Qia

Realms of Sun & Shadow

_{Mentions: @c3p-0h Tia}

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The silence of the forest was a living entity, its breath the whispering leaves, its heartbeat the soft steps of Orion Nightingale. The moon, a silent sentinel, cast a silver glow upon his marble-like skin, turning him into a spectre of light and shadow as he moved with purpose through the underbrush. His crimson eyes, glowing like coals smouldering in the dark, scanned the darkness—not with malice, but with a sombre resignation that spoke of a burden carried on broad shoulders.

He had come to feed, to sate the hunger that gnawed at his insides—a hunger for vitality, for life itself. Yet, he would not succumb to the beast many believed him to be. He sought out the creatures of the wild, the unsuspecting fauna that roamed the woods. It was a compromise, a way to survive without sacrificing the principles that tethered him to his fading humanity. A way for him to prove to himself, and to them, that he was not a complete monster.

A rustle to his left caught his attention—a small deer, its coat dappled by moonlight, unaware of the predator in its midst. Orion approached, his heart heavy with the weight of necessity. As he reached out, his hands glowing faintly with a shadowy dark energy, he whispered an apology to the creature. It was a small act, perhaps meaningless to anyone else, but to Orion, it was a necessary ritual of respect, an acknowledgment of the life he was about to disrupt.

The energy flowed like a whisper of wind, the deer collapsed, and Orion’s strength returned. He stepped back, the glow fading from his hands, and looked up at the stars. They were constant, unchanging, a contrast to the turmoil within him—a turmoil he chose not to, simply could not, dwell on tonight.

He had a sick priestess at his home, after all.

With the vitality of the forest’s denizens coursing through his veins, Orion’s stride was purposeful as he traversed the snow-laden paths to Dawnhaven’s marketplace. The full moon, resplendent and unyielding, bathed the world below in a striking luminescence, its rays dancing upon the crystalline snow that swathed the town in tranquillity. The marketplace, once a cacophony of commerce and camaraderie, now whispered the day’s end, with only a handful of stalls still aglow against the encroaching night.

Orion’s quest was one of urgency, for the night was drawing its curtain, and with it, the vendors were sure to close up shop. His crimson gaze swept over the sparse offerings, seeking sustenance fit for Tia, whose magic had left her as fragile as the snowflakes that now adorned the earth below him. The remnants of the day’s trade were meagre; the bounty of Dawnhaven had been all but claimed.

At the lane’s end, a modest stall stood resilient against the hour, an elderly vendor meticulously shrouding his day’s labour beneath a fabric as thick as the snow. Yet, a few loaves lay bare, their golden crusts catching his attention.

“Excuse me,” Orion’s voice broke the hush, a gentle yet firm call to the vendor. “I’m in need of some bread.”

The vendor halted, his gaze lifting to meet Orion’s. A flicker of recognition sparked behind his weathered eyes. “Your face looks…a little familiar,” he mused aloud, his hand idly stroking his chin. “Were you here earlier?”

A moment’s hesitation, then Orion replied, his voice as smooth as the night’s breeze, “No, this is my first visit tonight.”

The vendor nodded, accepting the response as he unveiled the remaining loaves. “Fortune smiles upon you then. These are the last of today’s bake, still fresh and hearty.”

Gratitude warmed Orion more than the bread he now held. With a few coins exchanged and a courteous nod, he secured the loaf, its crust a promise of the comfort it would bring.

“Thank you,” he said, the bread now nestled under his arm like a treasured find. The marketplace was yielding to darkness, the vendors disappearing into the folds of night, but Orion’s side quest was complete. He turned homeward, the bread a hopeful and humble offering for the priestess who was surely awaiting his return.

Realms of Sun & Shadow

_{Mentions: Sunni,Octavia-@The Savant}

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Stepping beyond the threshold of her humble abode, Elara found herself enveloped in the embrace of the night. She was a solitary figure, swathed in a cloak that billowed softly in the gentle breeze. Her eyes lifted to the celestial dance above, where the moon reigned supreme, a silvery orb suspended in the ink-black sky. The stars, scattered across the heavens like a jeweller’s spilled diamonds, twinkled with a light that had traversed the abyss of space to reach her. To say hi perhaps? Or to promise more hopeful days? The woman wasn’t sure.

The full moon, a celestial lantern, poured its luminous essence upon the world below, transforming the snow-blanketed earth into a realm of silver and shadow. The landscape, once familiar in the light of day that had not been seen for some time, now took on an otherworldly charm under the moon’s ghostly glow. Long shadows stretched across the glittering snow, cast by the bare limbs of slumbering trees, and the world was hushed, as if in reverence to the night’s serene beauty.

