Qia

Realms of Sun & Shadow

_{Interactions: Sunni-@The Savant}

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As Sunni descended the staircase, his silhouette cut a stark figure against the backdrop of the inn’s disarray. Elara’s gaze, ever watchful, was inexorably drawn to him, her eyes tracing the tension that seemed to ripple across his frame. His expression was a vivid portrait of shock, eyes wide, reflecting the chaos that had unfolded in his absence. With swift strides, she observed as he plunged into the fray, his movements a blend of urgency and determination, as he sought to weave calm into the fabric of unrest.

The patrons’ reactions, she noted, were a spectrum of human emotion—some vocal in their displeasure, their complaints a cacophony against the inn’s usual harmony, while others remained ensconced in their own worlds, seemingly untouched by the disruption. Sunni, the eye of the storm, navigated the tempest all the while with apologies and swift service, his efforts a clear testament to his commitment to the inn’s reputation.

From her vantage point, Elara’s mind was a whir of contemplation, her instincts, sharpened by her royal service, alert to the nuances of the scene before her. She recognized the critical nature of timing, the importance of approaching Sunni with a tact that would soothe rather than strain his frayed nerves.

She had, unintentionally, unsettled him once before after all. It was a moment that had already imprinted itself upon her memory, a subtle misstep in the intricate ballet of human interaction—a dance she often felt she was navigating with faltering steps. Her role as handmaiden demanded a veneer of unflappable grace, yet beneath that polished surface, she often wrestled with the tangled web of interpersonal dynamics. The fear of transgressing the unspoken rules that governed relationships often left her second-guessing her actions, her words.

And so, when Sunni’s actions had shifted so markedly in her presence, Elara could not help but attribute it to her own doing. It seemed the only logical explanation—she must have been the catalyst, however unintentional, for his unease.

As Sunni withdrew to the relative sanctuary behind the counter, Elara’s gaze remained fixed upon him, her thoughts momentarily adrift in the sea of his evident distress. His silhouette, once assured in front of his guests, seemed to falter, shoulders slumping as his fingers threaded through his hair—a gesture that spoke volumes in the silent language of stress. A language she was extremely familiar with.

A realization dawned on her then. While the princess’s request was of importance, it was not so urgent that it could not wait. Sunni was already shouldering a heavy burden, and she had no desire to add to it. With a newfound resolve, she decided to depart, to allow him space and time to manage the immediate crisis. Yet, as Elara attempted to do just so, she was almost immediately thwarted by the very fate she sought to evade. Sunni’s perceptive gaze cut through the bustle, locking onto hers with an unintentional precision that unveiled her quiet retreat. In the brief communion of their eyes, a silent conversation passed—a mutual recognition of the moment’s weight. Her moonlit eyes retreated to the safety of her lap, where her fingers danced a quiet waltz of nervous anticipation.

The inn’s ambient noise faded into a distant murmur as Sunni approached, his footsteps a measured cadence that seemed to beat in time with Elara’s own racing heart. His voice, when it finally broke the silence between them, was both profressional and warm, with a slight hint of understandable fatigue.

“Welcome to the eye of the beholder, do you need help with anything? We have a decent amount of drink items and food at the moment. My name is Sunni by the way.”

Elara’s response was a gentle ascent from the depths of her apprehension. She lifted her gaze, allowing it to meet his once more, ignoring the urge to look away until she was done speaking.

“Thank you… Sunni,” she began softly, a small understanding smile managing to grace her lips. “But I’m not here for anything particularly important, so there’s no rush on my behalf. Please… feel free to attend to your other duties.”

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

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_{Location: Southern Plateau - Pacific Royal Campus}

Hope in Hell #2.031: Leave the World Behind

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_{Interaction(s):Interactions: Talking to the mooooooooon, tryna get to youuuuuuuuuu}

Previously: The Apple and the Tree

Harper's eyes fluttered open, the comfort of the open sky, a sight as old as time itself, wrapping around her like a well-worn blanket. Yet, as her eyes watched the clouds drift lazily by for a moment, she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was amiss about them. Beneath her, the grass whispered against her skin, a natural bed that felt familiar yet curiously different as well. It was a subtle sense of displacement as if the scene before had been replaced with a backdrop that was just a shade too perfect, its canvas too tough. A painting rather than reality.

Harper’s snort cut through the morning’s silence. She pushed herself upright, her hands sweeping away the remnants of slumber that clung to her like cobwebs. The nap, sought as a refuge from the day’s weariness, had instead woven a tapestry of dreams so vivid they left her mind buzzing with unanswered questions. A slight frown creased her brow as she pondered the realism of the dream—a sensory-rich experience that had promised tranquillity but delivered an adventure instead. A horror story, really.

She sat there for a moment, lost in thought, the dream’s details replaying in her mind with startling clarity. Perhaps, she thought with a hint of irony, the nap wasn’t the restful interlude she had hoped for. Instead, it had been a journey to a place where reality was bent and reshaped into an idea, a possibility, she’d considered once—a school designed for individuals with extraordinary abilities, much like her own.

The brunette shook her head at the otherworldly concept and allowed the world around her to come into sharper focus, the edges of her surroundings blending seamlessly with the tapestry of her memories. The field sprawled before her, a sea of wildflowers nodding their heads in a silent, rhythmic dance to the tune of the gentle breeze. Her eyes caught sight of the old oak tree, its branches reaching out like open arms, the bark polished smooth by countless days spent nestled among its leaves, lost in the pages of her favourite stories.

As Harper’s gaze wandered, her neighbourhood unfurled before her, each detail meticulously etched into her memory. The houses, a collection of identical structures, stood in a uniform row, their sameness a reflection of the order that had always defined her existence. Still, each home, though a carbon copy of its neighbour, bore subtle marks of individuality—the way a curtain fluttered, the personalized welcome mats, the flower pots boasting blooms of defiance against conformity.

The American flags stood out boldly, fluttering with a sense of purpose in the gentle morning breeze. Their colours were striking—a deep navy, a crisp white, and a fiery red—that stood in vivid contrast to the expansive blue sky above. They seemed to capture the essence of the neighborhood’s spirit, waving not just as symbols of a nation, but as emblems of the community’s pride and resilience.

The lawns, meticulously cared for, spread out like a patchwork quilt of varying shades of green. Each section of grass was trimmed with precision, the result of countless hours of attentive grooming. The blades stood upright, uniform in their posture as if they were an army of nature’s own making, disciplined and orderly, a green tribute to the structured life that defined this place.

Her home away from home.

From afar, the disciplined beat of morning drills echoed a structured rhythm that sliced through the quiet of the neighbourhood. The sound was a precise pattern of military life—the thud of boots against the earth, the authoritative shout of the drill sergeant cutting through the air, and the sharp, unified replies of the recruits. It was a melody of order and routine, one that unexpectedly tugged at Harper’s memory, surfacing a detail she had long forgotten.

Her gaze wandered to the horizon, resting on the old wooden fence that bordered her childhood world. Time had weathered its once-bright paint, leaving it cracked and peeling, a testament to the years that had passed. The fence, a silent witness to her youthful races, seemed to echo with the sound of her father’s encouraging laughter, a sound that now filled her with an intense yearning for days gone by.

Harper’s gaze shifted, settling on the familiar structure of the house that had always been her anchor. The sight of it, with its sturdy two-story build, evoked a rush of emotions from an unknown reservoir somewhere within her. The porch, once a stage for family gatherings and lazy summer evenings, extended its silent invitation. The old swing, nudged by the invisible hand of the wind, swayed gently, its creaks a whisper of happier times.

The house stood as a monument to an era untouched by grief, a beacon of the innocence and joy that had once filled its rooms. Yet, as Harper tried to grasp the full picture, the details seemed to slip through her fingers like mist. “What was it? What am I missing?” she murmured to herself, a sense of frustration knitting her brows.

She pressed her hand to her forehead, a futile attempt to clear the fog that clouded her recollection. The more she tried to remember, the more elusive the memory became, like a word dancing just beyond the reach of her tongue.

As she stood there, lost in the labyrinth of her own thoughts, a figure began to take form in the periphery of her vision. It emerged from the shadows of the house, initially nothing more than a silhouette framed by the blinding backlight of the sun. But with each step it took towards her, the figure gained definition, transforming into the unmistakable outline of a man whose features were etched into the very fabric of her being. The lines of his face, the set of his shoulders, the familiar way he moved—all coalesced into the image of a person she felt so much love for and, oddly enough…

Loss.

He walked with a purposeful gait, each step a balance between the regimented precision he had learned in uniform and the carefree strides he took through the fields during moments of leisure. His hair, once a monochromatic brown akin to the earthy tones of a well-worn soldier’s boots, now carried the silver threads of wisdom and the passage of time. His eyes, captivating in their hazel depth, shone with the kind of warmth that only years of laughter and shared joy can kindle, softening the otherwise stern demeanour that his military background had sculpted.

His face, etched with lines of fortitude and the subtle signs of life’s trials, spoke of a man who had faced challenges head-on. His jawline, firm and determined, was the kind that inspired confidence and trust, a visual promise of his unwavering strength. Dressed in a jacket that had seen better days, its fabric bearing the creases and fades of countless sunrises, he stood as a testament to their shared history—those early mornings spent in practice and preparation when they felt invincible, ready to take on any challenge that lay ahead.

The sight of him, standing there as if no time had passed, sent a wave of emotions crashing over Harper. Her heart raced, and her breath caught in her throat, leaving her momentarily without words. What was wrong with her today?

“Harper! C’mon, we’ve got trainin’ to do!” His voice, rich and full of life, cut through her reverie, beckoning her with a gesture that was both an invitation and a challenge.

“Dad?” The name fell from her lips like a delicate petal caught in the wind. It was a question, a plea, a hope—all wrapped into one soft exhalation, carried away before she could grasp it again. The sound of it, so frail yet so charged with unknown meaning, hung between them, the first step to a bridge across the chasm of time and memory forming within her mind. Unseen to her still but felt.

His smile unfurled slowly, a warm and steady light that seemed to cast away the shadows of doubt that had gathered in Harper’s mind.
It was more than a mere curve of the lips; it was a silent affirmation, a signal that, in the here and now, this world was right.

