Qia

Realms of Sun & Shadow

_{Interactions: Octavia-@The Savant}

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Elara watched Octavia’s turmoil with a sympathetic heart, understanding the depth of her distress. The princess’s usually composed demeanour was now a fragile mask, the soft glow of the moonlight highlighting the tension in her clenched jaw and the slight tremble of her hands.

“Your High-” she began, her voice catching in her throat. She cleared it and shook her head slightly, her eyes never leaving Octavia’s face. “Octavia,” Elara corrected herself, her tone gentle but firm. She got up from her chair, the soft rustle of her skirts the only sound in the stillness. “I don’t believe I’ve misplaced my trust in you. And I could never doubt your intentions.”

“It is only that…my concern is for your safety and reputation,” Elara continued, taking note of the flicker of doubt in Octavia’s eyes, the way her hands trembled slightly as she clutched at the bedclothes. “The court can be quite…unforgiving.” She reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against Octavia’s arm. The touch was brief but she hoped it conveyed a world of unspoken support and understanding for the young woman.

“I do, however, apologize if my earlier words have caused you any great amount of distress. I’ve served you long enough to know your character and your loyalty to Flynn.” With those words, she willingly chose to ignore the obvious elephant in the room: the type of relationship that Octavia’s mother may have had with the winged blight-born.

Elara’s heart ached as she watched Octavia sob into her hands, the princess’s distress palpable in the now quiet room.

“I think…” she began again softly, kneeling beside the bed so she could look up into Octavia’s tear-streaked face. “I think the prince knows your heart, knows the gist of the kind of person you are by now. He knows your loyalty and your integrity, and he will understand that you sought comfort in a moment of need.”

Elara reached out, gently taking one of Octavia’s hands in her own, feeling the cool and damp skin underneath.
“The best course of action here may be to be honest with Flynn. He deserves to hear the truth even if it’s not what it seems.” She paused, letting her words sink in. “Flynn knows you. He will understand you.”

Elara’s own heart seemed to protest these words, pounding away in her chest.

What if she was wrong?

The woman felt a bead of sweat trickle down her back, despite the coolness of the room. Her hands, though steady, suddenly felt clammy against Octavia’s skin.

Still, Elara used her free hand to gently wipe away a tear from Octavia’s cheek, her touch light and tender as if to say that she would protect her no matter the cost.

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

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_{Location: Infirmary - Pacific Royal Campus}

Take On Me #3.020: By the Lives That Wove the Web

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_{Interaction(s): Gil-@Roman}

Previously: Beneath the Surface

Harper's fingers trembled slightly as she reached out, her knuckles barely grazing the wood of the hospital door. She did her best not to inhale the scent of the hallway, the antiseptic tang mixed with the faint, lingering odour of illness. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed softly, casting a harsh, sterile glow that made everything feel too bright, too exposed. The distant sound of a monitor beeping and the occasional murmur of voices from other rooms only added to the oppressive atmosphere.

Or perhaps it was all in her imagination. The tension she felt.

How long had she been standing there? Must have been long enough, given the strange looks she was starting to get from the passing ward staff. Nurses and doctors moved with purpose, their footsteps echoing off the linoleum floor, but every now and then, one would glance her way, curiosity or concern flickering in their eyes.

Harper could feel the sweat starting to form on her palms now, each bead of moisture making her grip on the doorframe slick and uncertain. Her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, the air catching in her throat as if she were trying to breathe through a straw. The memories threatened to overwhelm her again, vivid and unrelenting. Her fingernails curved into her wrists, the sharp sting of pain a desperate attempt to anchor herself in the present, to push through the fog of fear and stay grounded.

Because she had to see him this time. There was no more pushing this off. She had avoided it for too long, letting her fear dictate her actions. She couldn’t let it win. Not now. Not when she’d promised that she would try, so far doing a piss poor job of being his friend in her opinion.

With a final, shaky breath, Harper forced herself to focus on the sensation of her nails digging into her skin, the pain sharp and real. It was enough to pull her back from the brink, grounding her in the present moment. She could feel the sting intensify with each press of her nails, a reminder that she was here, now, and not back in the trials. Where the cold, catatonic body of her sister had laid in a room much like the one she was about to enter into.

Everything was fine.

