Qia

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

I'll try to get a post out sometime this weekend :D

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

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_{Location:Ursus House - Pacific Royal Campus}

Take On Me #3.011: No Expectations, No Pretenses

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_{Interaction(s):Calliope-@PatientBean}

Previously: Submerged

The Ursus dormitory’s corridors lay in a hushed stillness, the usual bustle of underclassmen moving in being absent here. Instead, there was a sense of familiarity, the walls adorned with posters and pictures from years past, each telling a story of the lives that had passed through.

Harper stood outside Calliope's room, clenching and unclenching her fists.

The thought nagged at her: what if the other woman had no interest in even seeing her? They weren’t exactly close. And they had both, most of all, personally worked on the trials for the freshmen before it had been hijacked. Harper feared that her presence might only serve as an unwelcome reminder of a chapter both of them wished to close. Her, desperately.

With a trepidation that felt like a physical weight, Harper raised her hand, her knuckles stopping just shy of the wood, as if even that small distance was a chasm filled with the potential for rejection. The thought that Calliope might have already departed for class, or sought refuge in a quiet corner of the campus—a haven from the prying eyes and whispered judgments—loomed in the brunette’s mind.

Shaking off the uncertainty, Harper's knuckles met the wood with a soft but firm rap. The sound cut through the silence, a clear signal of her presence. She waited, the seconds stretching into an eternity.

If Calliope wasn’t there then she would just…well, she would just….

The brunette’s hands, acting of their own accord, rose to her hoodie to grapple with the absence of hair that had once been a curtain she could hide behind. Her fingers searched for solace in the shortened strands, while her lips found themselves caught between her teeth, an unwitting prisoner to the anxiety that gnawed at her.

Calliope held her phone in her hand. A text message in preparation of being written. She kept typing and deleting.

‘I think we….’
Delete.

‘It’s better if we….’
Delete.

‘I love…’
Delete.

She stared at the screen. Uncertain. Unmoored. The past few days of seeing some of her team really drove home just how broken they were. Even the ones who plastered sunny smiles on their faces, her especially, were troubled. And she played a part in it. That’s what she said to herself.
She wanted to go back to normal but what was normal anymore? Was she to keep living a lie? And would the truth be any better?

Before Calliope could wrack her brain more she heard a knock on her door. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Everyone else had run off in preparation for classes. Banjo was busy. Calliope put her phone down and got up from her bed, making her way to the door. She grabbed the handle with some trepidation and she mentally chastised herself for it. But the school was no longer safe.

She opened it a bit and looked out, seeing a familiar figure. Harper. Unexpected. Not unwelcome. Calliope finished opening the door. She attempted a smile that, as much as she tried, did not reach her eyes. “Harper. What a nice surprise. What can I do for you?” Calliope noticed the hair. Should she ask about it? Should she compliment her on it? Did Harper like it and would be annoyed if she asked? She really wasn’t herself anymore.

Harper, for her part, seemed caught in a dance of discomfort, her body language clearly displaying her nervous energy. Her eyes darted about the room behind the blonde, taking in the distant surroundings before anchoring back on Calliope. “Can I… can I come in for a moment? I need to talk… to you,” she asked.

Calliope noticed the tension and said nothing. It was not her place. Given all they had gone through it made sense Harper would be uncomfortable. After all, Calliope failed her just as much.

She took a step back and opened the door further. “Please, come in.” Calli would allow Harper to set the pace of this meeting, though Calli couldn’t help but wonder what she wanted. And why didn’t she go ask Haven or Aurora, girls who seemed closer to her? Not that Calli disliked Harper. It had to be something important and perhaps…awkward.

Harper stepped over the threshold, her movements deliberate, echoing softly in the stillness of the room. It was as though she were crossing into a sanctum, a place of quiet majesty that was undeniably Calliope’s realm, each detail that surrounded her to the blonde’s exacting standards. Books, their spines a spectrum of academia and literature, were stacked with geometric precision, while writing instruments lay in wait, their points sharp and ready, like loyal subjects prepared to serve at a moment’s notice. The desk was a command center, organized with an efficiency that spoke of planned late nights she was no doubt going to have. Potted plants, green and lush, thrived in the golden wash of sunlight that streamed through the window, their leaves reaching towards the light with a quiet determination that Harper found both comforting and enviable.

Calliope had good taste- a mind that valued structure and beauty in equal measure, which was no surprise to the brunette, really.

She paused, taking a moment to gather her thoughts, her gaze lingering on one or two familiar photos that adorned the walls. Then, with a breath that seemed to carry the weight of her decision, she turned to face Calliope. “I… I need your help,” Harper began. The next words felt like a leap into the unknown. “I don’t know what to do about my hair. Could you… could you cut it for me?”