The air was crisp, a cold that was both biting and invigorating, nipping at Elara’s cheeks and teasing strands of hair from beneath her hood. Yet, she welcomed the chill, for it sliced through the fog of her thoughts, bringing a clarity that the warmth of the fire inside could not offer.

Her gaze remained fixed on the vast expanse above as memories of the day’s encounter with Sunni cascaded through her mind. The replay was vivid, each nuance of his expression, each tremor in his voice, imprinted upon her consciousness. His stress was palpable, a weight she could almost feel pressing upon her own shoulders still. The shift in his demeanour, the subtle softening when he addressed her, stirred a mix of guilt and empathy within her. Had her presence really been that much of a burden to him? Or perhaps, she wondered, a brief respite from his own trials? He had been the one to approach her, after all.

But then hadn’t he also rejected the available offer of taking a break?

Lost in contemplation, Elara’s footsteps began their own silent dialogue with the snow beneath her boots, each step a soft whisper against the winter’s blanket. The village lay wrapped in the embrace of night, its usual bustle surrendered to the quietude of the late hour. Only the faint laughter and chatter of a handful of night owls, perhaps lingering in the warmth of the local tavern, pierced the silence. Occasionally, the timbers of the old houses groaned, a symphony of creaks as they contracted in the frosty air.

In the stillness of the night, Elara found solace in the solitude that enveloped her. It was a sanctuary that granted her the liberty to delicately untangle the complex web of emotions spun throughout the day’s events. Her position as a handmaiden to Princess Octavia was akin to a lone star shining in the vast expanse of court life—a role marked by both honour and isolation. It demanded a dance of discretion and self-preservation, a continuous performance where she juggled the needs of her royal charge with the safeguarding of her own identity. Sunni’s troubled countenance had disrupted the placid waters of her daily existence, sending ripples of introspection across her mind, prompting her to ponder the weight of her presence on those she encountered within the town’s embracing walls and beyond.

It had been some time since Elara had allowed herself to dwell on thoughts of her family.

Her pace decelerated as the cherished memories of her homeland, Lunaris, began to resurface like a long-forgotten melody. Her family had been the bedrock of her existence, their unwavering support and encouragement the pillars upon which she built her life. They had fostered her magical aptitudes with care, rejoicing in her accomplishments, their faith in her abilities unshakable.

Visions of her mother, perpetually immersed in scholarly endeavors or arcane studies, yet always available to share a tender smile and impart sagacious advice, filled her mind. Her father, an embodiment of resolute strength and dignified pride, had been her anchor, offering the serene and steadfast counsel essential for navigating the intricate maze of aristocratic existence. Their absence carved a profound void in her heart, a persistent pang that reminded her of the sacrifices she had embraced in her devotion to Princess Octavia.

Elara’s contemplative gaze drifted upwards, seeking the familiar outline of the princess’s chambers. A subtle furrow of concern creased her features as she observed the darkness that shrouded Octavia’s quarters, the curtains drawn tightly, sealing the room from the nocturnal world. The obscurity hinted at the princess’s slumber or perhaps a wakeful state of deep rumination—a pattern that had become all too familiar. Despite the intimacy her role afforded, a chasm of formality and hierarchy persisted between them, a divide cemented by the very nature of their stations. Yet, if it were within her power, Elara would have endeavored to alleviate any burdens that weighed upon Octavia’s shoulders, with the same fervor and dedication a true friend would offer.

But such bonds were beyond her grasp, a reality she acknowledged with a quiet resignation.

Elara’s hand lingered momentarily on the doorknob that led to the royal cabin, a heavy sigh escaping her before she mustered the resolve to turn it and step inside.

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

A

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A felt a chill run down her spine as the scientist addressed them by their respective designations, her mind racing with the implications of his words. Surgeries? The term alone conjured images of steel tables and blinding lights, of a vulnerability so profound it was dehumanizing. What kind of perverse trials awaited them in the name of science? A’s heart hammered against her ribcage, a frantic drumbeat that was so loud she swore the others could probably hear it. She stole a fleeting look at them, their expressions etched with a fear that seemed to mirror the terror clawing at her own psyche.

They had to find a way out of this nightmare before it was too late.

As the scientist and guards disappeared into the D-class Wing, A cautiously stepped out of the cell, her eyes darting between the other cells lining the hallway. The muffled moaning from cell 2.3 made her hesitate, but it was the haggard face poking out of cell 2.4 that really caught her attention.

A motioned for VV, Pia, and D to follow as she made her way toward the beckoning figure. She approached cautiously, her senses heightened as she prepared for the worst.