Her knuckles moved against the door with one soft tap, hesitant and almost imperceptible. The sound barely registered in the quiet hallway, swallowed by the ambient noise of her surroundings. Harper hesitated, her heart pounding in her chest, before summoning the courage to knock again, this time harder. The second tap was firmer, more resolute, and the third was a definitive knock that echoed slightly in the corridor.

She cleared her throat, the sound rough and dry, as if she hadn’t spoken in hours despite her earlier conversation with Calliope. Her mouth felt parched, her tongue heavy. She swallowed hard, trying to muster the strength to speak, to call out to him.

“Gil?” Harper finally managed. The name felt foreign on her tongue, as if she hadn’t said it in a long time. “It’s me…Harper.”

Gil rolled over in his bed. He’d thought Lorcán’s regular visits, and Calliope’s drop-in, were awkward enough to perhaps move them to dissuade others from repeating their behaviour; part of him thought to stay silent, shut his eyes, pretend he was sleeping. How on earth was he supposed to face Harper right now, of all people? He felt the expectations settling upon him already, felt himself reaching reflexively for the right mask. Slip into the right skin, plaster a smile over his face.

He shuddered.

“It’s open.” He finally said, and watched as the door opened gently, Harper stepping into the room. He noticed her hair first, the scratches and bruises second, and the anxious, haunted micro-expressions last. He wondered if she felt the same phantoms of presumption upon her shoulders as he did his. She didn’t say anything at first; the two stood, laid, in close proximity, but worlds apart. You could cut the tension with a knife. Gil did just that.

“I like the new haircut.” He said, his tone even, matter-of-fact.

Her eyes, which had been avoiding Gil’s, now took in the sight of him fully. The bruises that marred his face, the bandages wrapped around his arms and torso, and the dark circles under his eyes told a story of pain and suffering that words couldn’t capture. He looked so brittle, so unlike the Gil she knew. The sight of him like this made her heart clench with guilt and sorrow.

But mostly just guilt.

Harper gave a small, strained smile, her fingers twisting together nervously. “Is it nice?” she asked in response to his compliment. Her eyes darted around the room, taking in the sterile white walls, the harsh fluorescent lights, and the array of medical equipment that surrounded Gil’s bed. Anything but the eyes of the actual person she was speaking to. “I don’t really think I like it very much.”

Harper's fingers continued to twist and fidget as she took a seat near his bed. The chair felt cold and unwelcoming, its metal frame pressing into her back. The room felt too bright, too clinical, and the beeping of the machines seemed to grow louder with each passing second. She could feel the weight of the situation pressing down on her, remorse gnawing at her insides. The sight of Gil, so vulnerable and battered, only intensified her feelings of helplessness and regret.

This was a mistake. But one that was too late to take back.

“How… how are you feeling?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly. She immediately cringed once the words were out, realising how inadequate they sounded. Terrible question. “Actually… don’t answer that,” she added quickly, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. Her fingers tugged at the fabric of her hoodie, twisting and pulling it down over her wrists, hiding more evidence of her own struggles.

“I’m sorry,” Harper blurted out then, her voice cracking. “I know I didn’t directly cause this…but I could have prevented it. Maybe. If I’d been paying better attention.” Her words tumbled out in a rush, each one laced with shame and regret. She finally looked at him, hazel eyes meeting blue for the first time.

Gil watched Harper muddle clumsily over every movement, gesture, chosen word. It was…unnerving. She had previously been so disciplined, so in control - similar to Calliope but the nuance was different, restraint born from willpower and her own decision, rather than Calliope’s externally-set standards and expectations, carried with her unwillingly. He watched her eyes - those shrewd, acute eyes - pore over his body, inspecting every injury. He felt vulnerable, and turned his body away.

“Calliope asked the same thing. Reflexive, I imagine. Got to maintain the niceties. I feel shit - but I think so does everyone.”

She tumbled over her words when they came, another apology, another confession. Gil sighed frustratedly, uninterested in anyone’s prostration before him.
“Calliope did that, too. Is there anyone else out there waiting to confess their guilt as well?” He craned his neck toward the door, pretending to search for further sinners. He enjoyed the theatre of it, in a spiteful way, even aware he was effectively rejecting Harper’s contrition; but what use did he have for misplaced remorse? It wouldn’t heal his broken bones or mend his skin; wouldn’t alleviate his foggy head, or rediscover his long-mislaid sense of ‘self’, whatever that was. Would it even help Harper - or any other would-be confessor - to burden themselves so needlessly? There might be catharsis in self-flagellation, but there was no redemption.