Harper fought the instinct to retreat into herself, to nibble at her lip as she so often did when uncertainty crept in. She pushed forward, her explanation tumbling out in a rush of words that felt both freeing and terrifying. “I figured…well no it’s just that you’ve…always given me the impression of being good at that kind of…stuff. Like makeup and…stuff.” The words were awkward, a clumsy dance around the truth that she sought not just Calliope’s skill but her care, her touch. This was going well, she thought, a wry smile flickering at the corners of her mouth. Things were severely more awkward than she had intended.

Calliope watched Harper look around her room before finally stating her intention. “You want me to….cut your hair?” She had to admit it was not a question she considered. Harper’s other words hit her though. Calli knew Harper meant it as a compliment and Calliope took it as such.

And yet.

The implication was there. Heavy like a weight in her stomach. YOU are good at this Calliope, surely. YOU look put-together all the time which must mean you are good at fashion and style. That begged the question: What did people think when they looked at her? To some, it seems, she was fashionable and thus, must be good at all things that required an eye for style and flair. And, in a sense, she was.

Never mind that she had to know how to look good because of her father. The expectations that a woman needed to look her best at all times or how else was she expected to attract a mate? Meanwhile, her mother never showed her how to do it with care. There was always an underlying fear to her words when putting on make-up or styling her hair.

Calliope mentally shook it off. Harper was not like this. Harper came to her out of everyone else she knew and that made Calliope special, even if she felt anything but. “I mean, I guess I can. I’ll let you know I have never cut hair before, but I can see what I can do from YouTube tutorials. I don’t want to mess it up though. Are you sure?”

Hazel eyes, usually so full of resolve, now shimmered with a raw desperation. “Yes, I’m sure,” Harper affirmed. “I just… I need to do something. I need to take control of—” The words caught in her throat, a confession half-formed, stifled by a sudden rush of shame. It was the admission of a need to command even the smallest aspect of her life, to hold dominion over something as mundane yet personal as her hair.

She averted her gaze, her fingers betraying how she felt as they toyed with the hem of her hoodie. “I trust you, Calliope,” Harper said simply, and the truth of it resonated in the quiet space between them. It was a trust not extended to herself, for Harper had never ventured beyond the simple routine of trims and self-care, the familiar ritual of washing and nurturing her locks. Her hair had been a constant, requiring no more than the occasional snip and the loving attention she could easily provide.

“I just need it to be…even,” she continued, her voice steadier than she felt. “I’ll figure out what to do with the rest of it later.”

It didn’t take a genius to put this together. Clearly, Harper was going through something. A deep turmoil only her mind knew. And wasn’t Calli going through something similar? Granted Calli didn’t want to cut her hair. But Harper did.

“Okay, okay. I can make it even. I don’t have salon scissors though so it will have to be regular-duty ones. Do you…want something to read while I cut?” God, she felt so weird about this. Harper was placing her trust in Calli and that was no small feat. Calli wanted to do a good job. She needed to. She didn’t want to be the one to damage Harper’s hair even more. “I have some classic stuff, probably a mystery or two if you want. Or we can….talk while I work? We haven’t really caught up since…you know.”

Harper’s lips curved into a tentative smile, a silent acknowledgment of the care Calliope was extending towards her. “Talking would be nice,” she murmured, her voice soft but sincere. She eased herself into the chair Calliope had pulled out, feeling the solid support beneath her as a small but necessary comfort. As she settled in, her eyes caught the gleam of the scissors resting on the desk. A shadow of apprehension flickered across her features, but she quickly pushed her doubts aside. She had said she trusted Calliope, and she meant it.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just… better,” Harper reassured, her words meant as much for herself as for Calliope. She needed to hear it, to remind herself that perfection was not the goal—improvement was. The simple act of asking for help, of allowing someone else to take control, was a step towards reclaiming a part of herself that felt lost.

Calliope grabbed the scissors and stood and stared for a moment. She looked at Harper’s hair to determine where to start. As soon as she was somewhat assured, she picked up a piece of hair and snipped, allowing the strand to fall to the ground. She’d have to clean it up before her roommate returned.

“So, how are you doing?” A simple question loaded with ticking time bombs. Because how else would she feel after what happened? But Calli didn’t want to push or press. She, herself, wasn’t quite ready to talk about it. Hell, Banjo barely knew what her thoughts were.

Calli glanced at her phone again. Then back to cutting.