“Ya seem a little lost there. Y’sure you’re up to this today?”

Harper's nod was slow, a physical affirmation of her readiness, even as her mind grappled with the surreal perfection of the scene before her. Together, they walked to a part of the field that had been their training ground, a place where her father had once taught her the art of archery. But today, Harper sensed a shift in the air, a change that promised something new, something extraordinary.

She caught sight of a target, far in the distance, obscured by bushes—a challenge that would have been impossible for any ordinary eyes. But not for hers.

“You’re going to help me with my ability?” she asked, the corners of her mouth lifting in anticipation.

Her father's laughter was a familiar melody, a sound that eased the tension from her shoulders. “Ya say that as if we ain’t done this in a spell. C’mon now, Muppet,” he teased, using the affectionate nickname that had always accompanied her as a child but now made her cheeks flush with embarrassment.

“Now remember, Harper, darlin’, it ain’t just ‘bout usin’ y’eyes but also y’instincts.” he continued, his tone shifting to one of gentle instruction. His advice was more than mere words; it was the wisdom of experience. Yet, as Harper listened, a haze clouded her thoughts. Her mind, usually so clear and focused, wavered like a candle flame in the wind. Doubt crept in, whispering that maybe today was not the day for such challenges. But why? They were just having their usual fun, weren't they?

Pushing her doubts aside, Harper shut her eyes, surrendering to the darkness that greeted her only for a moment before reopening them. The world she had been observing earlier became more vibrant, and she inhaled deeply and exhaled, her consciousness seemingly stretching outwards, reaching beyond the confines of her physical form.

Beneath her, the grass was no longer merely a carpet of green; it transformed into an elaborate mosaic, each blade distinct in its shade and shape, contributing to an intricate pattern that only she could fully appreciate. This heightened perception, once a mere figment of her imagination, now pulsed through her with an ease that was both exhilarating and disconcerting. It was as if her senses had been fine-tuned to a frequency that resonated with the very essence of life.

The skill to discern such minute details, to see the world in a way others could not, had matured over time, becoming an integral part of who she was. It was a talent that had once required effort and concentration, but now it flowed through her effortlessly, as natural as breathing, as essential as the heartbeat that drummed a steady rhythm in her chest.

Yet, as comforting as this newfound ease was, it carried with it a whisper of doubt. Had it always been this simple? This seamless integration of her abilities, absent the adrenaline of danger or the pressure of necessity, felt… unfamiliar somehow.

“Good, now give this a try,” her father encouraged, extending the familiar bow towards her. Harper reached out, the touch of the polished wood grounding her as it settled into her palm. The bow felt like an extension of her own body, its surface warm from the sun, and smooth from years of use. She fitted an arrow to the bowstring, feeling the familiar tension as she pulled it back. Her eyes narrowed, the world around her falling away until only the targets remained, their outlines crisp and clear against the backdrop of her heightened senses.

She exhaled slowly, her focus narrowing to the point where instinct and training merged into one. With a confidence born of countless hours of practice, she released the arrow. It cut through the air, a perfect harmony of motion and intention. But the expected thud of the arrow hitting the bullseye never came. Instead, it glanced off the target’s edge, the sound a jarring note that seemed to echo her sudden uncertainty.

Harper’s heart raced, a flicker of doubt clouding her thoughts. This wasn’t the outcome she had anticipated, not with the level of skill she had achieved. Or had she overestimated her abilities? A moment of introspection washed over her. Perhaps it was her pride speaking, suggesting she was infallible.

But no, this was more than just pride. Archery was her craft, her passion, something she had poured her soul into. It was her life’s work, wasn’t it?

Her father’s laughter came easily, a gentle sound that held no trace of criticism. “Looks like someone might need a bit more practice,” he jested.

Harper, however, felt a wave of confusion wash over her. She studied her father’s face, looking for any hint of the strictness she had come to expect, the push for excellence that had always driven her. His easy demeanour seemed out of place. Where was the firm encouragement, the belief in her abilities that had always spurred her to try again, to aim true? The missed shot nagged at her, a simple task made complex by the expectations she had of herself and the abilities she possessed. It should have been easy, second nature, yet here she was, grappling with the reality of her performance and the oddity of her father’s reaction.

The warmth of his hand on her cheek was a gentle contrast to the cool morning air, his touch a silent communication of affection. Harper’s gaze lifted to meet her father’s, finding eyes that radiated kindness and love, a depth of emotion that spoke without words. Yet, the absence of his usual motivational drive left her feeling adrift, yearning for the familiar push that had always propelled her forward.

Harper remained motionless, her feet rooted to the spot as a curious sensation began to manifest. It started as a mere whisper, a tingling at the nape of her neck that seemed as inconsequential as a leaf fluttering to the ground. This gentle prickle slowly wound its way up, settling at the base of her skull with an almost imperceptible presence. It was the kind of sensation one might attribute to a stray lock of hair or the faintest touch of a spider’s web.

Simultaneously, an odd warmth blossomed on her cheek, contrasting sharply with the cool kiss of the morning breeze. It was a localized heat, akin to the flush that follows a slap, yet there was no pain—only a peculiar heat that seemed to radiate from within as if her skin harboured a fragment of sunlight.

Despite the growing oddity of these sensations, Harper summoned a smile, an effort that failed to reach the brilliance it usually held. “I’m fine,” she insisted, “Just… a little disappointed in myself, is all.” The words tasted bitter on her tongue. It was a confession, a small admission of her internal struggle that she offered him—and perhaps a plea for understanding that she directed inwardly as well.

She paused, her gaze drifting away, unfocused, as if to gather the scattered pieces of her resolve. “Maybe today’s not the best for this after all,” she whispered, her voice trailing off into the expanse of her doubts.

Yet, the sensations that had begun as mere curiosities refused to be ignored, intensifying into a persistent ache that throbbed at the base of her skull, a rhythmic drumming that seemed to keep time with her racing heart. Alongside it, a stinging traced its way across her cheek, as if invisible fingers were etching a word into her flesh with a touch both precise and invasive. Harper’s breath caught in her throat, a silent gasp as the discomfort clawed for her attention.

“Let’s head on in then,” her father suggested then, his voice a soothing balm that momentarily dulled the edge of Harper’s unease. “Your mama’s waitin’.”

The thought of her mother, the deep-seated yearning to see her, to be wrapped in the sanctuary of her embrace, exerted a powerful pull on Harper. It was a surge of emotion so potent that it pushed the strange sensations to the periphery of her awareness, rendering them secondary to the anticipation of reunion.

With each step towards the house, the sensations receded further, like shadows retreating before the advancing light of dawn. They became mere echoes, drowned out by the powerful draw of family and the comforting embrace of the familiar. And, as the door swung open and her mother’s voice called out—a voice laden with love and longing—Harper found herself enveloped in its warmth, urging her to step into the fold and abandon the lingering unease that clung to the fringes of her mind.

The odd sensation, that peculiar tug at the edge of her consciousness, was momentarily dismissed, relegated to the furthest corner of her thoughts. And it was there that it became a thread, frayed and solitary, waiting to be pulled.

Realms of Sun & Shadow

_{Interactions: Jonathan-@The Savant}

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Elara’s eyes were sharp, her mind a whirlwind as she observed the tense interplay between Pleiades and Jonathan. Pleiades’ demeanour, marked by an unsettling nonchalance towards the young man’s evident unease, struck a dissonant chord within her. It was one matter to foster a harmonious coexistence with the blight-born, quite another to stand idly by in the face of undue intimidation. As Pleiades’ presence seemed to loom over Jonathan, pushing him both physically and emotionally, Elara felt a surge of protectiveness well up inside her.

She further closed the distance between herself and Jonathan, her steps measured. Her smile was a beacon of solace, warm and unwavering. “Thank you, Jonathan. That’s very helpful information,” she offered, her voice a soft melody of gratitude. She inclined her head in a respectful bow, mirroring his earlier gesture, as he prepared to depart. “I’ll be sure to speak with Mr. Emberani then about the knitting. Take care,” she added, her words a gentle ushering for him to find refuge within the inn.

As Jonathan’s figure retreated, Elara’s gaze lingered on his back for a moment longer before turning back to Pleiades. Her features were set in a composed mask, her stance firm yet devoid of aggression. She parted her lips, ready to voice her disapproval of his earlier behavior, when a boisterous interruption cascaded through the air.

“Good day, friends! I come back with much stuff, is good, VERY GOOD!”

The voice belonged to Ivor, his figure emerging into view with a sled in tow. Elara’s attention shifted, her eyes tracing the contours of the man whose reputation for amiability and assistance had reached her ears long before this moment. Ivor, with his rough-hewn speech and rugged demeanour, exuded a warmth that transcended the coldness of their surroundings. He stood as a living testament to the possibility of peaceful coexistence between humans and the blight-born, his contributions to Dawnhaven’s success undeniable.

Ivor’s laughter rang out, a hearty sound that resonated with genuine joy. It was a laugh that seemed to embody the spirit of camaraderie, and despite her usual reserve, Elara found herself smiling—a subtle, appreciative curl of her lips. She remained a silent observer of the exchange between Ivor, Eris, and Pleiades, content in her role as a spectator to their interaction.

As Pleiades’ silhouette vanished into the snowy dark sky, Elara’s lips settled into a line of contemplation. The light of intervention that had sparked in her eyes dimmed, yielding to the intricate reality of her station. She was the handmaiden to Princess Octavia, a role steeped in silent influence rather than overt command, especially concerning the blight-born. “Fine by me,” she whispered to the wind, her words as much for herself as they were a farewell to the departing figure.

With a soft sigh, Elara turned on her heel, her gait carrying her across the threshold of the inn as she entered it. The warmth that greeted her was a stark contrast to the chill of the outside world, yet it did little to ease the knot of realization that tightened in her chest. In the haste of her interactions, she had neglected to secure a crucial piece of information from Jonathan—the exact whereabouts of Sunni.

