turning her focus inward. She searched for the control, the mental switch that governed her extraordinary ability. In her mind’s eye, she pictured it as a dial, radiant with an inner light that pulsed in time with her racing heart. She reached out with her thoughts, her mental touch tentative at first, then growing more confident as she felt the dial yield to her will.

The static-filled fragments of her mother’s voice broke through her concentration, a distorted plea that tugged at her heartstrings. “Har…er…on’t…o.” Harper’s eyes snapped open, the pain of the moment etched into her features as she fought back the urge to cry out. But she knew what she had to do.

With one final surge of determination, Harper turned the dial down completely, her mental grip firm and unyielding. The cacophony of her enhanced senses dimmed, fading to a whisper, then to silence. As the world around her started to dissolve into darkness, Harper found the strength to utter three final words to the fading figures of her parents, a farewell steeped in both love and sorrow.

“I love you.”

---

---

Aurora’s legs wobbled underneath her as she made a break down the sterile hallway, pulse thrumming in her ears as she escaped from the twisted version of her best friend’s garage. Adrenaline surged and coursed through her veins as she extended and contracted her legs, trying her best to keep moving despite the pain that covered her body.

She wouldn’t let him catch her. She couldn’t let him.

And then the redhead was falling, a wave of dizziness setting in, no doubt from her injured head, and next thing she knew the world turned sideways. She braced her hands in front of her as she hit the ground, grimacing as sore muscles took the brunt of the impact. The wind knocked out of her lungs and she struggled to find her breath once more, heaving.

Staggering to her feet, not daring to look behind her in fear of how close Raze followed, she willed her legs to move just a bit further as her eyes continued to spill over with tears. Her legs screamed as she moved and after a few more feet she crumbled once more, instantly noticing two figures at the end of the hallway and freezing in panic. She could see the vague outline of wings, but after she had already mistaken one dopplegänger for the real thing, she wasn’t about to take any more chances.

“Aurora?”

Haven’s voice carried through the empty hall, its pitch as wary as it was worried. She could see Aurora as clearly as if the redhead was right in front of her. Her rough appearance was as concerning as the truthfulness of her stumbling into the same space as the two women. Now, after what she’d been through, she was unsure if she could tell reality apart from the simulation.

Her heart already hurt for the early signs of a bruise showing on Aurora’s cheek, either way.

“If this isn’t true… Do you want to run or fight?” Haven asked Amma with a lowered voice. She winced as she remembered the way Amma favoured her ankle. Another part of her wondered how much slower she would also be with her limp wings upon her back. “We’re stronger together in this. I won’t run if you can’t.”

"We fight," Amma uttered, lashes fanned low on her cheeks as she marks the copper hair threaded in gold, the blemish of red on her otherwise delicate features, the fearful reproach that alighted those blue eyes nearly silver in their dread. Though Haven had spoken true and indeed guarded her back, she knew that Aurora was her friend before she was her unwilling companion; Blackjack built the foundation of friendship and trust liken to an impenetrable gate, where the spires of mutual affections warded even her cruel introduction.

Slowly, carefully, she lowers her hands, arachnid gestures splayed, palms out to coax the energy betwixt them to a brightening hue of carmine that slithers across the linoleum.

"Get up."

The redhead heard the familiar timbre of Haven’s voice, fear laced with curiosity, but was still cautious. She couldn’t let down her guard again, this Trial couldn’t be taken at face value any longer. One misstep and she was good as gone. She considered her options, shifting her body to attempt to stand up, until the chilling tone of Amma’s voice followed and stole the breath from her lungs.

Aurora could only watch as the coils of the girl’s abilities weaved and wreathed down the hall towards her. She had nowhere to run, did not believe herself to be strong enough to teleport elsewhere, so she surrendered herself to the notion that this was going to get worse. Much, much worse. She threw up her hands in front of her, blocking herself although she knew it would be to no avail.

“No! Stop!” She cried, utterly terrified, “PLEASE!” The redhead pleaded, fear palpable in her words.

The terror in Aurora’s words and body language set Haven’s pulse at a faster pace. She tensed beside Amma. Torn between running to a friend in need and remaining wary of a potential ruse. She didn’t like this game of cat and bird at all.

“I’m going over.” She decided suddenly. “I-... Just try not to hit me.”

Before Amma could hold her back, Haven allowed her heart to guide her feet. She began slowly, and then picked up the pace the closer she came to Aurora. She could hear the shakiness in her friend’s breaths. The simulation might be playing her heart against her, but if this was really the kind, bubbly friend that Haven knew, she was devastated to see her so distraught.

“What happened?” Haven asked as she drew nearer. “Have you been alone this whole time?”

The redhead tensed as the winged girl approached, moving her hands slightly to get a better look at her. There were no obvious red flags, nothing that clearly indicated that she wasn’t the true Haven. It helped her case that she looked like she’d been put through the ringer as well, her wings coated in black substance and pain noticeable in her eyes. Cautiously, Aurora shook her head, and spoke with a wavering voice, “No… Harper, Lorcán and I got separated. I don’t know how it happened, but I blacked out and when I woke up he was there.” She looked like she had just seen a ghost, his fiery gaze was burned into the back of her mind. She continued.

“He… he was Lorcán but he wasn’t. Not my- our Lorcán. He tried to trick me, convince me that Hyperion had won and had taken over. Suggested wiping my memories.” She shuddered, “He called himself Raze. He wanted me to join Hyperion’s forces, marry him, he-” The redhead’s tears continued to fall. “He kidnapped my stepfather, told me it was a wedding gift and that I should kill him for what he did. I-I couldn’t do it.”

The frown that came to Haven’s lips was brought on by more than Aurora’s tears. Haven was worried for Harper and Lorcán, and also reminded that somewhere in the labyrinth Katja and Rory were fighting their own demons. Did Rory make it out of the fire? Was there any chance he’d gotten help if he needed it? Her mind was pulled to the present as Aurora hit her with a story so wild that it had to be true.

“That’s… awful, Ror. I’m sorry.”

“A Lorcán like that lit our room on fire…” Haven said softly as she lowered herself to her knees in front of Aurora. Her back ached with the movement. “I’m not sure if Rory or Katja made it out.” Worried eyes glanced between Aurora’s watery sapphires. “Amma found me-” Her throat bobbed before she continued. “We’re just trying to make it out of here before it throws something else our way.”

Haven tried her best to give Aurora an encouraging smile, but it was too tight. So lacking in her usual spirit that it didn’t even form the dimples that usually graced her cheeks. “I’m glad we’re together now.”

From woeful pleas of mercy to such outlandish confessions of fiction, their ordeals paling in comparison to the netherworld she had endured and slain another in. That creature that bore her face, the other that revealed a spawn of reaping hellfire, the beast that loomed over heart and soul. Her power continued to twine, spooled from her gestures as she approached Aurora and Haven at a slower pace, not entirely trusting of the former's plight and her shed tears. Amma stalked the edges of their influence and kept her gaze bidden low and not once did she relinquish the leash she had on her powers, those scarlet threads mere inches away from Aurora and Haven, lax and calm- poised to strike.