Harper felt the tension in the room, a palpable undercurrent of unspoken understanding that they were both navigating a minefield of memories and emotions. She glanced at Calliope in the mirror, who was momentarily distracted by her phone, its screen dark and devoid of notifications. Was she expecting someone? Or perhaps her thoughts were drifting to someone she wished would reach out? Should she dare ask her any of this? It was none of her business, after all.

Taking a deep breath, Harper decided to simply answer Calliope’s question instead once the girl resumed her task. “I’m… managing,” she said, her voice steady but soft, “It’s been hard, you know? Trying to find a new normal after everything.” She paused, her eyes following the path of another lock of hair as it drifted to the floor. “But I’m trying to take it one day at a time.”

Harper watched Calliope in the mirror then, noting the concentration etched on her teammate’s face. The way Calliope’s brow furrowed slightly as she worked, the careful precision of her movements—it was clear that she was putting her heart into this small act of kindness. The brunette felt a surge of gratitude, mixed with a pang of guilt for burdening her with her troubles. Because surely she had some of her own.

“How about…you?” Harper ventured, her voice tentative. It was a simple question, but she knew it carried the weight of everything unsaid between them. She hoped it would open a door, even just a crack, to understanding what Calliope was going through.

Calli glanced back at her phone when Harper asked how she was. What could she say? The normal response was “fine” and then you moved on from the conversation. How could she say she felt equal parts guilt and anger over the Trials? “Same here. Managing, trying not to let it drive me insane. You know, typical college shenanigans.” Her attempt at humor drew her mind back to Banjo.

She continued to clip hair after hair, doing her best to even it out enough that Harper was happy or at least content with her work. “I haven’t spoken to anyone really after it all went down. Except for Banjo, of course, but that goes without saying. You’re the first I’ve interacted with since….since we got out.” An opening, perhaps. A way to talk about it without talking about it.

Harper felt a pang of empathy. She knew firsthand how isolating it could be to carry the weight of memories like that alone. But at least…the blonde wasn’t alone in this. Not in the same way Harper was.

“I get that,” she said quietly. “It’s hard to know what to say or…who to say it to.” She watched Calliope’s reflection in the mirror, continuing to note the way her friend’s hands moved with steady precision, even as her eyes betrayed a flicker of whatever was going on in that head of hers.

“Banjo really has been good to you…hasn’t he?” Harper continued, her tone light but laced with genuine curiosity. She wanted to keep the conversation meaningful without delving too deeply into the painful memories that lay just beneath the surface, waiting for their moment to rise and burst the bubble of geniality around them. “I’m glad you have someone like that.” She paused, considering her next words carefully. “I guess we all need someone to help us through times like this.”

And it wasn’t to say that Harper didn’t have that. She had Aurora, or Haven, or even Katja. Yet somehow…somehow she found herself drifting back into her old habits. Habits of complete silence, of shouldering her burdens alone, of not wanting to impose her invisible wounds on those she cared about. The trials had brought up things, memories, of the countless times she had retreated into herself, hiding her pain behind a facade of strength. It was easier that way, or so she had convinced herself.

But maybe with Calliope, it could be different. With Calli…she had nothing much to lose. There were no expectations to meet, no image to uphold. It was a selfish thought, but it was nothing untrue.

Harper felt a strange sense of liberation in that realization.

Calliope smiled softly knowing how lucky she was to have someone like Banjo there for her. And yet she couldn’t hide the guilt. Her inner voice echoed in her mind. “Yeah, he’s great. He’s been a rock through this.” Calliope knew better though. There were things left unsaid. Moments where there was still love, there would always be love, but also those little bits in between that went unacknowledged. Sometimes those were the most dangerous. Big things can be worked through. Little things had a habit of slipping through the cracks and causing more damage.

But even then she knew she loved Banjo. That wouldn’t stop. “So, anyone in your life like that? Weren’t you talking to someone the night before the Trials?” Calli seemed to recall though her mind was elsewhere that night.

Harper hesitated, the question stirring memories she had honestly almost forgotten with everything that had happened this week.

“Err, yeah,” she started, the words slowly forming in her mind as she tried to articulate her thoughts. “But it’s not like… that.” She trailed off, unsure of how to explain what she herself wasn’t entirely clear on. What did she mean by “that”? She decided to stick with what she did know.

“It was Cass, Lorcán’s cousin, I think?” Harper continued, her voice gaining a bit more confidence. “We were just talking about some stuff and…” She paused, the uncertainty creeping back in. Should she mention the next part? Would it even matter? But then again, Calliope would find out eventually once the dance came around.