The inn’s interior was a tapestry of life and activity, so different from the quiet order of Princess Octavia’s quarters where Elara spent much of her time. She stood momentarily adrift in the sea of patrons, her gaze sweeping over the lively common room where clusters of people engaged in animated conversation. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and the warmth of the hearth, a comforting embrace against the chill that clung to her cloak.

Elara’s thoughts were a rapid current, sifting through the snippets of dialogue she had overheard in passing, each a potential breadcrumb on the path to finding Sunni. Eris’s casual mention of him being in his room was the only lead she had, a slender thread in the simple yet unfamiliar inn she had no reason to navigate before this pressing moment.

Her attention shifted to the staircase, the idea of approaching each door dismissed almost as quickly as it arose; such an intrusion would be improper, not to mention inefficient.

A sidelong glance brought a new challenge into focus as well—the front desk, usually a beacon of guidance, was unattended. The innkeeper, no doubt, was occupied with the myriad tasks that came with managing such a bustling establishment. Elara felt a twinge of frustration but quelled it with the discipline she had honed as a handmaiden.

With a deep breath, she resolved to wait, positioning herself near the desk where she could keep an eye on the comings and goings of the inn’s inhabitants. Patience, she reminded herself, was as much a virtue as action. She took a seat in a corner, observing the flow of people, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone who might assist her further.

"What Did They Do To Us?" - A Mysterious Supernatural Escape RP!!

A

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A’s groan was a low, guttural sound, one that seemed to echo in the stillness of the chamber as VV’s persistent shaking gradually coaxed her back to the harsh realm of reality. Her eyelids fluttered open, a rapid series of blinks attempting to dispel the fog of sleep that clouded her vision. The air was chillingly sterile, each breath she took felt like inhaling tiny needles that danced and pricked at her exposed skin.

The chamber around her was bathed in a pale, artificial light, casting long, ominous shadows that seemed to twist and writhe with a life of their own. The walls were a seamless metallic gray, with panels of obscure instruments blinking intermittently. A’s heart began to race, thumping erratically against her ribcage as a wave of anxiety washed over her. The reality of their predicament was like a bucket of ice water, shocking her system into full alertness.

“I’m awake,” A’s voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, as if the words had to fight their way through the remnants of slumber that still clung to her. She pushed herself into a sitting position, her movements stiff and uncoordinated. It was then that she noticed the faint outline of her hands before her, the once reliable cloak of invisibility that had shrouded her form was now conspicuously absent. Panic fluttered in her chest, a bird trapped in a cage, as she realized that their most valuable asset in evasion had been stripped away.

"Where are we?"

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

^{A Day After That Fateful Reunion}

The sun descended into the horizon, painting the sky with a tapestry of orange and purple hues. Shadows stretched long and thin across the landscape, like dark fingers reaching out from the day’s end. The car, a solitary beacon of movement, hummed along the desolate road, its engine purring in a steady rhythm that punctuated the evening’s silence. Inside, Sierra’s hands were clamped onto the steering wheel, her knuckles bleached to a stark white. Her gaze was fixed on the road ahead, but her mind seemed to be a tumultuous sea, waves of thoughts and emotions crashing within.

Harper sat in the passenger seat, the weight of the silence between them feeling like a tangible presence. It was a silence so dense, so charged, that it seemed as if the mere drop of a pin could shatter it into a thousand pieces. Yet, it was Sierra who shattered the stillness, her voice slicing through the tension to Harper’s quiet relief.

“Circumstantial, huh?” Sierra’s words came out sharp and biting, her tone laced with a bitterness that belied the calm exterior. Her eyes, a fiery reflection of her dyed red locks, flicked towards Harper—a brief, piercing glance that spoke volumes—before returning to the endless stretch of asphalt that lay before them.

“I've been looking into this whole thing for years, Harper. Years,” Sierra confessed, her voice a low murmur. “There are too many things that don't add up. It's not just a hunch—it's a gut feeling backed by evidence.”

“Yea…circumstantial evidence. Easily explained,” Harper countered with a dismissive wave of her hand.

But Sierra was not to be deterred. Her grip on the steering wheel tightened, her knuckles turning an even whiter shade, if that were possible. “Easily explained? Like the anonymous bank transactions to Dad's account? They stopped just before the explosion. Or the sudden spike in Mom’s research funding without any clear source?”

Harper let out a weary sigh, her fingers threading through her hair. “It could have been a grant they didn't tell us about. Or some kind of bonus.”

“And the encrypted messages Dad was sending?” Sierra pressed, her voice rising. “The ones I found on his old laptop, talking about 'keeping them safe' and 'the project being compromised'?”

“Maybe he was being paranoid, seeing threats where there were none,” Harper said, though even she knew her argument sounded weak. “You know how stressed he was towards the end.”

The intensity of Sierra’s gaze snapped back to Harper, her eyes hard and unyielding like flint. “And what about the witness who saw a man in a lab coat leaving the site just before the explosion? The same man who conveniently disappeared right after?” Her questions were relentless, each one chipping away at Harper’s defenses.

Harper’s stomach tightened. She had read the same report once she was old enough to understand everything but had dismissed it, not wanting to delve into what it might mean. “Witnesses can be mistaken. It was dark, and the site was chaotic,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Always an explanation, huh?” Sierra challenged, frustration and sorrow mingled in her tone. “What about the fact that Mom’s lab was under higher security the week before, with records showing unauthorized access? Or the increased insurance policies she took out?”

Harper’s lip caught between her teeth, a sign of her growing anxiety. Where was Sierra even getting all of this from? “She might have been protecting her work. Labs are targeted all the time for industrial espionage,” she offered, clinging to any reasonable justification.

But Sierra was unswayed, her head shaking with the stubbornness that both Baxter sisters, but especially this one, were known for. Her eyes, bright with determination, never left Harper's face. “You can rationalize it all you want, Harper. But you can't deny that too many things don’t make sense. And now we have to find out why,” she declared, her hand slamming against the wheel in a display of raw emotion. The thud echoed in the confined space of the car, causing Harper to jump. “Why are you so damn against this?”

It was a fair question, admittedly. Why was she so against this?

Harper glanced out the window, her mind no longer present in the moment.

A crash in the hallway.
A familiar silhouette.
Large wings, dripping with something dark and wet.
Wild, unfocused eyes.
Her eyes.

A monster.

Her grip tightened on the armrest, her knuckles turning white. She could feel her breath quickening, the old panic rising in her chest. It was only when she felt a warm, steadying pressure on her hand that she was pulled back to the present.

“Harper?” Sierra’s voice, sharp yet tinged with concern, broke through the haze. The car wasn’t in motion anymore, Harper realized then. She turned to see her sister's eyes boring into her, filled with a mix of frustration and worry. “Are you deaf or something?” Sierra's brows furrowed, and she leaned closer. “What are you not telling me?”

Harper took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She looked into Sierra’s eyes, seeing the relentless determination that had always defined her older sister. She hesitated, the words tangled in her throat. How could she explain something she herself barely understood?

“What if…” she began, hesitating while looking away. “What if we find out something about them? Something that affects…us.” The last word was spoken softer, almost a whisper, laden with a personal weight that seemed to anchor her very soul. It was clear that the ‘us’ she referred to was more than just a collective concern; it was a reflection of her own deep-seated fears.

In that moment, Sierra’s features shifted, the hard lines of determination melting into a gentler visage, her eyes filled with an understanding that seemed to transcend words. “Then we’ll do the same thing that I said back then,” she replied, her voice imbued with a quiet strength that seemed to wrap around Harper like a protective shroud. One that Harper had vowed to guard against years before but that she found brought a familiar sense of reprieve now.

“Have each other’s backs… no matter what.”

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_{Location: Southern Plateau - Pacific Royal Campus}

Hope in Hell #2.024: The Apple and the Tree

^{_{_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

_{Interaction(s):Interactions: Lorcán- @Lord Wraith}

Previously: A Poor Imitation

The collision of Harper's fists with Sierra's face sent a jarring vibration up her arms, the sound a sharp crack that split the tension-charged air. It was a momentary victory, a fleeting rush of adrenaline that surged through Harper's veins with the intensity of a storm. Yet, as quickly as it came, the satisfaction evaporated, replaced by a torrential outpour of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her.

Rage—a fiery, all-consuming blaze—ignited within her, its flames licking at the edges of her composure. Harper's eyes, alight with the inferno of her fury, bore into Sierra's with an intensity that could shatter steel. The smirk that marred Sierra's otherwise beautiful features twisted them into a grotesque caricature, a sight so repugnant to Harper that she felt an instinctive urge to erase it from existence.

“Come on now, is that the best you’ve got, baby sister?” Sierra taunted, her voice a venomous hiss that slithered through the air. Her eyes, once a mirror to Harper's soul, now narrowed into malicious slits, a challenge laid bare between them.

With measured, deliberate steps, Harper advanced, her fists still balled in readiness, her entire being vibrating with the effort to cage the tempest raging within. “Do not call me that. You're not my sister,” she growled, her voice a low, dangerous timbre that dripped with loathing and accusation. Each word was a barbed arrow, aimed with precision at the heart of the impostor before her.

Sierra's response was a narrowing of her eyes, a silent transformation into a cornered predator, her survival instincts sharpening her features into a weapon of malice. But their standoff was abruptly shattered by a cacophonous roar, a harbinger of impending doom.

Before Harper could steel herself, before she could even parse the omens of disaster, an unseen force hurtled her forward. The world careened off-kilter, and she was flung further into the hallway, her hands and knees scraping against the cold, unforgiving floor. The door slammed shut behind her with a resounding clang, sealing away the room she had escaped from earlier, now claimed by the insatiable maw of the sea.

As she regained her footing, Harper's eyes met those of her hot-headed teammate, Lorcán. His gaze was sharp, scanning, locking onto hers with an unspoken query. Harper's own eyes darted around, her mind racing to piece together the puzzle of his concern. Then, with a jolt of clarity, it clicked.

Aurora—the name echoed in her mind, a silent alarm. She was gone, her presence conspicuously absent from the chaos that surrounded them. A void where once there was a teammate. An extremely hurt friend.

The realization struck Harper with the staggering force of a physical blow, a gut-wrenching punch that left her momentarily breathless. It was a visceral reaction, her body's instinctive response to possible loss and fear, as potent and paralyzing as any wound she’d ever obtained.