"I told you: they make you weak and defenseless." With a delicate pause, Amma glanced back down where they had come, the distance made seemingly minuscule, she felt as if they had barely moved at all. For in the distance, she could see the shadows that boiled and churned, a frothing edge of bruised vermillion entranced by the coils of her power left in their wake from every panel of the wall she touched.

"They'll attack you at your lowest when you think you've gotten away far enough. When you think you're safe."

Her eyes snapped back towards Aurora, striking to the depths of her woeful eyes, and said: "What you were shown was only a small piece of what they're capable of. This Raze is likely the other of Lorcán, a name like that has only one intention: The Foundation Force. I faced... something similar."

"She's dead now."

Feathers ruffled where they could throughout the destruction of her plumage as Haven felt that seeking power lingering behind her. She turned her gaze away from her friend to look up at the raven haired woman for the first time. From this angle, and with this new information, Haven was starting to see the Amma that was given the title of Tiamat.

“Who did you kill, then?” The question was out of her lips before she could consider its consequences. Yet she continued undauntedly. There was no going back now. “Which name did you choose when you defeated your other self?”

Amma's eyes narrowed, mere slivers of glowing blue that swelled with the void that was at her eternal beck and call.

"You really ask too many questions, Haven." On a small, delicate smile that slid across her cheeks stained red and black, she continued. "You may not like the answers you get."

Haven simply pressed her lips together. Her moss and timber eyes glancing between slits of glacial blue.

Aurora’s tearful eyes darted from Haven to Amma, the latter’s chilling words alighting goosebumps underneath her AR suit. She was simply overwhelmed, the two girls' conversation igniting more dread in the depths of her stomach. All she wanted was to find their friends, their teammates, and get the hell out of this nightmare. As her head continued to pound and the pain on her face radiated outwards, she turned back to the winged female who knelt in front of her. “Please don’t leave me. I don’t want to be alone again.”

Haven tore her gaze away, only because of the sorrow within Aurora’s tone. A recognition of that sorrow within her eyes as she nodded. Her left hand flexed in her lap, phantoms of a gloved touch holding her back for a moment before she reached for Aurora. “I won’t let go of your hand.”

She shouldn’t have let go of Rory, either. The regret pierced her heart and mixed with the dread of being touched again so soon. She would not let that keep her from showing love for a friend in need.

“Let’s keep moving, then.” She looked up at Amma, a silent question in her eyes. Had the untrusting woman made her decision to believe in this version of their teammate?

Her lip curled into that of a sneer; a slight lift that exposed gritted teeth as the energy spindled from her gestures pulsed once, twice, the third quake bidden to Aurora where Haven clung to her hand, that simple act beholden to her eyes that intensely tracked over every action- processed every word, every shuddering breath.

"This could be a trap, this Raze she mentioned could be a ploy. This little damsel here could be leading us right to him."

Amma's fingers curled inwards, every nail against the line of her scars that sunk deep, those tendrils of energy slowly pulling back and writhing up her frame, settled over her arms and shoulders, reminiscent of snakes.

"But," her expression waned, a sliver of exhaustion sliding into place on her facade. "If that's the case, I'll just kill-"

Amma's words were immediately sundered, her eyes panned wide, shaken, as a terrible esoteric drone split through the corridor, an intense vibration as if rent from the depths of an unforeseen Hell. Everything shook, and swayed, the entire hall suddenly warped in encroaching darkness that bayed with an appetence that demanded only one thing - death. She didn't hesitate and snapped her gaze to both Haven and Aurora and as the sound slowly abated it was replaced with a keening wail that wrecked her down to her core.

Time was suddenly no longer on their side.

"Run!"

Haven wasted no time in hoisting herself and Aurora to their feet. The shrieking hallway overwhelmed her ears and filled her body with terror, adrenaline pumping through her veins to mix with it. She bid her legs to run; willed the protesting muscles on her back to hold her wings against her so that they wouldn’t drag her down. Aurora was added weight against her arm as she tugged her along, but it was weight that Haven would bear to ensure they all made it out alive. The trial would not claim them easily.

Aurora didn’t have time to dwell on Amma’s threat, didn’t get the chance to prove her authenticity and innocence before the darkness and dread set in. Instantly she was on her feet and was being dragged along by Haven, beginning to run once more. She tried not to trip over her own feet and gripped onto the winged girl’s hand for dear life, afraid that if she let go she would be on her own again, forced to face the perils of the Trial alone. Up ahead the raven haired girl led the way, and for once Aurora was thankful to have her there to navigate them through the sterile halls, although she was still skeptical and apprehensive of her demeanor.

It manifested first as an unassuming shape, this figment of black and red, pinpricks of silver in the risen gloom that followed after them. A hellish maw split open, a vacant hole of writhing darkness that seemingly tasted the air as if a scent hound bidden to the hunt, a chuff echoed, followed by another keening wail before the fiendish creature split into three- one for each.

A roar sounded, and with it, waves of crimson came to, lapping against the confines of the hallway that suddenly felt much too narrow, as if this was the trap lain for them now- as if waiting for them to gather as one before it hunted them down as a pack.

Amma didn't hesitate to turn left, then right, the pain in her ankle hideous and blinding, the sheer agony coiling through her nerves like fire with every second as they ran. She recognized that sound in her waking world, in her nightmares, in her own wailing heart that was starved and famished, and now it bayed and demanded subjugation, it demanded their blood.

Even still, they were not fast enough, the ruby malice and twisting shadows reached forward in terrifying waves of hate, it soiled the ground and slid beneath them, the manifest knew them now: it tasted Aurora's anguish and dread, it tasted Haven's agony and fear, and it tasted Amma's power.

It tasted their soul.

With a bellowing triumph, each infernal apparition descended upon them, demanding their ruin.

Haven heard the beasts as if they were right in her ear and knew that they hadn’t been fast enough. She’d glanced behind in time to see the two beasts position as they leaped. Their blood and metal color too reminiscent of a certain teammates power to be coincidental. Was this the simulation's trick, or were they caught in a trap laid for Amma alone? Was this Amma’s slain other back for revenge?

Putting all of her strength into her left arm, Haven swung Aurora in front of her and to the side, allowing the redhead to narrowly avoid her personal beast's snapping jaws. She spun with the movement, her own monster’s outstretched paw grazing across her ribcage as she escaped its horrible embrace. Her suit tore from its claws, the flesh beneath cracking. It felt like lightning made its way into the bone under her skin. She cried out, but did not allow her body to crumble from the pain. Instead she grabbed the leg of the beast and used her spinning momentum to throw it into its partner.

“Aurora, port us behind them!” Haven demanded.

The redhead exclaimed as she saw her winged friend mauled by one of the creatures that chased, realizing that Haven had pushed her out of harm's way and taken a blow on her behalf. The action in itself was enough to stop her tears from falling and force her to focus entirely on what was at stake here. At Haven’s command, Aurora tried to dig deep, take stock of her current state and HZE’s to determine if she had enough strength to use her abilities to transport not one but two people in addition to herself. She came up short.