“He sorta asked me to go with him to the dance,” Harper admitted, her tone casual but with an underlying hint of uncertainty. “And I figured… why not?” She shrugged, trying to downplay the significance of it all. Because, in the grand scheme of things, none of it seemed to matter that much anymore. The dance. Getting a date for it. All those things that once felt so important now seemed trivial compared to everything else they had been through.

Harper snorted aloud, a sound that was part amusement, part frustration. “I wish that had been the biggest thing to worry about this week. Who would have thought, you know?”

Calliope could agree. In retrospect, the dance seemed silly now. Yet, she was still in charge of setting it up. She couldn’t tell them that it worried her that the dance would be taken over like the Trials. She wanted to ensure people forgot what happened.

“Well, maybe it’s a good thing. My therapist reminded me that life goes on even if bad things happen. Perhaps a night at the dance with a cute boy would do you some good. Plus, I am willing to bet he is going to love your new look.” She snipped off the last piece before she put the scissors down. “Tell me how that looks. Need me to do any more?”

Harper looked at the mirror, her eyes scanning her reflection. The new haircut was…different. A big change. So different from what she’d looked like before. And while it was in a much better state than how her sister’s clone had left it, the sight of her new look sent a jolt through her. The uneven, jagged edges were gone, replaced by a more uniform cut.

But it still felt foreign.

Like she was staring at a complete stranger.

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Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

Her world was an expanse of unrelenting darkness, a void where even the faintest glimmer of light dared not venture. Suspended in this nothingness, she stood motionless, her hands outstretched before her, seeking the warmth of visibility but finding none. Her eyes, wide open in a futile defiance, perceived nothing but the enveloping black. A silent scream began to echo within her, a crescendo of panic that filled the vast emptiness cradling her isolated existence.

Breathing shallowly, her whispers seemed loud in the silence that stretched on without end. The stillness was absolute, a canvas awaiting a stroke of sound. And then, it came—a whisper, soft and fleeting, like the touch of a ghost against her skin.

"Har-r-per."

A lullaby woven from memories of safety and warmth. It was unmistakably her mother's voice, yet it bore the weight of distance, a haunting reverberation from a place unseen.

"Harper, where… are…. you?" Another voice joined, this one heavy with concern, her father's voice reaching out from the depths of the shadows, a beacon of worry tinged with a longing that spoke of unspoken fears.

A single tear, born of uncertainty and fear, traced a path down her cheek as she reached blindly into the abyss, her fingers grasping at the thick air. A shiver travelled down her spine, a silent omen of the dread that was beginning to take hold. She turned slowly, her movements hesitant, as she sought the sources of the voices that seemed to call to her from beyond the veil.

"Help… me," came a fragile plea, quivering with the vulnerability of a soul laid bare. It was Sierra's voice, a tremulous whisper that seemed to trail from a place just out of reach.

They were all out of reach. Unseen.

With a sudden jerk, she turned, hoping to pierce the darkness that clung to her like a second skin. The voices wove a complex web around her, a symphony of sound that beckoned her deeper into the enigma of the unknown. She took a step, then another, each footfall sinking into a ground that grew increasingly yielding, threatening to swallow her whole.

The chill of water caressed her ankles now, a jarring intrusion in the blindness that had become her reality. She looked down instinctively, her gaze desperate to penetrate the darkness, but it revealed nothing but the night itself. The water, a silent and insidious predator, continued its steady ascent, now claiming her knees, then her waist, as the voices around her swelled into a chorus of despair.

"Harper, don't… leave…. us," her mother's voice broke.

"We… need… you," her father's voice wove into the lament, each syllable a pulse of raw pain.

The water now cradled her chest, an icy embrace that advanced without mercy. She struggled for air, her lungs straining against the relentless tide. She gasped, and choked, the water's bitter chill invading her being, a flood of despair.

"Help...me," Sierra's voice was now a fading spectre, a distant echo being swallowed by the all-consuming void.

Her attempt to cry out was a silent struggle, her voice lost to the waters that now enveloped her completely, pulling her down into the abyss. She was descending, drowning in the depths of her own fear, the darkness constricting around her like a shroud. As her consciousness began to wane, the plea for help was the last tether to a world slipping away.

Help me.

Harper's body catapulted into consciousness, her senses on high alert as she gasped for breath. Her lungs clamoured for air, each inhalation a battle against the invisible remnants of her nightmare that seemed to cling to her very soul. A sheen of sweat blanketed her skin, the visceral terror that had gripped her in the throes of the dream ever so slowly ebbing away. Her eyes, wide with the echo of that fear, darted frantically across the room, which emerged gradually from the shadows, bathed in the silver light of the moon that crept through the window's parting.