She hadn’t missed it.

This familiar agony, a dark companion she had known all too well. The swirling vortex of pain that had once been her constant, an ever-present ache in the pit of her stomach, a reminder of wounds past and loved ones lost. For years, it had been an unyielding presence, a shadow that followed her every step, until one miraculous day, it had receded, giving way to a fragile peace.

But all she could do now was watch as Lorcán, driven by a fury that seemed to eclipse his own humanity, confronted the clone—a being that wore her sister's face but was devoid of her soul.

As Lorcán's grip tightened and the plasma blade burst into searing life, Harper's initial agonizing shock gave way to a raw, primal fear. The clone's screams, a chilling likeness of Sierra's voice, sliced through the air, piercing the armour of the brunette’s resolve. Instinctively, she looked away, and brought her hands to her ears, a futile attempt to shield herself from the horror of the sound.

Silent anguish swelled within Harper, a scream clawing at the confines of her throat, mirroring the clone’s haunting wails that reverberated through the white corridor. As her eyes reluctantly returned to the grim scene before her, she was met with the sight of the doppelgänger’s brown eyes—a mirror reflecting not just Sierra’s agony but also the depths of Harper’s own helplessness in the given situation.

It was at that moment that Harper thought she understood the true horror of becoming the monster. To witness it, to be a part of it, was a reality she had never wanted to face. Yet here she was, entirely and wholeheartedly entangled in one of her many nightmares.

“She—” The clone spat at Lorcán, her defiance cutting through her pain. “She’s in better hands than yours now.” Her chuckle was a pained rasp, a sound that seemed to mock their desperation. Harper, with some reluctance, drew closer to the two. The smile that stretched across Sierra’s face was one of triumph, even as the stench of cauterized flesh and melted leather filled the air, singeing at the brunette’s nostrils.

Lorcán stood, his powers fading as he turned to her, his expression cold and resolute. “Do what you will with her, I need to find 'Rora,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Harper merely watched him, her heart pounding a fierce rhythm against her ribcage. His words, though spoken to her, seemed to echo down the hallway, reaching out to the very edges of her slowly crumbling world. She knew the weight of his resolve, the unyielding drive that propelled him forward in search of their missing friend. Yet, as she stood there, she felt a different pull—a tug at the very fabric of her being that whispered of a different path.

She could not, would not, let the darkness consume her. The monster she feared—the one that lurked in the shadows of her own potential for violence—remained at bay, held back by the strength of her will and the clarity of her purpose. Harper knew that to succumb to that darkness would be to lose herself entirely, to become the very thing they fought against.

Because that’s why she, Sierra’s clone, was here, wasn’t it? To bring out that potential monster buried deep within her.

With a deep breath, Harper stepped forward, her hand moving to rest on Lorcán’s shoulder but stopping in midair. She withdrew, letting it fall to her side, instead. Probably not a good idea.

“I think…I can track her. It hasn’t been that long since she’s been taken,” she murmured, more to herself than to Lorcán. This was the crux of Harper’s existence after the loss of the best teacher she could have had—the constant questioning of her abilities, the nagging fear that her powers might fail her when she needed them most. Growing up, she had been her own teacher, her own guinea pig, pushing the boundaries of what she could see and how far she could see it. It had been a lonely path, one that had left her with an arsenal of skills and a reservoir of doubt.

Still, she pressed on, her voice steadying as she clung to a thread of hope. “I don’t think…she’ll follow. The clone.”

At least that was the hope. The hope that this was the final act in the torturous play that had been her life for so long. What more could they do to her, to the mind that had been splintered and patched back together more times than she cared to count? Surely this was the end of her personal trial, the last test before the curtain fell.

Realms of Sun & Shadow

_{Interactions: @The Muse Kira;@BOOM Willis}

---

Shrouded in the forest’s embrace, Orion was a spectre in the twilight, his presence as imperceptible as the whisper of leaves in the wind. His Blight-Born nature granted him an affinity with the shadows, allowing him to meld with the darkness seamlessly. The subtle rustle of his movements was drowned out by the natural symphony of the woods, rendering his approach nearly undetectable.

Nearly.

His senses, heightened beyond mortal limits, tuned into the rhythm of Kira’s heart. It was a sound he knew well—the rapid tempo of a Blight-Born’s pulse, quickened by the thrill of the hunt. Her alertness was a beacon to his perception, a clear signal that she might be aware of his proximity. Yet, Orion was not deterred; his own abilities were honed to perfection, a testament to his strategic mind and the rigorous control he maintained over the dark energy coursing through him.

Orion continued to track Kira’s movements with the precision of a seasoned hunter. The sudden halt in her steps and the dilation of her eyes did not escape his notice. The scent of blood, potent and iron-rich, wafted through the air, igniting a primal recognition within him. Still, he remained a shadow, his own eyes a muted glow of crimson, concealed by the dense foliage.

As Kira’s gaze found him—ah, so she had noticed him—a silent exchange passed between them, a question posed without words, a shared understanding of the hunger that gnawed at their kind. Orion’s nostrils flared subtly, acknowledging the scent that had arrested her. The proximity of the blood to the town was indeed troubling, suggesting an event that had eluded the guards’ vigilance.

With a swift motion, Kira brandished a dagger and surged forward. Orion’s instincts urged him to follow, yet he held his position, a testament to his strategic discipline. He was the prince’s shield, bound by duty, but the unfolding situation demanded his attention. The safety of Dawnhaven was paramount, and any threat, be it from a Blight-Born or otherwise, fell under his purview.

Kira’s stealth, though compromised by the blight’s cruel gift, was still formidable. Orion watched as she navigated the terrain, her form a wraith amidst the trees. Her approach to the blood-soaked figure was cautious and measured, revealing her experience and the survival instincts sharpened by her transformation.

The man before her, engrossed in his grisly meal, was an enigma. His attire, saturated with the lifeblood of humans, told a tale of recent violence. Yet, here he was, feasting on the meagre flesh of a squirrel. Orion’s mind raced with possibilities. Was this Blight-Born an outcast, driven to madness by the blight’s insatiable appetite? Or was there another explanation for the scene before them?

Orion’s hand hovered near the hilt of his own weapon, a blade forged from darkness and necessity. He was prepared to intervene, to protect Kira from potential harm, and to preserve the peace of the settlement. His gaze remained fixed on the stranger, ready to decipher his intentions and act should the need arise.

Kira’s stance was one of controlled aggression, her body language speaking volumes more than her words ever could. Her question hung in the air, demanding an answer, yet Orion knew that words were often secondary to the instincts that drove their kind. The stranger’s response, or lack thereof, would determine the next move in this delicate dance of predators.

His brow ticked up in confusion, and perhaps slight amusement, as the man prostrated himself to the red-headed Blight-Born. Was it an appeal to Kira’s mercy, or a move of last resort? Orion understood the futility of violence in this situation; it would only exacerbate the man’s predicament.

As the man, Willis, implored for assistance, his voice tinged with hope, Orion weighed his options. His duty was to protect, but his mission was also one of understanding. The Prince of Aurelia had extended an offer of sanctuary to the Blight-Born, a chance for redemption and peace. Perhaps this man, too, sought refuge from the relentless pursuit that had marked him as prey.

Orion stepped forward then, emerging from the shadows like a wraith materializing from the night. His approach was silent, his presence commanding yet not threatening. “Your plea has been heard,” Orion’s voice was steady, a deep timbre that resonated with authority. “Dawnhaven may offer you sanctuary, but your actions henceforth must reflect your intent for peace. We do not judge solely on past deeds but on the promise of a better path.”

He offered a hand to help Willis to his feet, his crimson eyes locking onto the man’s with an intensity that conveyed both the seriousness of his words and the sincerity of his offer.

And a warning to reconsider any act of betrayal.

"What Did They Do To Us?" - A Mysterious Supernatural Escape RP!!

I'll have something out by the middle of this week :)

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

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_{Location: Southern Plateau - Pacific Royal Campus}

Hope in Hell #2.014: A Poor Imitation

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_{Interaction(s):Interactions: Lorcán- @Lord Wraith; Aurora- @Melissa}

Previously:From Dawn to Dystopia

Calliope…there’s two of her?

Turning her head, Harper gazed at the figure sprawled on the ground, activating her ability just to be sure of what she was seeing.

It was a jarring sight.

The usually impeccable and composed figure she knew to be Calliope…now a dishevelled heap of defeat. This was the woman who, just yesterday, had exuded confidence and defiance, ready to stand up to any formidable obstacle threatening her ambitions. The brunette blinked hard, as if to reset the surreal image, and shifted her focus across the room. There they were, Calliope and Katja, standing side by side, their appearances mirroring the ones she knew so closely it was uncanny.

But upon closer inspection, Harper noticed the subtle discrepancies—the eerily flawless rendering of their faces, the makeup and the grease paint that, ironically, screamed for the very attention Calliope was being mocked for. It was as if the original was a masterpiece of art, while the other was a forgery lacking the essence that made the original so captivating, in the first place. Something vital was missing, an intangible quality that left the images feeling… diminished. But what was it?

Her mind did not dwell on the question for long as she allowed her eyes to revert to normal, however. Because it didn’t matter.

They were all stuck here. They were all going to die here. And it was her fault.

The darkness enveloped her then, suffocating her, a tangible entity that seemed to feast on her distress, wrapping around her like a shroud. Amid this oppressive blackness, Harper felt a sudden jolt—a primal surge of fear that electrified her from head to toe. The environment around her was alive with sounds that were both alien and terrifying. A grating noise, like the scraping of metal on stone, reverberated through the void, setting her teeth on edge. More disturbing, however, was the low, incessant buzzing that permeated the air—a sound that seemed to herald a change, a shift in the very fabric of the simulation they were currently ensnared in.

Then, as abruptly as it had vanished, light returned. The flickering illumination was hesitant at first, as if unsure of its place in this domain of horror and shadows. But it grew stronger, casting light upon the chaos that had befallen the Blackjack team.

They were scattered now.