“I can’t! I-I don’t think I have enough-”

A thought came to mind.

Her determined sapphires found Amma ahead of them, and the redhead reached out her hand towards her. Although they manifested in extremely different ways, the two girls did indeed have the same power type. “Amma, give me a boost! It’s the only way, please.” The situation was dire enough that they needed to work together, Aurora letting her hesitations vanish for only a moment to ensure their survival.

Amma's manic gaze snapped towards Aurora; one of the sky, the other of the sea. One of endless hope and possibilities, the other of endless depths and darkness- the unknown. Crushing azure that her glare invaded with a sluggish glow that lined her eyes, and her lashes, fanning them against her cheeks as her demented beast leaped; she felt the weight on her spine, shoulders, the invading puncture of talons in her flesh, and a ridge of bone over her shoulder. It bit down and hellfire speared through her body and wreathed her veins in searing agony. Amma bore the pain, the lightning that lanced through her, the sort of anguish that brought her to her knees and -

She better be ready.

The thought reared through her mind as she reached out, fingers splayed, nails arched, bone cracking under the sudden swell of energy she clawed through, the world always shuddered at her ebb and flow and here it cleaved forth at the seams and burned silver and black at the edges. Tendrils arose and swirled around her quivering hand, tantalizing and hesitant before it shot forward in a funnel of raw power and latched onto Aurora. It sluiced through her veins and it burned, it wove through every facet of her awaiting embrace and Amma could feel her. She felt the terrifying depths of long-hidden anguish, her fear, her pain that bloomed bright liken to a solar flare at all the wrongs the world had done unto her too. She felt everything she was and everything she was not. Felt that she was true.

And though the demented creature latched onto Amma with all the fierceness of a predator, her power shot up and rent through every whorl of darkness, felt the hot wash of blood pool at her neck, and even though exhaustion fought to reign over her being, she continued to feed her power into the connection that bound them together.

"Go. Leave. Take it and get out."

“No!” Haven shouted from where she stood. She’d placed Aurora behind her, not quite sure how the two women would share their strength together, but determined to defend Aurora again should it force her to be still while she accepted it. She’d been exempted from those lessons due to her nature. “We are not leaving Amma behind!”

The beasts amalgamated as they crashed into each other, and what turned to her and her friend now represented their current physical connection. One larger body, six legs, and two heads of vicious teeth. The monster lunged. Haven twisted herself to kick, catching it in the chest. The power within her muscles sent it backwards again. Vengeful arms clawed at her leg for grip, shredding her suit and flesh down each length of her thigh until it lost connection at her knee. Haven and the beast each howled in shared frustration, the former’s cry laced with pain. The creature skid to a stop a few feet away, its front paws leaving a trail of blood and scars along the linoleum. Its snarl filled the hallway as it began to circle its prey.

Aurora instantly knew pain.

But this was a different kind of torment. Not akin to a physical injury, but a heaviness, a crushing weight that Amma carried that she couldn’t even begin to describe. It coursed through her veins and the burden of such power, raw and unyielding, was like wildfire, incinerating everything in its path. It was unclear where it began and where it ended, an endless well that seemed to whisper secrets of suffering, agony, and nothingness. The darkness she normally bore was a fraction of what lay underneath, and the only sensation that was felt stronger in that moment was Aurora’s immense guilt.

The redhead grimaced as she struggled to channel that energy, that chaotic wreathing shadow, not used to such amounts of it at her disposal. But she managed to reign it in, form it into something she could use and looked to the other set of ceruleans intently, holding tightly onto her hand. Through gritted teeth, she spoke.

“Like hell am I leaving you here.”

She made the jump, exceeding her own expectations as all three of them vanished and reappeared behind the monster. Just as quickly as the power had been ignited, it snuffed out, Aurora’s knees buckling as the crash hit her like a ton of bricks. She swayed, and leaned into Haven, completely sapped. But her eyes found Amma’s once more, and in them lay a wordless appreciation and a mutual understanding.

Haven pressed her lips together as she placed weight onto her shredded leg, muffling the whine that escaped her throat. She could feel her pulse in her thigh, thankful that the talons hadn’t hit any arteries but also aware of the warm blood that began to trickle down her knee. She supported Aurora’s weight anyway. Her mind was trying to grapple with the feeling of porting from one place to another. She’d never traveled like that and she wasn’t sure she wanted to ever again. It felt… unnatural. Not quite the same feeling as traveling by car, or even worse by plane, but still just as foreign. Her body was tense against Aurora’s as a result. Which also left her torn ribs aching. She allowed her wings to slump behind her in an effort to reduce the pain.

She looked to Amma and could only hope that from this vantage point the raven haired woman would be able to defeat the monsters in one blow. Haven could still fight in this battered and torn state. She’d learned to push through pain like this a long time ago. The only reason she didn’t jump into action being that she didn’t dare leave Aurora alone and defenseless.

To be dragged from one place and then to the next was such a jarring swell of energy that Amma was breathless with it, the melding of the world, two halves woven together and then suddenly not, to be there and then whisked away was both daunting and extremely taxing, rendering her to her knees as her power sputtered, sparked and groaned. The dregs of her once infinite resources were slowly dwindling, having compelled such raw energy to Aurora- to allow them this one moment of triumph.

To make it count.

Amma flung out her hand and braced for the crackling whips of her power that postured over her arm and lanced forward as a bestial reaper, cores of pulsating scarlet that struck through the hellish beast that roared, those gaping maws belching an obsidian tar that frothed with death and decay. That smell of rot that burned through her veins and cantered through her life, muddied in ashen remains that stuck to her lungs with the scream that tore through her throat. Her opposite hand reached out next, summoning another funnel of pure, destructive power and bid the creature be torn apart from within. It appeared to shudder and tremble, ran through with relentless whorls of red that struck the ground, the walls, bidden by their master of chaos. A terrifying squeal splintered through the corridor and the world held its breath, beholden to the mistress that pillaged through time as the scion of ruin before it exploded.

Then silence.

Amma immediately fell, her weight caught by her scarred palms that slammed against the ground, a violent quiver pinging down her spine, her body wound taut, muscles aflame and every nerve pulsating with the spent energy that fizzled and whisked away from her shaking limbs. And though she felt nothing, she could not contain the trill of laughter that erupted from her lips, shoulders drawn in and hair fanned over her facade that splintered with a manic smile of gleaming bone and red that bled from her nose.

“Holy shit.” Haven uttered. She’d never seen Amma’s power in full force like that. Seeing those masks reduced to ash was something she would have to process later, but this display? It was unsettling to witness, but it also left her in awe. She watched Amma’s shoulders shake with laughter and wondered if it brought her joy or left her feral and sardonic to emanate such destructive force.

Had she not just been a conduit to the raven haired girl’s abilities, Aurora would have shared Haven’s sentiment. She too would have been flabbergasted and stunned by what had just occurred. But she had felt that limitless source firsthand, got a small glimpse at the sheer magnitude of the well in which she derived her crimson and ebony power from.