The clock on her bedside table blinked a bright, unyielding red—3:07 AM. The night was still in its infancy, and yet, Harper felt as though she had been thrust prematurely into the waking world, robbed of the solace that sleep was meant to provide.

"It was just a nightmare," she whispered to herself, the words a feeble shield against the pounding of her heart. The dream had been a tapestry of darkness and despair, woven with threads of pain and fear so tangible that they seemed to transcend the boundary between dream and reality. The sensation of drowning, of being pulled inexorably into an abyss, clung to her with a persistence that was almost tangible.

Just like before.

But she wasn’t there anymore.

Right?

With trembling hands, Harper drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, seeking comfort in the cocoon of her own embrace. She rocked gently, a silent lullaby to soothe the remnants of dread that enveloped her like a shroud. The room was silent, save for the cadence of her laboured breathing, which gradually slowed as she focused on the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest—a metronome guiding her back to the calm shores of reality. Her true reality. She hoped.

The familiar contours of her room took shape in the dim light—the stack of books on her nightstand, the soft drape of the curtains, the gentle outline of her desk in the corner. Each detail was a lifeline, pulling her further from the edge of panic, anchoring her in the here and now.

Yet still, she knew she needed to escape. To find solace in the open expanse of the night once again. What else was she to do?

She reached out, her fingers brushing against the cool surface of her father's sketchbook that lay on the bedside table. The leather cover was worn, the edges frayed from years of use, but to Harper, it was a lifeline. She hadn't found the will to add to her own sketches since the morning of the trial, the images too raw, the emotions too near the surface. But her father's sketchbook was different; it was a connection to a past that felt both distant and comforting, a reminder of times when life was simpler, less fraught with the shadows that now seemed to follow her.

Clutching the sketchbook to her chest, Harper rose from her bed, her movements deliberate and silent. She reached for the well-worn black hoodie draped over her desk chair, its fabric soft from countless washes, and pulled it over her head. The familiar scent of laundry detergent clung to it, a small comfort in the sea of her disquiet. With a deep breath, she approached the door to her bedroom. Her hand rested on the knob for a moment, gathering resolve, before she pushed it open. The hinges gave a faint whisper, a secret shared between the door and its frame, as she slipped through the gap.

The main area of the dormitory was shrouded in shadows, the quiet of early morning hanging heavy in the air. Harper paused, letting the silence envelop her, a brief respite from the echoes of her own thoughts. She felt the plush carpet beneath her feet as she began to move, each step deliberate and soft, a silent dance that carried her away from the room that had become a prison of memories in the last two days.

As Harper emerged from the confines of the dormitory, the night wrapped around her like a comforting shawl. The air was crisp, with a gentle chill that kissed her cheeks and played with the loose strands of her hair.

The parts that remained. The pieces of herself that hadn't been forcibly taken from her.

She slowly made her way to the beach that lay a stone's throw from the school. The moon hung low, a silver orb casting a shimmering path across the water's surface. The rhythmic sound of the waves rolling onto the shore was soothing, each ebb and flow a peaceful sound to her ears.

She wandered along the edge of the water, her footsteps leaving fleeting impressions in the wet sand, until she found a secluded nook, sheltered by the craggy embrace of an ancient rock. There, she nestled into the sand, its cool grains conforming to her form, and she opened the sketchbook—a portal to a world crafted by her father's hand.

The pages were a gallery of his soul, each drawing a silent narrative captured in lines and shadows. Harper traced the contours of the sketches, her touch a bridge across time and space, connecting her to the man whose essence lived on through these strokes of charcoal and ink. The images were a mosaic of memories, each one a snapshot of life's fleeting joys—before the trials that had upended her world, before the nightmares that now haunted her sleep.

Yet, this night, the solace that her father's art usually provided seemed just beyond her grasp. The comfort she sought was muffled by the din of grief and fear that weighed upon her heart, a heavy shroud that threatened to pull her under, much like the relentless tide in her dreams.

Time seemed to stand still as Harper sat there, her gaze lost in the vastness of the ocean now. The constellations above were stories written in the stars, tales of heroes and monsters, of love and loss. She sought their wisdom, their eternal calm, as the tumult within her continued to wage its silent war.

Help me.

---

Harper’s return to the dormitory was like stepping back into a world that was both intimately familiar and strangely alien. The silence enveloped her, a tangible presence that seemed to press against her skin. She moved through the room, her steps careful and measured, avoiding the mirror by the door as if it were an omen. Its surface, a reflective pool of truths she wasn’t ready to face, remained unchallenged in the corner of her vision.