It was the first detail Harper’s eyes took in as they quickly adjusted to the light. She was not alone, however; Lorcán and Aurora were with her, their presence a small comfort in the vast uncertainty. They found themselves in a classroom—a space that was both familiar in its layout and alien in its details. The room’s door was sealed, a blast door that promised protection and yet also served as a barrier to their freedom.

The classroom was eerily sterile, with polished hardwood floors and rows of empty desks neatly arranged in perfect symmetry. At the front of the room, a chalkboard covered in nonsensical writing loomed, its surface still pristine and untouched. On either side of the room, floor-to-ceiling windows with thick panes of glass displayed the haunting blackness of the ocean outside. The ghostly glow of the underwater lights revealed schools of fish swimming obliviously by, their silhouettes casting eerie shadows against the glass.

The scene brought back memories of everything Haven had previously explained to Harper. The Foundation was situated deep within the ocean, which explained their current predicament of being confined beneath the immense body of water.

The room was suddenly filled with the jarring sound of fracturing glass then, a sinister crack that raced across the wall, cleaving the thick pane with terrifying precision. The noise was a sharp, dreadful harbinger, a sound that seemed to resonate with the finality of their predicament, sending more icy tendrils of fear spiralling down Harper’s spine. In the corner, a red beacon burst to life, pulsing with an urgent, crimson light that washed over their faces in silent alarm, painting the entire scene with a dire urgency.

Yet, amidst the chaos, Harper’s gaze remained transfixed on the expanding fissure. The crack seemed to spread like a spiderweb, a visual echo of her fracturing composure. Despair began to claw at her, a whispering dread that this was the end, and it was her doing.

They were all stuck here. They were all going to die here. And it was her fault.

“There has to be a set of controls on the other side, a way to deactivate the fail-safe. I’ll teleport and unlock the door.” Aurora’s words made a small cut through the fog of Harper’s internal strife, her eyes moving to meet those of her best friend for a moment, then the aforementioned door.

“Okay, that sounds like a good idea. Just...be careful,”she replied, clearly still trapped in her head. Her voice was hesitant, her eyes distant as they rolled from the door, back to the ominous wall of glass slowly succumbing to the pressure of the ocean.

They were all stuck here. They were all going to die here. And it was her fault.

“We don’t have a ton of options here, Lorcán. I’ve got to try.” Aurora’s words were a beacon in the fog of Harper’s thoughts, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of impending doom that clung to her like a second skin. Her eyes drifted over to the two lovebirds once again, watching, almost detached, as Aurora squeezed Lorcán’s hand. She was glad they weren’t paying attention to her gaze despite the inevitable outcome of this place becoming their watery tomb. For if they did, they would see the storm of guilt and fear that raged behind her eyes.

Because they were stuck here. They were all going to die here. And it was her fault.

Then, a moment of hope: “I found the panel! Give me a minute, I—” Aurora’s voice, brimming with excitement, was a lifeline thrown into the churning waters of Harper’s despair. But it was snatched away as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a chilling laugh that seemed to emanate from the shadows themselves. The sound of the impact, though unseen, resonated with Harper, a visceral shockwave that reverberated through her very core.

Lorcán stood frozen at first, his expression a mirror of Harper’s paralysis. His eyes, wide with horror, were locked on the scene unfolding before him, a tableau of despair that echoed the silent scream tearing through the silence of their shared helplessness.

And then Lorcán’s cry of anguish reverberated through the chamber, a raw sound of desperation that seemed to resonate with the very walls. Harper watched, transfixed, as he surged forward, his movements fueled by a cocktail of adrenaline and dread as his fists assaulted the blast door. Flames of plasma wreathed his hands, casting eerie shadows as he struck the door, the metal stubbornly resisting, bearing only the faintest traces of his fiery onslaught.

“Baxter,” she heard his voice shout, her vision still blurred by the weight of her fears, his face just beyond the clarity of sight. “Baxter, brah, whatever is going through your mind, ignore it, let the sea have it. We need you, and we need that big brain of yours.”

Harper’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment with his words, a silent plea in the deep depths of her mind for clarity now.

Her best friend was hurt. Her remaining teammate and friend needed her.

It was all she needed.

When her eyes opened, the world came into sharper focus thanks to her reactivated ability, Lorcán’s earnest tone managing to anchor her to the present and away from the swirling eddy of panic that had threatened to consume her. She inhaled deeply, the room’s frigid air filling her lungs, sterile and sharp, as if the cold itself could slice through the dread that had coiled around her psyche. With each measured exhale, she attempted to release the fear that had ensnared her thoughts.

Yet, as clarity began to seep back into her consciousness, Harper’s analytical mind kicked into overdrive. She grappled with the dissonance between the known and the unknown, the ally and the adversary, as the voice of the man who bore the face of Rory, yet lacked his essence, filled the room.

“Bro, take a chill pill, Borealis is fine. Well, mostly fine.”

The impostor’s voice was a twisted perversion of Rory’s usual warmth, each syllable dripping with venom. This cruel mockery of their friend stood over Aurora’s motionless body, his posture one of contempt rather than concern. The real Rory, the one they knew and trusted, would never exude such malice.

His taunts were like daggers, each word meticulously crafted to cut deep. “Damn, bro, I still can’t believe you haven’t hit that,” he sneered at Lorcán, his tone laced with a toxic blend of scorn and disbelief. Harper’s blood boiled at the disrespect hurled towards Aurora, her fists clenching at her sides as she fought to contain the surge of protective fury that rose within her.

“Multiple times,” the copy added, laughing, his voice now echoing around the room after teleporting inside, a sinister soundtrack to the growing fractures in the window. Harper’s eyes flicked to the glass, noting each new crack with a sinking heart. They were running out of time.

The impostor’s next words were a low blow, a vile suggestion about Lorcán’s feelings for Amma, and an insinuation about Harper herself. Harper’s mind recoiled at the vulgarity, even as Rory’s doppelgänger insinuated a grim fate for them all. “You’re gonna totally die in here,” he declared, his words echoing her earlier fearful thoughts.

But there it was again. Harper wrestled with the elusive sensation that had teased the edges of her consciousness—a persistent inkling that had surfaced earlier, now returning with renewed insistence as she observed the clone. It was a word, a concept, a key piece of understanding that danced tantalizingly close, yet remained stubbornly out of reach.

“Oh, Harps, don’t look at me like that. We both know you’re not a virgin, just trying to make Rothy feel better about being the only one in the room,” the impostor sneered, misunderstanding her focused gaze for discomfort. His mockery, once potent enough to stir a flush of anger in her, now seemed to lose its edge as Harper’s resolve hardened.

“That blast door,” Lorcán whispered urgently near to her, his voice barely audible over the clone’s incessant chatter. “Should have a manual override. The access port likely isn’t obvious to the average pair of eyes but to you…” His words trailed off, but Harper understood. She was the one who could find it, who could see the things others often missed.

The doppelgänger’s voice grew louder, a smug assurance in his tone as he promised not to spoil her apparent secret for Gil. Harper’s jaw clenched; this was no time for games.

The tension in the air was like a tangible force, a pressure that seemed to squeeze the very breath from Harper’s lungs. Then, slicing through the thick atmosphere, a voice—a voice that should have been impossible here—rang out, chilling Harper to her core.

“Heya, Sis,” it called, nonchalant and hauntingly familiar. Harper’s head whipped around, her eyes locking onto the door, where the unthinkable had materialized. Sierra, her sister, stood there with a grip on Aurora’s neck, her presence a surreal and horrifying revelation. Confusion and terror waged war in Harper’s heart, her thoughts now spinning out of control.

This couldn’t be real; it was a deception, a sick joke.

But there she was.

The taunts that spilled from Sierra’s lips, each accompanied by a grotesque pantomime of drowning, struck Harper with the force of a physical assault. They were venomous stings, each word and gesture a deliberate act of cruelty designed to tear at the very fabric of her being. The face of her sister, once the epitome of familial love and a repository of cherished memories, was twisted into a grotesque mask of malice. These were the expressions that had haunted Harper’s nightmares, the dark possibilities she had never allowed herself to truly consider, not about Sierra, the one person who was supposed to be her anchor in a world of uncertainty. Her only remaining blood relative.

“Go!”

The urgency in Lorcán’s voice pierced the tumultuous haze that had clouded Harper’s senses, his command a distant thunderclap against the storm raging in her chest. His figure erupted into a spectacle of fury and light, his fists becoming blurs of incandescent plasma as he unleashed a relentless assault on the impostor Rory. The air crackled with energy, the light from his attacks casting stark, dancing shadows across the walls of the classroom.

“I’ll cover you!” Lorcán’s voice boomed again, a desperate plea that broke through Harper’s inertia. She stood rooted to the spot at first, her body refusing to obey, her mind still a whirlpool of shock and disbelief. The image of Sierra, her sister, the one person who was supposed to be her haven, was now a spectre of betrayal, sneering down at her with cold amusement.

It was a battle within herself, a struggle to marshal the scattered fragments of her will. With a monumental effort, Harper summoned the strength to break the chains of paralysis, to set her limbs in motion, not even bothering to look behind her. She trusted Lorcán. She trusted him to have her back.

Her mind sharpened, laser-focused on the task at hand once she got to the door. She needed to find that override, to turn the tide of their grim fate, even as the sneer on Sierra’s face haunted her, watching her every move, her hand still gripping Aurora’s neck. Her sneer, a twisted caricature of the sisterly smiles Harper remembered, loomed in her peripheral vision, a constant, silent tormentor. It was a look that seemed to revel in her panic, to feast upon her fear.

Yet, Harper steeled herself against the psychological onslaught, her internal monologue a chant of determination. She told herself that Sierra’s presence was just another layer of the simulation’s cruel game, a test of her resolve. If Sierra had truly intended to harm Aurora, to rip her away from their makeshift family, she wouldn’t have hesitated. This realization was a cold comfort, but it was enough for her.

Harper’s eyes began their meticulous descent from the top of the door, where the metal met the ceiling in a perfect, unbroken line. To any casual observer, the door was nothing more than a monolithic slab, devoid of any feature that might suggest a weakness. But Harper’s gaze was anything but casual; it was the scrutiny of a seasoned operative trained to notice the imperceptible. The details of the door’s construction, invisible to the untrained eye, became apparent to her: the micro-grooves that segmented the panels, the almost imperceptible depression signalling an access seam, and the faintest protrusion betraying the presence of the manual override mechanism.