It was beautifully chilling, understandably haunting, and reasonably terrifying.

The redhead felt herself come back to her body piece by piece, sensation returning to her legs, and took some of her weight off of the winged girl who was worse for wear. Normally Aurora could sense the HZEs around her, warp them to her will in order to travel from place to place, but after such usage to teleport the three of them, which surpassed anything she had ever done before, she was met with vast emptiness. She needed to preserve her strength if she was going to have a fighting chance.

“We should keep moving. Find the others.” She stated in between deep breaths, attempting to calm her pounding heart.

Amma's laughter slowly subsided, her reality carefully reigning back into place by the deafening silence and both Haven and Aurora's words, her trembling gestures carved back through her hair, soiled of obsidian ash and blood with a sigh that raked from her chest and deflated on a shuddering breath.

"Yes," she agreed in a murmur, attempting to stand was a struggle in itself, her ankle nearly buckling in protest before she fell, once, twice - a third time that had her teeth slicing into the pout of her lip, every inch of her flesh sensitive, every aspect of her heart and soul suddenly raw. It was a feeling not entirely unknown, but completely unwelcome as she finally managed to rise to her full height with a pained wince.

"Maybe we can circle back around... before I found Haven, I felt someone-"

She never got to finish her sentence, never even released a full breath before the wall at her back yawned into a sudden void on the ear-splitting screech of sundered steel. There in the eternal gloom churned a ring of hellfire that sputtered and roared, a terrifying echo of a guttural below that summoned her. The ink that waved across her flesh: demented snakes and fluttering moths and decaying birds that twittered and screeched. Those hellish hands ended in grueling talons that sunk deep into Amma's shoulders and hauled her forward, pitching her into that awaiting abyss that foretold her demise.

"NO!" A cry fell, a desperate screech of rage that had her twisting, hands reaching, nails digging and clawing and scraping, her power sputtered; red and silver tried to rise to her wailing shriek, but everything she was had been spent and all was for naught as Amma struggled.

And lost.

"Tell everyone - I'm --!"

A single thread of red, a fated string, a last attempt coiled away from her trembling hand where it lazily slithered across the ground, tracking through the blackened remains of their assailant before it looped around Aurora, the last vestiges of her manifest sinking deep into the same hand that had held her and refused to let go earlier. When she refused to leave her behind.

Then Amma Cahors was pulled back into that darkness, the void closing on a peal of hated laughter, the panels warped and blackened where she once was. A disembodied voice filled the entirety of the corridor then, the voice of Torres, and it echoed, over and over and over again.

Thank you for bringing Tiamat home.

And then there was darkness, the lights in the hallway slowly going out- one by one, until only a single bulb remained alighted over them both and with it, Torres' laughter faded away into nothing.

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

_{Location: Southern Plateau - Pacific Royal Campus}

Hope in Hell #2.043: The Cat Gets the Tongue

^{_{_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

_{Interaction(s):Interactions: None/ Open?}

Previously: Dreaming While Awake

Harper’s eyelids trembled, a delicate dance of resistance against the beckoning call of consciousness. The world around her, initially a blur of indistinct shapes and muted colours, began to crystallize with painstaking clarity. Each element of her surroundings declared its presence, asserting itself with the precision of a master craftsman’s stroke. The dream, a sanctuary of solace, clung to her with the tenacity of a cherished memory. The imagined warmth of her mother’s enveloping arms remained a ghostly comfort, while the soothing lilt of her father’s voice, tenderly uttering her name, receded into silence like the last note of a lullaby.

She remained motionless, suspended in the liminal space where the intangible touch of dreamscape met the solid certainty of reality. A hesitant blink banished the final vestiges of sleep, her pupils contracting against the room’s glaring luminescence. The light, devoid of any softness, immediately invaded her eyes, its sterile brightness an assault on the remnants of her nocturnal reverie.

Gradually, her eyes adapted, and the clarity of her surroundings imposed itself upon her. The walls, devoid of any personal touch, stood cold and clinical, their immaculate surface interrupted only by the sporadic sound of medical machinery—a beep here, a whisper of air there. The pervasive aroma of antiseptic irritated her nostrils, and as Harper shifted, the sound of the linens rustling beneath her was a crisp counterpoint to the silence.

A flicker of uncertainty crossed her mind. Had she emerged from the simulation? Was she now safe within the confines of reality? Questions about the whereabouts of the others surfaced, especially one in particular, their fates momentarily shrouded in mystery.

In response to her silent queries, a throb of pain pulsed at the base of her skull, a sharp retort that demanded her attention. Instinctively, her fingers sought the source, trailing to the nape of her neck. There, they encountered what was merely a tender spot at first before they encountered something wet. Harper winced, bringing her hands in front of her to see what it was.

Blood.

A sharp intake of breath seized Harper, her chest constricting as her eyes locked onto the vivid scarlet that defiled the paleness of her fingertips. The shock rooted her to the spot, a statue of disbelief, as the initial haze of confusion that had clouded her mind began to scatter. It was as if a sinister tide of dread was rising within her, wave after wave threatening to capsize her sanity. She grappled with the elusive fragments of her memory, attempting to weave them into a coherent tapestry that could explain the blood that now seemed to accuse her. What in the world had happened to her?

With each mental tug, a spike of agony lanced through her head, a relentless sentinel that seemed to guard the gates to her past with sadistic vigilance. The more she delved into the labyrinth of her mind, the more intense the throbbing became, as though her very brain was rebelling against her quest for clarity. The enigma of her location gnawed at her, an itch that couldn’t be scratched, as her gaze began to absorb the minute, yet telling details of her surroundings.

Her eyes flitted to the medical apparatus that surrounded her, their beeps and whirs a discordant orchestra to the chaos of her thoughts. These machines, with their blinking lights and scrolling numbers, bore an eerie resemblance to those she had seen in another time, another place—a memory now muffled by the dulling pain that enveloped her head. She recalled nights shrouded in vigilance, her gaze fixated on the vital signs displayed before her, each beep a harbinger of hope or despair. The only question was, which outcome would she achieve tonight?

Was it her own form that had once been ensnared in the web of wires and tubes, or had she been the person at another’s bedside? The recollection was fractured, a jigsaw puzzle with too many missing pieces, a mélange of antiseptic odours and hushed, reassuring whispers. Yet, amidst the fog of her memory, there was a sense of déjà vu, a recognition of patterns and routines dictated by the unemotional cadence of the medical devices that now held her in their grasp.

The urgency to free herself from the invasive touch of the medical equipment surged within her. She needed to rid her skin of the foreign objects that pierced it, to reclaim the autonomy of her own body. Her gaze fell upon her arms, and the sight that greeted her sent a jolt of horror coursing through her veins. Angry, raw lacerations crisscrossed her flesh, lying against the torn remnants of her augmented reality suit. The blood from each wound, fresh and vibrant, welled up from the jagged cuts, tracing a crimson path down her arms, dripping onto the pristine bed and the cold tiles below.