Her attention was drawn inexorably to the dresser, where her lifeline to the outside world—a smartphone—lay dormant. Its screen, a rectangle of faint light in the shadowed room, beckoned. Harper approached, her hand outstretched, the coolness of the wood beneath her fingers grounding her. She picked up the phone, its weight familiar and reassuring in her palm.

With a practiced motion, she unlocked the phone. The screen came to life, casting a soft glow that painted her features brightly against the darkness. Her thumb hovered, a hesitant bird over the list of contacts, each name a chapter of her life. But there was only one name that mattered now, the one marked with a dire warning: For Emergencies Only. I mean it, Rat!

Her heart thudded in her chest, a drumbeat of hesitation, but the urgency of the moment propelled her forward. She pressed the call button, her breath catching as the phone began to ring. Once, twice, the sound seemed to fill the room, a countdown to a conversation she both dreaded and needed. But not like this.

Then, connection.

A voice began to emerge, a prelude to admonishment, but Harper cut through it with the urgency of her plea.

"I need to see you," Harper interjected, her voice a raw whisper of vulnerability. The words hung in the air, a plea and a command all at once, carrying with them the weight of unspoken fears and the hope for understanding.

Silence stretched on the line, a pause that felt like an eternity. Harper’s breath was a hostage in her lungs, her entire being poised on the edge of anticipation, yearning for a sign that she was not alone.

The response, when it came, was not words, but a sigh—a heavy, laden exhalation that spoke volumes before the line abruptly went dead.

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_{Location: Strigidae House - Pacific Royal Campus}

Take On Me #3.005:Submerged

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_{Interaction(s):I'm at a payphone, trying to call home, all of my change I spent on you}

Previously: Livin' on a Wing

There was no way she could do this.

Harper remained motionless, cocooned in her bed, as the first rays of dawn crept through the gaps in the curtains, casting a soft, diffused light across the room. The world outside was waking up; the distant sounds of doors opening and closing, the muffled footsteps of early risers, and the faint voices of her dorm mates starting their day were sounds of normalcy that she now felt disconnected from.

The ceiling above offered no comfort, just a blank canvas where the shadows of her thoughts played out in endless loops. Today marked the beginning of a new term, a return to routines and expectations, to lectures and exams, but for Harper, it was a threshold she felt paralyzed to cross. The very idea of stepping out into the hallways, of mingling with her peers, sent a wave of dread crashing over her, leaving her breathless.

She sat up slowly, her movements languid, as if moving through water. Her fingers, trembling slightly, traced the contours of the scars that marred her face—delicate lines that told a story she wasn't ready to share. The healers had woven their magic, mending what they could, but some wounds were beyond the reach of special abilities. They lingered on her skin, a map of her ordeal, a reminder of the trial that had stripped her of her fragile invincibility.

Harper's reflection was a stranger to her now, the dishevelled hair framing her face like the chaotic thoughts that tangled her mind. Each unevenly cut lock fell without grace, a great contrast to the meticulous, sleek style she had once crafted with such care and that had helped form her reputation since attending P.R.C.U. The difference was not just noticeable—it was a chasm, a departure from the Harper who had walked the halls with an air of untouchable grace.

Now, she felt as wild and unruly on the outside as the animal the trials had almost freed on the inside.

She exhaled deeply, the sound heavy with the weight of realization. Her knees came up to meet her chest, and her arms wrapped around them, forming a barrier between her and the world. Confidence had been her signature, the armour that she wore with pride, but the trials had left it battered and tarnished. Now, she felt as if she were standing on a battlefield, defenceless, her shield in ruins at her feet.

The relentless ticking of the clock was a cruel reminder of time's indifference to her failing pride. 7:45 AM—the numbers glared at her, each tick a nudge, a push toward a reality she wasn't prepared to face. The world outside her door beckoned, a river of students already flowing toward the day's promises and responsibilities. But Harper remained still, a stone in the current, her anxiety an anchor that held her fast.

Her friends, her dear Haven with eyes that had seen too much, they would be waiting, expecting her to emerge, ready to face the day. They had shared their own trials, each carrying their own scars, visible or not.

But the thought of stepping out, of meeting the gazes of those who knew nothing of her pain, was a wall she couldn't scale. Judgment, pity, revulsion—these were the ghosts that haunted her, the ghosts that whispered doubts and fears.