“The saboteurs were found out. I heard the leader even painted himself across the room when they caught him. What could you have done about it? Maybe Pallyx and Mei knew more than they let on; maybe they just got lucky…it doesn’t matter. We were snared in a trap. All we can do now is live with the consequences.”

“I…” Harper began, blinking rapidly. Her mind was a whirlwind of confusion and bewilderment, making it nearly impossible to articulate her thoughts. She could hear the frustration in Gil’s voice, a sharp edge that cut through the air between them. On some level, she understood his anger. They had all endured so much, and the weight of their collective trauma was a heavy, suffocating presence that loomed over them all now.

But the way he dismissed her apology as just another meaningless gesture? That was something her brain was struggling to process. It felt like a punch to the gut, leaving her reeling.

Because he’d never spoken to her that way before. Not in any of the moments they’d shared.

Harper had always been a little awkward around Gil. Despite her disciplined nature, she often fumbled for words or second-guessed her actions when he was near. Her usually steady hands would tremble slightly, and her mind, typically sharp and decisive, would become a jumble of half-formed thoughts and hesitant phrases. There was just something about him that unsettled her, something in the way his eyes seemed to see right through her, peeling back the layers of her carefully constructed facade. It made her feel exposed, and vulnerable in a way she wasn’t used to.

But she’d liked it. Very much so.

She’d always believed that he accepted her, and saw past the stern exterior she presented to the world. While others might whisper behind her back, calling her a hard-ass or worse, Gil seemed to understand her. He’d never once flinched at her intensity, never recoiled from her sharp edges. That acceptance and understanding meant more to her than she could ever put into words. It was a silent affirmation that she wasn’t alone, that someone saw her for who she truly was and still chose to stay.

Which was why his current demeanour was so jarring. The warmth in his eyes had turned cold, his usual easy smile replaced by a tight-lipped frown. The distance between them, once filled with unspoken understanding, now felt like an insurmountable chasm.

“I’m not-” she began again, her voice trembling as she struggled to find the right words. “I wasn’t apologizing because of some…because of some script. Some automatic response. I just…” She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the images that his words had conjured. Blood painting the floor. Blood painting her face.

“I just care about you.”

Gil relented. He’d been cruel, intentionally so, but now struggled to justify the point of it against Harper’s crumbling face and shuddering words. He just didn’t want anyone thinking they owed him anything, apologising for something they played no part in. Well-intentioned or not, it all felt so…fake. Gil had had enough of that feeling, and wasn’t about to tolerate it in others, either.
“I…I appreciate that.” He said, softening his voice. “I just can’t face a parade of people apologising to me for something they didn’t do. Something they suffered in just as much as I did. What’s the point? Doesn’t do me any good. Doesn’t do you any good. Assuming guilt, apportioning blame - we’ll just implode. And then it really will have been for nothing.”

Harper blinked, her mind suddenly alight with a realisation that struck her like a bolt of lightning. Thanks to his words, it was as if a fog had lifted, revealing a truth she had overlooked for far too long. She could almost hear Calliope’s voice again, clear and unwavering, echoing in her mind. The memory was vivid, transporting her back to that moment when the blonde had shared her wisdom with a sincerity that Harper had failed to fully grasp at the time. But now…now she felt like she understood them.

The brunette took a deep breath, her fingers finally stilling as she gathered her thoughts. She looked at Gil, her eyes reflecting her usual determination, but there was something more—an unspoken vulnerability that shimmered just beneath the surface. It was a rare glimpse into her inner world, one that she seldom allowed others to see. But if authenticity was what he wanted, despite her fears, she knew she had to give it. His reaction was uncertain, yes, a moment suspended in time where he could either accept or reject this part of her.

But she no longer cared. Because it no longer mattered.

Or, better yet, maybe that was all that had ever mattered.

“I think I…got scared? Maybe…” she began, her voice steady but soft. “Not just for what happened, but for not being there for you right afterward.” She paused, her gaze dropping to her hands. Her fingers traced the faint scars on her arms, the ones hidden beneath her sleeves. The ones given to her by the thing that had looked like her sister but could never be. The memories of that encounter were still raw, the pain and confusion etched into her skin and mind. She had survived, but the scars were a constant reminder of the battle she had fought, that she was still fighting, both physically and mentally.