The rhythmic throb of her cheek pulsed in time with her racing heart, each beat a drum of agony that resonated with the steady drip of blood she now felt running down her neck. The wound was a raw landscape of pain, its edges tender and vulnerable to even the faintest touch. Her hand, shaking with a mixture of fear and pain, reached up to explore the damage, only to retreat, coated in the same slick evidence of another injury. The scent of copper, rich and overpowering, filled the air, mingling with the sterile tang of the room. Her eyes barely glanced at the blood tracing a warm, sticky path down her cheek, soaking into the fabric of her AR suit, spreading like a dark bloom.

Harper’s head throbbed with relentless intensity, each heartbeat echoing like a drumbeat of agony within her. The pain’s nucleus, buried deep at the base of her skull, sent out relentless shockwaves of distress that distorted her vision and scrambled her thoughts into an incoherent jumble. Her fingers, driven by a blend of instinct and newfound alarm, reached for the epicenter of her suffering, only to encounter the unexpected warmth and stickiness of blood matting the lower locks of her hair.

Yet, the nightmare continued to unfold.

As her fingers probed deeper, the grim reality sent an icy tremor coursing through her body. Her hair, which had once flowed in a rich, chocolate-brown cascade that gracefully fell past her shoulders, was now a butchered landscape. The strands had been crudely chopped, seemingly at the whims of a callous, uncaring entity, leaving behind a jagged, uneven canopy that told a silent tale of brutality and rashness.

The epiphany hit Harper with the devastating impact of a wrecking ball, compounding the already profound sense of violation that permeated her disoriented consciousness. The cold, impersonal touch of medical devices, the savage butchery of her once-beautiful hair, the sticky warmth of blood—all these elements coalesced into a macabre scene of utter disregard and cruelty. Harper’s breathing grew labored, each shallow gasp interwoven with the piercing agony that wracked her battered frame. The room seemed to close in on her, the walls creeping inward, exacerbating her feelings of captivity and bewilderment.

In the midst of the chaos that churned within her mind, a voice cut through the thick silence, its sharpness as startling as the crack of a whip. Harper’s head jerked upward, her eyes darting to find the source of the cold interruption. There stood Sierra, her sister, embodying an aura of impatient indignation that seemed to slice through the very air. Their eyes met in a collision of emotions—hazel eyes, brimming with confusion and the raw edge of fear, clashed with the turbulent brown of anger and silent accusation. Sierra moved to loom over Harper, her presence heavy with an impatience that was almost tangible, piercing through the veil of fear that now shrouded Harper’s heart.

“You’re not meant to be conscious yet. My piece is incomplete,” Sierra declared, her voice tinged with a disquieting irritation, her words detached as if she were discussing something as mundane as a chore left unfinished.

Harper’s breath stalled in her throat, a choked gasp as she confronted the surreal horror before her. The words she tried to form were reduced to a hoarse whisper, fragile and scarcely audible against the thick silence. “What… what did you do to me?” she breathed out. Her hands fluttered upwards once more, grasping at nothingness. Without the veil of her long hair, she felt exposed, as if stripped of a protective layer that had once shielded her from the world.

The corners of Sierra’s mouth twisted into a perverse grin, a dark mirth that seemed to mock Harper’s disarray. “It seems we’ve both embraced the role of artist,” Sierra sneered, her tone laced with derision. “What’s your opinion of my latest masterpiece, so far? You can be honest about it being too much on the nose.”

Bewilderment clouded Harper’s gaze, her eyes searching Sierra’s face for some hint of jest, some sign that this was all a terrible joke. “What are you talking about?”

Sierra moved with purpose, each step measured and resolute as she closed the distance between them. From the shadowed recesses of her pocket, she produced a small, plain mirror and with a flourish that seemed almost theatrical in its execution, she thrust it forward, holding it high and steady. It was an unyielding command for Harper to look up and witness the glory- the horror- reflected back at her.

The brunette’s heart lurched, skipping a beat in sheer terror as her gaze collided with the grotesque spectacle in the mirror. Carved into the tender flesh of her still-weeping cheek was a single, condemning word—a word that landed with the force of a physical assault:
▅▅▅▅

—“FREAK.”

▅▅▅▅

“I thought it suited you,” Sierra’s voice was devoid of any semblance of sisterly warmth, her tone as cold and hard as steel. “And I’ve got the perfect title too. ‘A Hot Mess.’ Apt, don’t you think?”

Tears, unbidden and unwelcome, swelled in Harper’s eyes. The pain of the physical wound was nothing compared to the agony of perceived betrayal, the humiliation of being reduced to a spectacle, the confusion of a world suddenly turned upside down. Why were they doing this to them? To her? The Foundation. What did they possibly have to gain from this? Her vision clouded, a mist of sorrow that threatened to spill over, and she bit down on her lip—a futile attempt to dam the flood of emotions.

Yet the tears defied her, spilling over her cheeks in a silent rebellion, mingling with the blood from the fresh, vicious inscription. It was a poignant blend of salt and iron, a bitter concoction of anguish and misery.

“Oh, look at you,” mocked Sierra’s doppelgänger, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Still the crybaby baby sister. Some things never change, do they?” The taunt was a knife, twisting with each syllable, each word designed to cut and wound.

Harper’s frame trembled with the force of her crying, each shudder a clash between her longing for dignity and the crushing wave of sadness. Sierra’s double watched the display with a malevolent grin, her delight in Harper’s anguish unmistakable.

“God, you’re so pathetic,” the clone hissed. “Just like you’ve always been with no mommy to tuck you in or daddy to clean up all of your bullshit anymore.” The words were a reflection of Harper’s deepest insecurities, the fears that had haunted her in the quietest moments, now given voice by the one person who knew her best.

Herself. This was her, the guilt she still felt in the guise of the sister that she’d hid from after all this time.

The clone’s smile unfurled like a flag of war, a grotesque contortion of what once might have been a gesture of joy. Now, it was nothing short of a harbinger of agony yet to be inflicted. “You know, perhaps it’s time those lovely eyes of yours served a better purpose,” she murmured, her voice a sinister lullaby that sent shivers down Harper’s spine. Her breath felt like a venomous mist, seething with malice as it brushed against Harper’s skin.

With deliberate slowness, the clone reached for a scalpel that lay gleaming on a nearby tray, its edge catching the light with a menacing sparkle. She wielded it with a perverse sense of ceremony, bringing it ever closer to Harper’s eye. The cold metal kissed the tender flesh of Harper’s eyelid, sending a jolt of terror and something raw and animalistic through her.

It was a challenge laid bare, a gauntlet thrown at Harper’s feet—a challenge she was compelled to accept, because she couldn’t have them. They were hers.

Driven by a primal surge of instinct and desperation, Harper’s hand shot out, seizing the clone’s wrist with a strength born of raw emotion. Caught off guard by this sudden act of rebellion, the clone struggled to maintain her grip on the scalpel, but Harper’s will to survive burned fiercely within her.