Her fingers, steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins, traced the contours that only she could discern. The outline of a concealed panel, masterfully integrated into the door’s design, was now unmistakable. A latch, minuscule and cunningly disguised, awaited her touch at the panel’s edge. She pressed down, and the panel yielded with a soft, reassuring click, swinging open to unveil the compartment that housed their hope for escape.

Before her lay the manual override—a nexus of gears and switches, each component engineered with precision. The crank, a solid piece of metal designed to counter the door’s automated lock, beckoned her hand. She wrapped her fingers around it, feeling the cold bite of the metal, and began to turn. The mechanism resisted, each turn a battle of wills between her and the door, but she could sense the movement within, the locks retracting one by one.

She then turned her attention to the levers, her acute vision picking out the correct order amidst the complexity. One lever, when pulled, hissed as it released the hydraulic tension. Another, when pushed, clicked as it disengaged the secondary locks. A third, when rotated, whirred as it reset the emergency protocols. Each action caused the door to respond, a symphony of mechanical compliance that sang of progress.

With a final, determined rotation of the crank, Harper felt the mechanism give way. The door, once an immovable barrier, now trembled as the last lock disengaged. It began to slide open with a slow, deliberate motion, as if reluctant to reveal the secrets it guarded. A gust of cool, dry air swept into the room, a welcomed contrast to the stifling, panic-laden atmosphere they had been subjected to. It was a breath of freedom, a sign that they might yet survive this ordeal. Harper stepped back, allowing the door to reveal the path forward, her heart pounding as she came face to face with hers.

Sierra’s fingers, tipped with nails that seemed as sharp as talons, hovered menacingly over Aurora’s pale skin. Harper’s own hand rose instinctively to her mouth, her teeth finding the soft flesh of her lip. The scowl etched across Sierra’s face was a grotesque mask, one that twisted her sister’s features into something unrecognizable, something monstrous. But it was the eyes—the deep brown eyes so like her own hazel ones—that held Harper captive.

Her power. Her curse. Her gift. It was there, in those eyes, a swirling vortex of potential that Harper had always felt was hers alone. Her birthright.

“That’s right. All mine,” Sierra’s voice was a venomous hiss. She knew, somehow she knew, how deeply this revelation would cut Harper, how it would rend the fabric of her reality.

Everything had changed now. If this doppelgänger bore even a fraction of her sister’s cunning, then Harper’s role here was not just as the victim, but as the slow strategist. Her actions, her very thoughts, had to be cloaked in layers of deception, unreadable as the deepest secrets of the ocean they were stuck in.

“Please… put her down,” Harper’s voice broke through the tension, a plea wrapped in the velvet of vulnerability. She despised the tremor she heard in her own words, but it was necessary. Aurora, her friend, her confidant, needed to be safe, needed to be removed from the clutches of this nightmare.

Sierra’s head tilt was deliberate, a theatrical pause as if she were weighing Harper’s words on the scales of her amusement. Then, with a shrug that spoke of indifference to the gravity of the situation, her lips curled into a smirk, a silent, mocking agreement.

“Okay,” Sierra responded, her tone light, flippant as if the life she toyed with was no more significant than a ragdoll. With a careless flick of her wrist, she released Aurora, sending her tumbling to the ground with a thud that echoed like a gunshot in Harper’s ears. Harper’s body tensed, a silent scream lodged in her throat as she watched Aurora’s limp form collide with the unforgiving floor. Her hands instinctively curled into fists behind her back, digging into her palms, the sharp pain a necessary anchor to keep the rising tide of emotions at bay. She needed to stay calm, to cloak her true feelings in a shroud of impassivity, waiting for the opportune moment when Sierra would draw near.

Lifting her gaze to Sierra’s face, Harper’s eyes bore into her sister’s, disbelief etched into her features as a profound realization began to take root deep within her psyche. The bond they shared, woven through the years with threads of shared laughter and tears, joys and sorrows, was too intricate, too deeply rooted to be undone by a single display of hatred, no matter how visceral or terrifying. This bond was a tapestry of their lives, rich and multifaceted, capable of withstanding storms of emotion, including this overwhelming fear that now gripped Harper’s heart at seeing her form standing in front of her.

The sensation that had been nagging at her, elusive and persistent, now crystallized into a word that hovered on the brink of utterance. The Sierra before her, with her sneering countenance, was a mere shadow, an imitation devoid of the shared history and understanding that defined their true relationship.

An incredibly poor imitation.

“You are so…” Harper’s voice was a low growl, her fists uncoiling from behind her back with the swiftness of a viper’s strike, connecting with Sierra’s face in a satisfying impact.

“...fucking ugly.”

Realms of Sun & Shadow

_{Interactions: Pleiades,Jonathan-@The Savant, Eris-@The Muse}

---

Elara’s gaze locked with Pleiades’, his eyes reflecting the luminescent glow of a moonlit night. Her face was the picture of serenity, her nod and smile a silent testament to her grace under the weight of her duties. Pleiades’ otherworldly presence commanded a certain respect, and Elara offered it freely, her acknowledgment as much a recognition of his uniqueness as it was a customary greeting.

Turning her attention to Eris and Sunni, Elara couldn’t help but notice the faltering words of Eris, the way her voice wavered like a leaf caught in a gentle breeze. Her head tilted subtly as if it would help her understand the situation more clearly. Yet, despite the peculiar nature of Eris’s words, Elara’s warm smile never waned, a beacon of reassurance in the uncertain morning. Her face remained a calm sea, betraying none of the whirlpool of thoughts that might have lurked beneath.

Mr. Emberani’s private endeavours, whatever they might be, were relegated to the periphery of Elara’s concerns.

And as for whether she would join them…

Elara stood at a crossroads of duty and curiosity. The young man’s disquiet was as clear to her as the frost patterns on the windowpanes, a silent storm brewing beneath his composed exterior. It manifested not in words, but in the subtle shift of his stance, the fleeting glances, the tightness around his eyes—a language of discomfort that Elara read but could not fully grasp the meaning of.

She stood there, ready to connect the divide with carefully chosen words, aiming to solve the enigma with a delicate question, when she observed the sudden departure of the young man. His exit was swift, a clear indication that whatever troubled him was too overwhelming to deal with openly. Elara's lips parted, but the words dissipated into the fresh morning air, unspoken. Well, it seemed that was the end of it. Perhaps she should just let the matter rest now, shouldn't she?

Elara found herself instinctively moving towards the inn's back door. Her intent was clear, but the door swung open before her fingers could graze the knob, causing her to retract her hand in a swift, reflexive motion. With a slight step to the side to regain her composure, she observed the unfolding scene—a delicate interaction between the young man, who was decidedly not Sunni, and the enigmatic Pleiades. A flicker of doubt crossed her mind as she contemplated her next move. Her previous attempt at mediation had not gone as smoothly as she had hoped, yet something within her knew that inaction was not a good option either.

Gathering her resolve, Elara cleared her throat and stepped forward. “Hello there,” she announced with a confidence that belied her internal hesitation, her gaze on Jonathan all the while. “Perhaps you can be of assistance to me? I assume you’re a little more familiar with the skills of the people here than I am. We’re short on artisans who can knit and sew, you see.”

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

As the first tendrils of dawn stretched across the sky, Harper emerged from her sleeping bag, a gentle yawn parting her lips. The air was alive with the morning’s symphony of songbirds and seabirds, their melodies a natural celebration of the day’s awakening. She paused, allowing herself a moment to bask in the tranquillity, a stark contrast to the impending Trials that she, Calliope, and Mei had meticulously planned for them all. With a cautious glance at the backpack by her side and the still figure of her teammate, she knew she had to tread lightly. The peace was too precious to shatter, especially when she stood on the cusp of capturing the raw emotion of the previous night.

Her fingers wrapped around the sketchpad, grateful for her foresight in packing it. She eased out of the tent, her movements a mere whisper against the canvas. The memory of her intertwined hands with Gil under the moonlight was as clear and poignant as if it had just occurred. The exact moment sleep had overtaken her was a blur, but the resonance of their shared connection was as palpable as the sketchpad she now held. It was a moment that cried out to be eternalized in art, and she was resolute in her mission to do so. The slight chill in the air be damned.

Seeking solitude, Harper nestled into a nook near the campsite, where the ocean’s rhythmic cadence against the shore offered a meditative soundtrack to her creative pursuit. The location wasn't the idyllic sandy beach often depicted in paintings, but it had a raw beauty that spoke to her. Settling down, she felt a wave of calm wash over her, a creative energy that had been simmering within her since the previous night now ready to burst forth. She paused to leaf through her sketchpad, stopping at an old drawing of Gil. His eyes, rendered with such clarity, seemed to gaze back at her, bridging the gap between past impressions and the present moment.



Inhaling deeply, Harper turned a new leaf and commenced her sketch. Her charcoal pencil moved with confidence, each line a whisper of the story unfolding in her mind. She captured the essence of their hands touching, a symbol of shared honesty and a moment that marked the beginning of something new. The moonlight she drew seemed to dance across their fingers, casting a soft glow that spoke of trust and the possibility of deeper understanding. It was a one-sided narrative, true, but it was hers to tell.

As the camp stirred to life, Harper remained ensconced in her drawing, the world’s reawakening a muted backdrop to her concentrated artistry. The clarion call heralding the day’s commencement was but a subdued echo to the concerto of her creativity. She persisted until the sketch reached fruition, a transient moment now eternally captured in monochrome.



With a contented sigh, Harper closed her sketchpad, her secret smile a testament to the personal victory of the morning. She returned to her tent, the sketch tucked safely away, her heart a little lighter. It was time to face the day, armed with the knowledge that she had preserved a piece of the night that had changed her.

Even if it was only a little.