"I can't do this," she admitted to the walls, to the ceiling, to the silent witnesses of her unravelling. The resolve to change, to metamorphose into the person she aspired to be, flickered within her—a lone spark in the oppressive gloom of her doubts. But the path to transformation was shrouded in mist, the steps to reclaiming the scattered fragments of her identity obscured and daunting.

How could she gather the pieces of herself, the shards of confidence and self-assuredness that had once defined her? They seemed like relics of a bygone era, remnants of a persona that had been shattered by the recent trials and tribulations. The chasm between who she was in this moment and who she needed to become felt insurmountable.

It was then that a previously insignificant memory surfaced, unbidden but clear—a teammate, a friend who had once revealed her own struggle with self-image to them all. Not by choice…but.

Harper found she could relate to it, to her, now especially.

With her relentless pursuit of perfection that could never be attained.

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

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_{Location: Southern Plateau - Pacific Royal Campus}

Hope in Hell #2.057: Livin' on a Wing

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_{Interaction(s): Haven (hey gurl heyyyyy)@Skai}

Previously: The Cat Gets the Tongue

The weight of Harper’s injuries made each step a monumental effort.

Her legs, once firm and agile, now quivered like frail saplings in a storm, barely able to bear the weight of her battered body. She trudged through the desolate hallways, the silence around her so profound it felt like a tangible shroud, smothering any hope of life or rescue.

The artificial light, sterile and unforgiving, cast an unflattering glow over the scene where she was, unfortunately, the sole character. It was as if the light itself was an interrogator, exposing every tear of her AR suit and every streak of blood that defiled her once pristine skin. The walls, observers of her plight, stood lined with glass-fronted study rooms that bore witness to countless hours of scholarly pursuit, now just empty chambers echoing with the ghosts of academia.

Driven by fear and determination, she continued to navigate the mazelike corridors, her mind clinging to the faint hope of encountering another soul. Surely, in this expanse of isolation, there must be another living being? A friend, preferably. Surely, the fickle hands of fate must turn in her favour once more? The young girl did not think she could fight someone else in her state and live another day. Not this time.

Her fingers, smeared with the crimson evidence of her ordeal, clung to the cool glass for support, leaving behind a macabre trail as her vision blurred and danced with the threat of unconsciousness. The only sounds that dared to break the oppressive silence were the ragged symphony of her breathing and the morbid percussion of her blood, drop by drop, staining the pristine tiles beneath her feet.

The lights above began to sputter like dying stars, yet Harper, perched precariously on the brink of shock, scarcely noticed it. Instead, she fought against her body’s attempt to succumb to an encroaching darkness, a creeping void threatening to swallow her whole.

“Keep moving,” she murmured, the words a fragile lifeline in the engulfing darkness. With each push against the solid reality of a doorframe, she willed her body forward, grimacing as pain lanced through her. But the agony was a mere echo compared to the thunderous call of duty that resonated within her—Aurora needed her. She needed help. And she was somewhere in here. This singular thought, this unwavering purpose, was the beacon that guided her through her suffering.

As she rounded a corner, Harper’s balance faltered, her body teetering on the brink of collapse. The corridor stretched endlessly before her, a gauntlet of flickering lights that cast long, haunting shadows as if the very darkness was reaching out to claim her. Each step was a declaration of war against the rebellion of her own flesh and bone, her spirit the general commanding her to persevere. It was a reliance on sheer willpower she had summoned many times before, but never under such dire circumstances, never while waging a simultaneous battle against the betrayal of her own wounded form.

At long last, the end of her torturous journey came into view—a set of double doors, slightly parted, as if in invitation or warning. Beyond lay a room shrouded in shadows, its contents obscured and ominous. Harper’s heart hammered against her ribs, a drumroll of anticipation and dread, as she mustered the strength to push the doors wide. Her gaze, sharpened by adrenaline, immediately found the still, supine figure on the unforgiving floor.

“Rora?” she managed, her voice filled with some hope. It was only when she really started to take in what- or rather who- she was seeing that Harper practically bolted forward, ignoring the pain that shot through her as a result. She knelt beside Haven, her hands shaking as she reached out. She hesitated, the blood on her own hands briefly reminding her of her earlier ordeal. She wanted to touch Haven, to shake her awake, but fear of causing more harm stayed her hand.

Compelled by desperation and tenderness, Harper leaned in, her whisper a fervent plea against the silence.“Haven, please, wake up. It’s me, Harper. We need to get out of here.” Her voice, laced with urgency, seemed to dissipate into the void, met with nothing but the stillness of the unresponsive form before her.

Harper’s eyes roved over Haven’s form, searching for any signs of further injury. The uplinks lay discarded on either side of her head, a possible clue to what had happened. Harper carefully moved one of them aside, her fingers brushing against Haven’s temple in the process.