Their struggle erupted into a frenzied clash of limbs. Harper lashed out with her foot, striking the clone’s knee and sending them both crashing to the ground in a tumultuous heap, the beeping of medical equipment providing a discordant soundtrack to their battle. The scalpel flew from the clone’s grasp, its metallic surface catching the harsh light as it slid across the floor.

With adrenaline coursing through her veins dulling her pain, Harper crawled frantically, her hands slipping on the cold, unforgiving tiles as she reached for the scalpel. The clone was quick to react, lunging at Harper with a feral growl. But Harper was faster, her fingers wrapping around the handle of the scalpel just in time.

With a raw, guttural cry, Harper swung the scalpel wildly, slashing through the air as the clone descended upon her. The blade arced with desperate, frenetic energy, finding its mark again and again—each connection a spray of crimson that splattered the pristine tiles and stained Harper’s face with the evidence of her struggle.

The clone’s movements began to falter, its vitality draining with each slice Harper delivered. At last, with a strangled gurgle, the clone fell, its body convulsing in the final throes of defeat.

Harper stood, panting heavily, the scalpel slick with blood in her trembling grip. She had prevailed, but the victory was hollow. The room fell silent, save for the sound of her laboured breathing and the steady beep of the heart monitor.

“You talk too much,” Harper uttered with icy detachment, gazing down at the bloodied scalpel, then at the lifeless form before her. A twisted smile crept across her face as she knelt, positioning the cold blade beneath the clone’s lifeless eyes. “But I suppose some things really do change.”

---

_{Location: Southern Plateau - PRCU}

Hope in Hell #2.044: I Wanna Hold Your Hand

---

_{Interaction(s): Aurora @Melissa}

Previously: A Name Unspoken

"Maybe we can circle back around... before I found Haven, I felt someone-"


Thank you for bringing Tiamat home.

---

G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D
G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D

---

Calliope strode forward, looking for any indication the others were nearby. If she got through her room, surely Banjo and Gil did too. Though if it was anything like hers, the torment and trauma was nothing to sneer at.

Her footsteps echoed along the walls until she heard a voice and....was that a click of a gun?

It happened in a blur. The fear, the panic, the confusion. She knew it had to be an illusion. Another figment courtesy of whoever locked them in here. That didn't make it any less real. Or less painful as a moment of relief was soon shattered like glass as the gun went off.

---

Calliope felt pain, unlike anything she had experienced before. The sides of her vision darkened as she looked around. She did everything in her power not to look at her leg, knowing if she did it would unnerve her more. Butler's words still danced around in her mind. Again, the simulations knew what to say to dig into her fears and worries.

"G'day love. Seems you found yourself in a pickle."

The voice came from beyond her scope but she recognized the accent. She wanted to cry out, both from fear and hope. He had found her like she knew he would. She heard his footfalls get closer and closer until she could see the shadow form. She looked and saw....well...it was Banjo all right.

But not her's.

The Banjo she knew was not this put-together. She often joked how he would roll out of bed and just tackle the day, but it was true more often than not. She had to be the one to beg him to wear actual decent clothes when going out. This Banjo was well-dressed in a dark blazer and colored button-down shirt that accentuated his frame. Tailored slacks fell upon loafers that Banjo would never be caught dead in.

Much like how Frigid and the other Katja came into the scene before, this had to be Banjo's twin.

"Got you good in here, didn't they? Say the word, love, and I'll whisk you away from here."

"B-Banjo?" she asked through labored breath.

He chuckled and shook his head. "Always hated that nickname. It's Andrew, love. You can admit it, you hate the name too."

Calliope tried to move to see better but she felt her arm buckle a bit, knowing if she tried further she would just hurt herself more. Banjo, or Andrew supposedly, stepped around, kneeling down to face her. "I don't know what you see in us, darling. You have to know the messed up stuff we went through. Your's is a cakewalk compared to ours. Let's call it what it is: princess slummin' it to stick it to daddy. Am I right?" His question was punctuated with a grin.

Calli clenched her fist. Andrew seemed to pick up on it. "Hit a nerve, did I? You're too good for him and you both know it. There's no effort there. If I had you to myself I would scream it to the world. When is it Calli's time to get her flowers?"

Calli took some deep breaths, feeling angry and scared in equal measure. "I..don't need...to be in..the spotlight...content...with where I am.."

Andrew tsk'd her. "We both know that's not true. Sure, you tell everyone within radius you're fine when we all know you need that pedestal. How else are you going to be saved if no one can even reach you?"

Calliope closed her eyes, willing Andrew to go away. She needed to think, to figure out how to save herself before she bled out.

"One day you will realize the toxic nature you both perpetuate being in proximity of each other. I only wish you figure it out before the damage is permanent. See you around, love." With a flick of his hand he turned and walked back down the corridor. Calli wanted to call out. Even he wouldn't just leave her here.

She reached out into the inky blackness that remained. Someone had to find her. To...help her.

Someone. Anyone.

---

^{_{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

Breathe.

"Dead... She's dead..."

Shut up. Sack up. Breathe.

Banjo stopped stammering and shaking and concentrated on breathing.

Breathe first. Then think. Then move.

He straightened up in the duct, and got his bearings. Looking behind him was a walled up section, which made it an easy decision as to what way to go.

This place is all augmented reality. Maybe she's not even dead. Maybe it's bullshit. But everyone IS in trouble. So you've got to move. But everything in order. Breathe. Think. Move.

After a few more deep breaths he started to crawl onwards through the ducting. It bent hard to the right up ahead and he paced himself, nervous of the sound he made as he progressed, and unsure how vulnerable that noise made him.

Rounding the corner he came to a section of ducting that was filled with small pinholes of light on all sides, and the far end of the ducting showed light at the end of the tunnel.

Buoyed with optimism for a possible way out he crawled faster, until a voice echoed in his ears.

"G'day."

"All good, champ. I've got it figured from here."

"Not why I'm here..." The disembodied voice of Mamili's uncle called back. Darker in tone this time. Banjo sensed the shift. "And did you just 'champ' me..?" The dark voice ominously asked.

"Aww Hell..." Banjo muttered, realising his error from the breached social taboo from back home.

Suddenly the pin prick lights started to swirl and change shape, colours and forms burst from the black walls like the canvas of the night's sky.

"Want another tale, white boy? More of our culture to misapprorpriate? Wasn't enough your ancestors slaughtered and enslaved us in bunches... stole our children..."

"God damn it! I called this! The real one's thousands of miles away! And this isn't even close to what he was like!" Banjo tried to grab hold of the sides of the duct to steady himself as the lightshow swirled and disorientated him.

"In the beginning there was the Rainbow Serpent..." Swirls of lights combined to form a multi-coloured snake, which coiled and sprang at Banjo through the darkness. He ducked beneath the snake with a clatter as he sprawled onto the floor of the metal tube. His breathing and his heart rate spiked.

He glanced behind him and could see the snake wasn't done with him. Somehow, despite being born from the lights that surrounded him it had gained physical form, and an ability to exist beyond just that flat plane.