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

_{Location: Southern Plateau - Pacific Royal Campus}

Hope in Hell #2.006: From Dawn to Dystopia

^{_{_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

_{Interaction(s):Interactions: Rory- @webboysurf; Katja- @Zoldyck}

Previously:The Path of Least Resistance

Harper melded into the group just as Jess materialized from the neighbouring campsite, her presence a sudden ripple in the morning routine. Yet, Harper’s gaze was anchored to Katja, the friend she had been eager to connect with since last night. Katja’s dishevelled appearance struck a stark contrast against the backdrop of the bustling camp: her hair was a wild cascade of knots, her face etched with lines of fatigue, and her dark circles stood as a clear testament to a night devoid of rest. This jarring visual of weariness nearly eclipsed the news of Mei’s unexpected departure and the rumours of Haven’s nocturnal escapades with Rory.

Almost. Harper filed away the tidbit about Haven, a mental note for a potentially intriguing dialogue with the winged girl at a later time.

With Tad’s announcements dissolving into the morning air, Harper drifted toward the breakfast queue, her attention flickering back to Katja with the regularity of a lighthouse beam. Her hands moved on autopilot, snagging a muffin and a buttered bagel, her motions as mechanical as her thoughts were organic. She poured herself a cup of tea, the steam rising like the questions in her mind. With her tray laden, she sought out Katja once more, navigating the sea of campers with a navigator’s precision.

“Hey…” Harper’s voice was a soft overture, her smile a practiced sunbeam meant to coax out a mirrored response from Katja as she took the seat opposite hers. “You okay?”

Katja had been amongst the first to join that morning’s breakfast congregation. After all, she had nothing better to do. Sleep wasn’t an option, it hadn’t been for the entire night. Even if it weren’t for the fact that her tent had been ruined by those vicious red sparks, then she still wouldn’t have been able to rest due to the inner turmoil that even now held a spell on her.

She had sat outside for a large part of the night, letting the midnight rain soak her completely as it washed away the blood from earlier in the evening. She had patched herself up with the first aid kit that had luckily survived Amma’s indifferent onslaught and she managed to hide her wounds under a shirt and her jacket. One she almost never wore, but the current situation necessitated such a measure. As night grew into day the stinging in her shoulders became more pronounced, or perhaps it was that she had grown accustomed to her internal torment.

The tray in front of her was only sparsely filled with randomly selected items, all of which remained untouched. The tea had grown cold, the bagel still plain as a slice of cheese sat next to it. She didn’t even like cheese.

Katja initially didn’t react when Harper sat down in front of her. Not even a blink. There only was a blank stare, straight through the brunette. It was only when she spoke that Katja registered her. She met those hazel eyes of hers. And yet she didn’t. For her stare was empty, as if there wasn’t any sentience behind those blue eyes. Just an ice cold vacancy as her mind was clearly somewhere else.

She blinked once. Twice. Thrice. Her subconsciousness was clearly trying to bring her back to the present. It was at the fourth attempt that light came back to her eyes. She inhaled sharply as if she had suddenly been resurrected from an ageless slumber. Her eyes darted around, from Harper, to her plate, to the table and back to Harper again. She realized she had to play it well if she wanted to hide the truth from the brunette, as surely she’d ask questions about what had happened. There was a tiny voice in the back of her mind that told her to come clean. To just tell the truth. After all, what had Amma done to deserve this level of discretion?

But she couldn’t. Not yet. Not now.

One corner of Katja’s lip hesitantly rose into a half-smile before she addressed the girl sitting in front of her. “I’m fine.” She lied. “Just had a rough night, is all. Amma had a nightmare and apparently she loses control of her powers when she does. The entire tent’s been reduced to shreds.”

Mention of those damnable powers brought up the memory of those wicked coils of energy flaying her skin, causing an involuntary roll of her shoulders before she continued. “Anyways, how was your night?” She said with as much interest as she could force from herself. She quickly took a bite out of her bagel, not realizing that it was still plain until it was too late.

Harper’s eyes narrowed with concern as she watched Katja mechanically take a bite of her plain bagel, the dry bread clearly lacking any spread to moisten it. Something was obviously on the other’s mind but perhaps a delicate approach was required here. She recalled how Aurora had recoiled under pressure, and intuition told her that the blonde might respond similarly to a heavy hand.

“You uh, didn’t put anything on your bagel,” Harper pointed out gently. “I can get you some cream cheese or jam if you like. I think I saw some packets on the breakfast table.” She offered a small, reassuring smile, hoping to provide not just condiments but a touch of comfort as well.

Rory’s entrance was quiet, and met with stares from passers-by. The red in his cheeks was finally dimming as he approached Harper and Katja, tray full of every bit of protein he could scrounge up and a thermos full of coffee. His face was washed with dire concern, sporting the athletics t-shirt and shorts. His eyes were narrowed as he studied Katja, and then her tray. He had her words on the way over. He set his tray down as he sat next to Harper, across from Katja. He wasn’t good at subtext, unless it was slapping him in the face obvious. And this was a punch to the gut. He weighed his options. Harper was going good cop.

Rory could do bad cop. He kept his voice hushed, but his words were sharp. ”This isn’t a rough night kind of look, Kruger. You look like Hell. I mean-” Rory emphatically motioned towards her jacket and her tray. ”What’s with the jacket, huh? Or the lack of food? I’ve seen you eat more at half-time of a Hyperball match than this.” Rory reached over, and picked up the cheese, waving the floppy slice to solidify his point. ”You don’t even eat cheese, man!” He took a breath, tossing the slice of cheese onto his plate and scooping up his cup of oatmeal to set on her tray. ”You don’t have to say what’s wrong… but don’t give Legolas here the run-around.”

Katja’s eyes nervously darted from Harper to Rory and back again. They knew she was lying, or at the very least omitting most of the story. But she couldn’t back down either. Too much was at risk. So instead of yielding, she doubled down as she took another bite of that dry bagel before replying to Rory in an irritated tone. “You try sleeping through a storm like that without a roof over your head, Rory! See how well your night goes then!” She tugged at the front of her jacket, careful so as to not accidentally expose any of the bandages wrapped around her shoulders. “I’m wearing this because I’ve been freezing all night!”

“As for my food…” She looked down at the measly scraps that she normally wouldn’t even spare a glance at. “I’ve been here for far longer than the rest of you. It’s obviously my second serving!” She lied again, the volume of her voice gradually increasing as others were now noticeably perking up to listen in. She then noticed her cold tea, which was obvious evidence to the contrary of what she claimed. She reached for the cup after another quick dart of the eyes to both of her team members before chugging it in its entirety. She wasn’t, however, going to contest the cheese. She knew it’d make her retch.

Katja kept staring at the cup as she set it down. Her eyes glazed over momentarily as the cold liquid flowing through her reminded her of the frigid rain mere hours ago. And about what had transpired to take her out there in the open to begin with. She let out a deep sigh before looking back up at her fellow Blackjacks. “Look, I know it looks weird. But with the Foundation knocking on our doors, is it really so hard to believe that Amma could have a nightmare? I mean, it’s not like they have a good reputation.” She knew she was talking rubbish, but hopefully it was plausible enough that they wouldn’t dismiss it out of hand.

Harper's gaze remained fixed on Katja, watching as Katja's fingers clutched her cup, her vacant stare suggesting she was miles away, lost in the tempest of the previous night's events. Whatever it may be, Harper's intuition told her there was a hidden narrative there, a secret pain that Katja was guarding fiercely. The sight of her friend's forced composure, the subtle tension in her shoulders, resonated with the brunette, stirring memories of her own past struggle. She remembered Katja had been her rock then, her steadfast friend in a moment of doubt.

Now, it was Harper's turn to be her anchor in the storm.

As Katja's half-hearted attempt at an explanation dissipated into the morning air, Harper's features softened. “Katja,” she said, her voice a gentle yet firm anchor, “it's completely natural to feel overwhelmed, especially with the Foundation looming over us. But remember, we're more than just a team…we're a family, and we take care of our own, no matter what.” Harper's words were steady and sincere, a verbal embrace meant for one of her dearest friends. She gestured between her and Rory as she continued, “Lean on us, share the burden. Please….”

Rory gave a nod towards Harper, backing her up. He didn't want to believe Katja was lying… but her story wasn't adding up. He took a sip from his thermos, Harper's words resonated a little too close to home. ”If all that happened was your tent got wrecked, you could have woken any of us up for shelter. Same is true if your dorm caught fire, y'know? He paused, lifting up the slice of cheese to take a nibble. He shot Harper a brief glance. There was another elephant to address, given Katja’s state. ”If you're feeling under the weather, Kat, there's no shame in sitting out the Trials this year.”

Katja avoided the pair’s gaze. She knew she couldn’t fool them and anything she’d say to the contrary would only serve to deepen the hole she was digging herself into. At that moment she was tempted to come clean. To tell them everything. Not just of last night, but truly everything. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but no words would follow. Not immediately anyway.

Recalling the night before, it took her a moment before she spoke up. The level barely being that of a whisper. “All I wanted was to be your…”

Her jaw clenched shut, almost by instinct. She could feel it crawling up the back of her spine. That sensation she’d felt earlier. Her entire body tensed, as if on edge, like an animal driven into a corner. Her hand slowly closed into a fist, the stainless steel cup crumpling up as if it were made out of paper. It would not let her speak, not let her cry out for help even if she wanted it so desperately.

Katja finally looked up at her friends, her own expression noticeably hardened from mere seconds ago. She could see it in their eyes. That sickening emotion she hated so much. Pity. They felt pity for her. Pity was for those who could not bear their own cross. Pity was to be reserved for the weak. And she was not weak.

She narrowed her eyes as she met those of her teammates. “If you’ve got something to say,” Katja spoke through gritted teeth, with more of a growl than actual speech, “then say it!”

Harper’s heart clenched as she watched Katja’s struggle, the scene unfolding before her as if stuck in time. The same resistance. The same refusal to be seen as weak.

A familiar ache of guilt and helplessness swirled in her chest, like a weight she couldn't shake. The weight of her memories threatened to suffocate her, leaving Harper feeling stuck and unsure of how to react.