“Haven, I’m here,” she murmured again, placing her hand gently on Haven's shoulder this time, giving a light, tentative shake. “Please, wake up.”

Time seemed to fracture, each second a heavy drop in the ocean of Harper’s anxiety, each tick of the clock a measure of her growing fear.

Please.

Haven's shallow breathing suddenly hitched as the movement altered her conscious. Where her limp hand laid beside Harper, her fingers twitched. Then an imperceptible line formed between her brows, so subtle that only keen eyes could notice.

She'd heard Harper's voice. She'd felt her teammate's touch against her shoulder. Inside her, she clawed her way to the surface of alertness. Harper was here-- she was safe. Haven climbed her way out of the sludge that her mind had become, and...

Slowly, Haven's eyelids lifted. They were still so heavy. Her body still refused to move. She desperately wanted to take Harper's hand, but she found herself settling for the ankle positioned next to her weak digits. Her lazy eyes lifted to Harper's face, and what she saw carved into her teammate's pale skin wrung the life out of her heart.

"Harps..." The words slipped out of her scarcely moving lips. Her rasping voice still carried the weight of her grief.

The moment Haven’s voice pierced the silence, it was as though time itself had paused, the air charged with the gravity of her utterance. Relief cascaded through her, a wave that cleansed away the layers of fear and pain, if only momentarily, infusing Harper with newfound vigour.

With hands marred by the trials of her ordeal, Harper reached out, her fingers quivering as they sought the warmth of human connection. They found Haven’s hand, cold and still, and enveloped it, the blood from her wounds painting the pallor of the skin there. And then, a miracle—a faint pressure, a squeeze from Haven’s fingers, feeble yet unmistakably present, a silent message of the will to survive shared by both women in the moment.

“Little Dove,” Harper exhaled, her voice fragile. “We… we need to go. Can you… move?”

The name warmed Haven’s heart the same way Harper’s hand warmed her fingers. Yet the anxiety present in Harper’s tone didn’t make it easy to feel better. She’d never heard her friend sound so… scared. What had she been through? Who had done that to her skin?

“Too much blood.” She managed, swallowing against the soreness in her throat before she took another shallow breath to speak again. “It’s over. The walls… they’re blank.”

“We’re ok.”

As Harper’s eyes swept across the room, they caught the intricate honeycomb pattern etched into the walls and ceiling.

So, it was indeed over. The trials, the terror, the relentless pursuit—it had all come to an end.

Finally.

“We can leave…” Harper’s voice was a hushed murmur, a soft declaration of their hard-won freedom. Despite the exhaustion that clung to her words, a faint smile graced her lips. “Just… hold on.”

Gathering the remnants of her strength, Harper pushed herself to her feet. Her stance was shaky, her body protesting the movement, but her spirit was unyielding. She scanned the room for something to aid Haven, her eyes landing on a sturdy chair that seemed untouched by the turmoil. With a grit born of necessity, she dragged it across the floor, its legs scraping against the tile.

Positioning the chair beside Haven, Harper eased her friend into the seat with as much gentleness as her trembling arms could muster. They both grimaced, their injuries a chorus of pain, but the act of sitting was a small victory in itself.

“Lean on me,” Harper encouraged, her arm wrapping around Haven’s shoulders in a solid embrace of support.

The winged woman looked warily at the space before her, unsure if she could bear to put any more weight on her leg. Yet Harper’s spirit was contagious. Despite their mutual pain, and the sluggishness in her own movements, Haven placed her trust in Harper and willed her body to make the final journey.

Her mind drifted to the past as she was reminded of another friend, whom she’d considered a sister, who had done the same for her once. Her eyes slid over to Harper, and she found herself thinking of her teammate the same way. Had she noticed it before today? How was it so easy to let Harper pick her up like that?

The pair found the exit to the room. What once had been sterile, endless white hallways now stood dark passages of honeycomb. In the distance, they could already hear the school’s emergency response faculty searching for survivors. They’d survived the game.

Could they survive the fallout?

---

Sum up your week in roleplaying in just 3 words

Staying on track

Realms of Sun & Shadow

_{Mentions: @c3p-0h Tia}

---

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}

---

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

---

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.”

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

_{Location: Southern Plateau - Pacific Royal Campus}

Hope in Hell #2.043: The Cat Gets the Tongue

^{_{_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

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

Previously: Dreaming While Awake

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

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

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

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

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

Blood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet, the nightmare continued to unfold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—“FREAK.”

▅▅▅▅

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.”