It reared up and hissed aggressively, rainbow coloured coils of pinks, oranges, greens and yellows finding purchase upon themselves.

"Shit... Again." He slid to the right as it struck out with another lunge again. Once more only finding air before landing with another thump on the metal. But how long would that be the case while his movements were limited in this enclosed tube?

"A supposed snake out of myth and legend... what're the odds whoever's runnin' this picked a venomous one to play your part?"

The snake hissed, and turned back on itself again.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Don't suppose you'd like to go find y'rself some kind of rat or other vermin in around these ducts, eh?"

It once again arched itself up on it's coils and held a menacing demeanour, ready to strike.

"I take it ya mean you like the look of the vermin ya picked already, eh? Well... shit."

It lunged again, and once more, Banjo flattened himself against the floor of the duct and let it pass by overhead.

"Can't keep doin' this. Sooner or later I'm gonna pick wrong."

Banjo turned to face the snake, as it re-positioned itself for another attack. Squaring up and staring straight at his serpantine aggressor.

"You would FIGHT the Rainbow Serpent?! The Creator?!" The voice of Uncle Motlop screamed. It was a barely human distortion of his voice, which made Banjo almost sick to hear.

But it hadn't played it's last card. Lights swirled. The snake coiled. Uncle unleashed a blinding flash. Strike!

Banjo snatched at the snake with his left, grabbing it just behind the head, mere centimetres from his face.

It wrapped it's coils around his wrist and writhed to free itself, unable to get leverage on it's head to sink its fangs anywhere.

"Heh. Heh-heh-heh. How'd ya like that? Gotcha."

Slowly at first, the snake started to expand. More coils wrapped up his arm, as the snake then grew in width. It grew bloated and wide, and the duct seemed to shrink even more than Banjo already felt it had. He had to clutch the snake with both hands. Then wrap himself around it's back, behind its head to keep it from striking at him.

"Aw f'r fucks sake..." He was now stuck riding the thing, as it's coils slammed themselves and him into the sides of the duct, trying desperately to pry him off. Unless he could think of a way to--

Oh.

Banjo breathed, then let his breathing halt, as his body turned black and he felt the familiar rush, he soaked in the light Uncle had filled the duct with to try and blind him. His body turned cold, and frost began to cross the snake's face, as it listed far slower in its movements. It began to enter a hibernation state. Shrinking back to its previous size again. As it fell limp, Banjo threw it down the duct with a black arm. It landed with a thud and didn't make any moves at all, until the colours faded, and its light was once again taken and repurposed for this place.

"Lawlessness. You would kill the order bestowed by the Rainbow Serpent?"

"Piss off." Banjo grumbled. He was tired of this. Watching people he knew twisted and perverted for use, if they weren't being killed horribly in front of him as some sort of a message. He tried to power down.

"But then that was alway going to be your role. Destroyer. Devourer. ...Tiddalik."

"Tiddalik..? Are you takin the piss--?" Suddenly 'Uncle' shifted the lights, the whole duct went bright and pulsated with light so strongly he could feel it in his throat and in his ears. He kept feeding. For some reason he found himself unable to stop.

"You know your place in this world..."

His surroundings went black and he was taken to a place. A city. A dour dystopia of huddled masses in thick clothes struggling for their last moments of survival. Those poor people who were still alive tried to flee. Banjo was feeding. More. Above a building, from a dying world's skyline he could see what remained of the sun - the darkened embers of it's core struggling to hold flame in the face of entropy.

"Heh. Ha ha..." Banjo slowly chuckled.

"So this--" He swirled his finger around, gesturing at everything. "Let me get this straight. This is what you've got on me? Hahahaha..."

"I was brought here to teach me how to get a hold of my powers. And THIS was never a concern. Not a real one. The fear of a dumb kid who didn't know better, maybe. But not really. I just didn't use 'em because I was scared of it. Heh-heh."

Actually seeing his fear from so long ago actually play out in front of him made him realise how absurd it actually was. How foolish. Made even worse by the fact that it was still a nagging little fear toying with the back of his mind on occasion - as evidenced by the fact that it had been brought to the fore here.

"I was a dumb, naive kid who was smart enough to be an idiot. I learned about the nature of entropy and the heat death of the universe and thought it could be theoretically possible I could play a part in it. But two things; first, I couldn't do this by myself, and second, it wouldn't happen like this if I could. This is all you have though, isn't it? You're working off of fears and insecurities. Doesn't matter if they don't make any sense. Just like my stupid nightmares. And I'll tell you right now, it's havin' the same effect. You're just pissin' me off."

"And you're blendin' stuff, to the point where it no longer makes sense. I get the vents... playin' up to my claustrophobia. Smart. But the Rainbow Serpent... it's a creator myth. It's movements create rivers and terraform the earth. It's not fittin' in a bloody air conditionin' duct."

"And Tiddalik wasn't a kookaburra, like the old bloke you're playin' long tried to beat into my head. He was a big arsed frog. Heh-heh-heh."

Banjo gave a wry smirk.

"And when he laughed, everythin' went back to normal. BA HAHA HA HA HA!" Banjo erupted into obnoxious laughter, hoping to break through its own programming. He kept cackling with laughter until...

He found himself powered down and back in the duct.

"Ho-lee shit. That actually worked." He started crawling again.

Just goes to show... It's all about mind over mind over hard-light not-really-matter. It plays to your fears, but if you keep your wits about you, a clear mind, its not really that hard or unsaf--

The airconditioning duct crashed twelve feet to the floor below in an open hallway. Banjo groaned and rolled out of the broken metal, onto his back.

"Uggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh..."

Thoroughly battered and bruised, like he'd been left in a clothes dryer. Every part of him ached. Slammed and smushed against the sides of the duct with the snake, mentally drained from watching the rest of his team in turmoil or taken by death, and now dropped from a great height with no hope of a soft landing.

His body ached everywhere.

Through hazy eyes, he can barely see two legs and a slim lower half running towards him out of focus. The figure runs up to him and kneels down next to him. "Banjo? Oh my God, are you Okay? What the Hell happened? Please say something."

"Hun? Shit... Hey. You made it through. We both... made it through. You in better shape than me, by the looks..."

She shakes her head. "They really messed me up, Banjo. Made me see things, question things. What are we even doing? There's no point continuing this lie we keep pushing forward. Everyone on the team thinks it. Fuck knows I've had my doubts for a while now."

"Lie..?" The word, the question, caught in his throat, as he struggled to turn over to face her better, through no small amount of pain.

"We are two different people, Banjo. We come from messed up backgrounds. There's no future in that. I was quick to be with you to stick it to my father and I fell into the belief we could make it work. What kind of relationship could there be?"

"Oh. That." He accepted it without question. He'd been waiting for that coin to drop for five years.

But now..? We're going to do this now? I'm in bloody pain here...

"But nothing's changed there. That was the same case before. And you even took time to reconsider things when you realised that the first time."