“I’m just… trying to help you,” the brunette finally managed through gritted teeth, her voice trembling with suppressed emotion. She clenched her fists in her lap, fighting the tremor that threatened to betray her own feelings. Her eyes, once locked on Katja’s, now fell away, retreating from the potential storm brewing in her friend’s gaze. She feared what she might find reflected there—anger, rejection, or the haunting echo of disdain.

Rory bit his tongue at Katja’s demand. He knew escalating this was only going to make things worse, as more looks were levied their way. He turned to Harper, hoping she would have the answer to this one. But he recognized the pain she felt. He looked back towards Katja, his own emotions rising. She wanted to know what he really wanted to say? He didn’t understand… he had been clear. Katja was the one who wasn’t making any sense. She was deflecting, like Lorcán had the previous day. She was keeping secrets. Everyone was keeping secrets. At least he came clean, they were already hard enough to read as is. Lashing out at Harper to keep a secret was uncalled for. More uncalled for than Lorc, but at least Rory could take the heat. He hadn’t seen Harper like this before, not in public. Hell, he’d never felt the need to defend her. If anything, he always expected her to be defending him.

Is this why he was so… angry?

It wasn’t just anger… it was determination. He hadn’t busted his ass the day before for Lorc and Kat to fuck things up at the finish line. Kat fumbling the ball in the end zone… the thought of that alone boiled his blood. Whoever was sitting across from him wasn’t the Kat who stood opposite him on the field the past few years. This Kat was lashing out like a hurt animal. The sight of her dug something up deep inside of him. Rory leaned forward, his tone serious. ”Fine, you want my thoughts, Kruger… if you’re sick or injured, you should be riding the bench. If you can’t play your position, the team suffers. It isn’t my fault or Harper’s , it isn’t the team’s. Blame Amma, blame the Foundation, blame yourself for not finding shelter.” Rory’s nostrils flared, his body tense as he met every ounce of Katja’s challenge. His next words matched her growl. ”Don’t make the team suffer, Kruger. Apologize.”

For a brief moment the darkness that clouded Katja’s vision parted as she looked upon Harper. And how she had hurt her. That look in her eyes, she recognized it. For it was her, mere hours ago, who had looked exactly like that at a friend who had wounded her. Why was she like this? Why did she lash out against those who tried to help her? They only meant well.

Just like she had meant well.

But then Rory spoke. She knew he meant well. She knew he was right. But that didn’t matter. Not to that which now held a grip on her mind, on her very soul. Her eyes hardened again as she turned her gaze to the boy she had secretly loved for years. Her blue eyes cold like ice, a slight twitch betraying the tempest of emotions that were raging in her head. He didn’t deserve her fury, none of them did. She knew it, she knew it was unfair to them. Yet she could not stop it. It had its cage broken the night before, and now there was no putting it back in. And the insinuation of her needing to be benched only added fuel to the fire of her rage.

“I…” Katja snarled at him, clenching her jaw like an iron grip. She rose from her seat. She knew she had to stop herself, halt it from escalating even further.

“Am not…” Katja leaned over the table, eyes wide as they fixed on Rory as the corner of her mouth gave off slight twitches at the barely contained anger that she unjustly doled out to her good friend. She had to find a way to cease this. But before she could even act, the final word rolled out in a low, rumbling growl.

“Weak!”

Enough!

In one swift motion, Katja planted her head against the table desk, the plastic breaking apart under the sudden blow. She could feel a sharp piece cut her cheek. It wasn’t a blow that would normally hurt her, but she didn’t use her powers for this act. She couldn’t risk it, not in her current state.

She closed her eyes as she exhaled a slow, shaky breath before finally raising her head back up to face her two friends. The harsh darkness in her eyes was gone, replaced by regret and sorrow. Her gaze slowly shifted from Rory to Harper and back to Rory again. Her vision gradually grew blurry as she could feel that odd sensation of yesterday's return.

With a trembling lip, she looked at the pair before her, uttering only a soft whisper. “I…”

She swallowed before she tried again. “I…”

“I’m sorry.”

As Rory's words yanked her from the depths of her swirling thoughts, Harper’s eyes, now brimming with compassion, focused on Katja. She watched, her mind still moving in slow motion, as her friend's defences finally crumbled. The anger that had once blazed in Katja's eyes had extinguished, replaced by a dawning regret that etched lines of sorrow across her face. Harper had never seen her like this before—it was like witnessing a fragment of Katja’s soul being laid bare, torn apart and exposed to the harsh light of reality.

The sight struck Harper to her core. The familiar ache of guilt and helplessness continued to swirl in her chest, her past refusing to release its hold on her.

But this was not her sister; this was Katja. And Katja needed her. She needed her friends.

Harper wasn’t sure she could honestly handle the responsibility of piecing her friend’s shattered soul back together, her trembling hand over Katja’s betraying this worry. Yet the warmth of the touch was her silent promise of support, regardless.

“We don’t think you’re weak,” she said softly, “In fact…I’ve always thought you were the strongest of us all.”

She could feel the intensity of the moment, the charged air around them as other campers stole glances. But Harper remained focused on Katja, pushing back the tears her eyes wished to shed. Now was not the time nor the place.

“I’m sorry.”

Rory remained motionless, his face frozen in a mixture of rage and pain. He looked down at what remained of the table they were eating at, the food and coffee now strewn about. His mind played catchup, replaying the moments before Katja’s outburst in his head like he was watching tapes after a big game. But it didn’t feel real. It felt like he was watching someone else making the plays. That couldn’t have been him, could it? Katja was hurting… why would he egg her on? Why would he insult her, put her down? Why would he tell her to blame herself? Is that what he thought? Every new thought and question left him feeling more empty and confused… and more frustrated. While Harper and Katja shared a moment, Rory got up and turned away. The stares got to him. His eyes scanned everyone gathered, searching desperately for Haven. But he gave up after only a second. Haven had asked him to help Katja… to cheer her up.

If you can’t play the position…

They weren’t his words, but he had said them. He looked back, briefly, towards Harper and Katja. The sorrow and regret on their faces shot daggers into his chest, though the pain was duller than he expected. It almost felt like he wasn’t… well, Rory. He looked away, down at the mess. His words were soft, but firm. It didn’t even feel like his voice. "I’ll clear this up, It’s my fault. Strings… get her cleaned and patched up. She’s bleeding. We’ve got to get suited up soon.” He knelt down among the broken pieces of table and scattered food and trays, doing what he could to scoop up food onto one of the dented trays so he could throw it away. He paused after a moment, looking up towards Harper. He couldn’t bear to look at Kat, not after what he said. If he did, this would become real. "Swing by my tent… I’ve got some energy drinks and sports drinks in my bag. She’s going to need something in her system.” With his orders set, Rory knelt and continued cleaning up the mess.

Katja turned her hand around in order to give Harper’s own a gentle squeeze. A silent show of appreciation for the calming gesture. She needed it. She took a deep breath after wiping away her tears with her sleeve, collecting herself before finally looking down at the one who had been the undeserving target of her ire.

She gingerly reached down for the back of Rory’s neck, slowly pulling him back to his feet. The exertion caused a painful sting in her shoulder but Katja didn’t show any outwards sign of that, except for a small twitch in the corner of her mouth. Then she leaned in for an embrace with both of her friends, gently squeezing them together in her arms as gently tapped both their foreheads with her own. “Thank you.” She said tenderly. “Thank you, for being there for me.”

“I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

And with that, the trio slowly disentangled, Harper parting ways with them for now. She felt the gravity of their shared experience settle in her chest, a poignant mix of sorrow and solace. It wasn’t until she had taken a few steps towards the first aid kit that the girl realized she had omitted something crucial from the conversation—the matter of Amma. Yet, as Harper glanced back at Katja and Rory, witnessing the fragile peace that had descended upon them, her lips curved into a small, involuntary smile.

Perhaps it was all for the best. She would just have to talk to the raven-haired girl herself.

---

“Alright, you guys put this together, I know you can set a great time, but also try to have fun. For some of you it’s a first run, but for all of you, it’s the last time you’ll get to do this. Savour it, work together and I know you’ll do great.”

Harper nodded firmly at Tad’s words, feeling the weight of the moment settle upon her shoulders. Her eyes swept over her teammates, a sense of pride swelling within her as they all pumped themselves up for what was to come.

Yet, as Harper prepared to join the fray, an unexpected tug pulled her from formation, her expression morphing into one of surprise.

“Sorry, I just remembered Jess gave this to me this morning. You must have dropped this yesterday.” Tad explained handing her student card back to her.

The card had always felt like a tangible piece of her existence at P.R.C.U., typically a constant presence on her. Confusion clouded Harper's thoughts—when had it slipped away? The prospect of almost being sidelined due to a lapse in attention was practically unthinkable.

“Thank you, Tad. I hadn’t noticed it missing,” the brunette expressed sincerely, her brow furrowing slightly as she secured the card more carefully this time. Lingering on the mishap served no purpose either way.

With her card back in place, Harper reclaimed her spot at the queue’s end. She observed her peers vanish into the labyrinth, the verdant walls engulfing them. Before her own entry, she swiped her card, the A.R. suit’s hum enveloping her, igniting a familiar excitement.

“Give ‘em hell, Baxter,”Tad encouraged her, with Harper responding with an assertive thumbs-up and a confident smirk as she finally stepped through.

However, as Harper plunged into the simulation, the scene morphed alarmingly, the once-familiar maze dissolving into a sterile, clinical nightmare. The whispers of “Tiamat” seemed to seep from the very walls, sending a shiver down her spine.

This was nothing like they’d planned.

Harper watched Lorcán’s frustration with a calm, analytical gaze, shaking her head slowly when he glanced over at Calliope and then at her. No, they had not planned this. This would have been poking the proverbial bear that was her raven-haired teammate, who clearly had nothing to do with it either given her reaction. So what then? How could they have-

Harper’s eyes widened, the realization dawning on her. Her card! Whoever was responsible had used her card! The card that she had, somehow, carelessly lost. That’s why they were in any of this mess, to begin with.

Because of her stupid carelessness.

Engulfed in self-reproach, Harper couldn’t even appreciate Lorcán’s emergent command or meet the anticipatory gaze of Haven, whose voice she had heard just as darkness ensued.

Everything that was happening here, that will happen, was her fault.