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

The motel room was steeped in shadows, a canvas of darkness punctuated only by the feeble glow of a streetlamp outside. Its amber light seeped through the flimsy curtains, casting a ghostly pallor over the room. Harper lay motionless on one of the twin beds, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, a blank screen onto which her anxious thoughts about the impending flight to Canada were projected. She had believed Sierra to be deep in slumber on the adjacent bed, the rhythm of her sister’s breaths a comforting, steady sound in the otherwise silent room.

Unexpectedly, the quiet was pierced by a gentle voice, soft yet clear. “Harper, are you awake?” The words, barely louder than a whisper, seemed to vibrate through the stillness.

Jolted, Harper turned, her eyes finding Sierra’s. In the scarce light, her sister’s eyes were like beacons, luminous orbs in the engulfing darkness. “Yeah,” Harper whispered back, her voice a faint mirror of Sierra’s question. “What’s on your mind?”

Sierra’s posture, usually a fortress of self-assuredness, now seemed to crumble into something more fragile, more human.

Stop being so easily fooled, Harper.

“Why didn’t you tell me about your enhanced vision?” Sierra’s voice, usually so full of conviction, now trembled with a vulnerability that made the air around them feel charged, heavy with emotions that had long been suppressed, now clawing their way to the surface. “Why keep it a secret from me, of all people?”

The question caught Harper off-guard, a curveball that left her scrambling for the right words. It was an unusual sight—Sierra, always so composed and impenetrable, now seemed exposed, her defences down, her soul peeking through the cracks of the facade she’d been putting on since their reunion. “I… I didn’t want you to worry,” Harper faltered, turning her head away in a subtle attempt to hide the sting of pain that crossed her expression. “I didn’t want to be seen as different. But it seems that was inevitable.”

A heavy silence fell upon them, a gulf that seemed to expand with each ticking moment.

Then, gently and with a touch of reluctance, Sierra’s voice pierced the quiet. “But…you are different.” The words were not laced with accusation or tinged with bitterness, as Harper had anticipated. Rather, they were imbued with an indescribable sentiment, one that Harper had never thought to associate with her sister. What was she playing at here?

“After mom and dad died…it was like you closed yourself off from the world.” ​​Sierra’s confession was soft, almost lost amidst the rustle of sheets as she shifted in her bed. “I thought your withdrawal was just a phase, but…you never went back to your old self.”

Harper’s eyes returned to Sierra, widening as they struggled to pierce the murky gloom that filled the motel room. The darkness seemed almost sentient, wrapping itself around Sierra’s figure, blurring her into a spectral shape made of half-tones and hushed secrets. Yet, even veiled by the obscurity, the sincerity in Sierra’s voice painted a vivid portrait of her visage—eyebrows drawn together in concern, the creases of worry etched deeply on her brow as if carved by the weight of her thoughts.

“And then that whole thing happened with your eyes and…it just felt like I’d lost you too.” The pause that followed was filled with an unspoken heaviness, the air thick with the ghosts of memories they both tried to keep at bay. “But who was I supposed to be mad at for that? Dad?” The question hung between them, a rhetorical one, laden with the pain of loss and the bitterness of unresolved anger.

Harper’s reaction was immediate, her brows knitting together in a display of bewilderment. The mention of their father, the insinuation that Sierra had known something more, sent a jolt of confusion through her. “You mean, you knew about him? That he was…” Harper’s voice faltered, the word ‘monster’ echoing in her mind but never reaching her lips, “…different?”

“Sorta…well, no, not exactly.” Sierra’s words were a tightrope walk between conviction and doubt, her voice a veneer of composure over the subtle quiver that betrayed her uncertainty. “It’s more like I found out about other things.”

Harper’s breath hitched, her gray memories of their father suddenly awash with new light, new questions. “What do you mean, ‘other things’?”

The silence that followed was thick with tension, the only sound being their synchronized breathing. Sierra seemed to gather her thoughts, a prelude to revelations that would change everything.

“I mean that I saw him too. The monster.”

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_{Location: Southern Plateau - Pacific Royal Campus}

Hope in Hell #2.043: The Cat Gets the Tongue

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

Previously: Dreaming While Awake

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

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

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

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

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

Blood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet, the nightmare continued to unfold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

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_{Location: Southern Plateau - Pacific Royal Campus}

Hope in Hell #2.036: Dreaming While Awake

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

Previously: Leave the World Behind

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

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

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

So perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, that was until. Until…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where am I?

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

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

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

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

Wake up!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But how….

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

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

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

“I love you.”

Realms of Sun & Shadow

_{Interactions: Sunni-@The Savant}

---

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}

---

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

---

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.”

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

_{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.