"Yeah, and do you know how long that's been weighing on my mind? The looks people give me? Everyone knows our relationship started on a lie. I rushed into it. No..."

She pauses a moment.

"You pushed me into it. It was bad enough I felt so guilty, but you made me feel worse. The clinginess. The secrecy. Hell, I didn't even know where you came from for a long time and even then, even now, you secrets from me. Tell me honestly, can we recover from that? Should we recover from that?"

"I can't imagine how people look at ya. Because I've never really given a pinch of shit how anyone's looked at me. So I guess I'm sorry for that. But secrecy? I didn't know where I came from... and as soon as I found out, I told you. And ONLY you. Nobody else 'round here knows any of that. The main stuff I don't tell you is stuff I don't know, so what else is there to-- oh."

He grunted, shuffling slowly to get his free arm to the inside of the AR suit, through the leg of the pants.

"Hold on. Nothin' suss..."

He pulled out the crinkled pack of Winfield Blues and his zippo.

"I smoke. Is that what ya talkin' about? Because that's about the only thing I can think of that I haven't told ya. It gives me somethin' to do with my hands. Helps me think. And my hype power cleans it right out of me. Thought it was pretty victimless. You want me to kick it I could. Anytime. Juicin' cleans the nicotine right off my synapses. But that's about the only thing I can think of..."

"God Banjo, how stupid can you be? It's not about some fucking cigarettes. You expect me to believe there's a world you know nothing about and, what, I'm supposed to just accept that? You know everything about me but you hold so much unknown. For all I know, you were a serial killer child who messed up animals. I care about appearances, Banjo. That should have been obvious Day 1. Look at you, and look at me. We come from two different worlds. This isn't a Disney movie, we don't deserve happily ever afters. You certainly don't."

"Well... for one, if I were some child psychopath, then there'd probably be some signs of that in the time since where I have had my memories. But yeah, everything about me that I know... you know. Can't argue with what I deserve, but. So I won't. Is that what this is? Appearances? Reckon you'd be happier with someone else?" He asked, laying out breadcrumbs.

He shook the crinkled box until the end of a single smoke popped clear, and put it to his lips.

"Of course! You know the way Gil looks at me. You don't think I see your jealousy whenever he so much as greets me? He would be ideal. Someone my father would actually appreciate. You're not exactly ' Family Dinner' material."

He lit up, and rocked his head back. Confirming something to himself.

"Hell, can't argue that, neither."

He took a long draw.

"Though I will say... I don't much care for the fact that Gil ties into my fears and insecurities in any bloody way at all."

He blew out smoke.

"...or maybe the fear is that you might see it as that way."

Calliope looked at Banjo in shock before she let her face fall. Shaking her head. "Guess I laid it on too thick, huh?"

"Hey, I was just givin' you enough rope to hang yourself by pivoting from the pair of us not deserving happiness, to contradictin' yourself that there'd be someone else. You're the one who went full blown Daddy's Girl. Nup. Not my gal. No way, no how."

Calliope, no... Frigid let the facade drop as she stood up, blue highlights now appearing as she turned to him, a sneer on her face. She lifted her leg and stomped down on Banjo's knee. "Good, then I can do what I actually want to you. I can even make it hut more by telling you what's actually happening to your precious Calli."

"Nggg!" He grunted in pain. "Juicy bloody chrysanthemums" He exclaimed, clutching at his knee.

"I know... that my first source for news... Is one that will lie to me from the moment it bloody sees me, just to hurt me. So yeah, sure. Have at it."

He rolled to one side and kneeled shakily on his good leg, sizing her up.

"You really take the bloody fun out of bein' right, and solvin' puzzles. You know that?"

Frigid kicked him in the side now. "Lying to you would be easy. It would defeat the purpose of seeing you suffer in here. After all, we know what your fears are."

"So let me lay it out for you. Right now your girl faced one of her biggest fears. I could lie and say she is suffering eternally, but you wouldn't believe me. So no, she got through her room. Scratched, bloodied, beaten up, but she's alive. Though....gosh...not for much longer."

"You see, she tried to find you, bless her. But someone found her first and really laid into her. She didn't see it coming. Let's just say she doesn't have a leg to stand on. And the longer you take sitting here, feeling sorry for yourself, the longer she bleeds. Last time I checked, humans carried only so much blood before," Frigid made a cutting motion across her neck.

"I have an idea!" Frigid quickly formed an ice sword and drove it into Banjo's left leg, plunging it deep. "Look, twinsies!"

Banjo's howl echoed through this desolate place.

"Well, this was fun, but I have to go. Let's see if you can find her in time. Killing you would be easy, but watching you slowly die inside as your girlfriend slowly perishes is all the fun I need. Good luck!" As if to rub salt in his wounds even further, she slowly walked away into the shadows, leaving him to clutch his leg and bleed.

"Nggg... Shit." He rolled himself onto his back and scooched over to a wall.

The ice sword was in deep enough that it held its own weight. Drawing a furrowed brow from Banjo who contemplated removing it, or whether it would be better to leave it in.

"That one's probably best served stayin' put. If the doctor's tell me to stay off it and ice it... well... sorted."

He gradually stood up, leaning back against the wall to keep his weight off the other leg.

With one arm against the wall, he started hobbling down the hallway.

You know she was probably lying to you, right? He thought to himself.

"Doesn't matter."

He hobbled on. "What's the down side... Ya find out she's fine sooner? I can live with that."

Calliope had moved somewhat from her original spot, a blood trail following her. She needed to get out or find someone who wasn't some created fixture in this simulation. God, it hurt. She could only imagine what the others were going through. Would she be the only one severely injured? She doubted it.

As she neared she heard something or someone. God she hoped it was someone. "H-hello? I need help..." she attempted to yell, but it came out softly.

Banjo hobbled onwards. Considering whether it would be better to call out in this place, where his fears might target him again in a weakened state, and whether anyone however close would actually hear him.

He realised he didn't care.

^{_{"CALL-EEEEE!"}}

^{_{"CALLLLL-EEEEEEEEEEEEE!"}}

His voice started to rasp, from shouting so loud.

Calli heard his voice and nearly broke down again. Surely this wasn't the other Andrew messing with her, but she couldn't be sure. The voice sounded like it was in pain. She had to risk it. She kept crawling despite the pain shooting through her nerves.

The sounds grew closer until a shadow formed in front of her. She stopped crawling and looked up, focusing her gaze. The figure materialized and she knew.

"Banjo...thank christ.." Tears began welling up in her eyes.

"We. Have... Seen better days. But you're still a sight for sore eyes. Sore eyes, sore everythin'." He hobbled over and held her.

"I reckon its about time we weren't here."

"So whaddaya say, you lean on me, I'll lean on you, and we keep goin' til we get gone?"

Calli nodded her agreement, reaching for him. "Going to need...more support probably. On account of the fact, I don't have a leg. And The Butler did it..." her attempt at humor. He brought out the best in her.

He laughed. Broadly. Then felt slightly ashamed at how loudly he'd done so and the timing of it all. Until he saw the smile it brought to her face.