She took another deep breath, feeling the weight of her words settle between them. The silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. It was a shared space of understanding, a moment where the past and present intertwined. Harper’s eyes met Gil’s once more, and she saw a flicker of something in his gaze—recognition, perhaps, or empathy. She wasn’t quite sure. But it was enough.

“I’m not looking for forgiveness,” she continued, her voice gaining strength. “I just needed you to know. To understand why I couldn’t be there. Why I had to face my own demons first…even still.” Her fingers stilled on her scars, and she let her hands fall to her sides. “I’m here now, though. And I’m not going anywhere.”

She reached out first this time, her hand coming to rest on his, squeezing it lightly.

“Not unless…you want me gone.”

“Unless you’re harbouring a darker secret than I think you’re capable of, Baxter, you don’t need forgiveness. Not from me, not from the rest of Blackjack, not from PRCU. We - everyone - got separated. It was deliberate, and targeted, and vindictive, and from what I’ve seen, we’ve all fared as poorly as each other. I understand why I was alone - just as I understand why Calliope was, or Banjo, or you. Because someone wanted to hurt us.”

He looked at his hand, Harper’s laid across it, observing her delicate fingers and tracing his gaze up her arm back to her face, once again full of the self-possessed determination and familiar earnestness. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze in return.
“And I’d say they did a damn fine job of it, too.” He said, attempting a jocular tone as he gestured to his bandaged rib and cast leg, but there was an underpinning of something more troubling. Gil’s clipped words didn’t indicate a willingness to talk about it, though.
“I’m just waiting to be discharged, whenever that happens, and then like the rest of the team I’ll work on…picking up the pieces. Until then, if there’s anyone else in that corridor waiting to come tell me how sorry they are, they can all go visit the chapel instead.”

He smiled, trying to remember their last conversation, held under different circumstances, with a different essence about it. Two different people, two different lifetimes ago.
“I really do like your hair.” He said again, giving Harper’s hand another squeeze before letting go.

Harper’s lips curved into a gentle smile, her cheeks warming with a rosy hue that she couldn’t quite suppress. She glanced down, only looking back up once she was sure her heart had stopped racing. “Thanks, Gil,” she said softly, her voice carrying a hint of shyness. “I did it for me… but I’m glad you like it too.”

As for his talk about forgiveness, another realisation struck her: Gil had left out one crucial person—herself. Could she truly forgive herself for what she had done? Could she truly gather the scattered fragments of her being and piece them back together, forming a new, whole version of herself, no matter how different it might look by the end?

A strange sense of clarity washed over her, and she fished for her phone in her pocket, taking it out. “Actually…could you excuse me for a moment? I think I need to call someone.” Harper asked, her eyes reflecting a sincere apology. She had promised she wouldn’t leave, but this was who she was at her core—loyal to a fault, yet fiercely independent. She always resisted the urge to lean on others, even her best friend, for support, no matter what she was going through. But maybe, just maybe, that was something she needed to change.

“Of course. I’m worn out, and I think they kick people out soon anyway. I’ll see you when I’m officially back on campus.”

Harper nodded, her eyes softening as she gave him one of her warm smiles. She could see the exhaustion in his eyes, so with a final, reassuring squeeze of his arm, she turned to leave, her steps light but purposeful. Just before she reached the door, she paused and looked back, a playful glint in her eyes.

“Rest up, soldier,” she said with a small, teasing smile, her voice carrying a hint of warmth and affection. The words felt a bit awkward on her tongue, and she could feel a slight blush creeping up her cheeks, but it was worth it to see the faint smile that tugged at his lips in response.

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

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_{Location:Ursus House - Pacific Royal Campus}

Take On Me #3.014: Beneath the Surface

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

Previously: No Expectations, No Pretenses

She hated it

That was the selfish and vain thought that came unbidden to her mind, a sharp pang of regret that cut through her like a knife. She immediately felt a wave of guilt for thinking it, knowing how much effort Calliope had put into helping her. The blonde had been so careful, so considerate, each snip of the scissors made with a precision that spoke of her desire to do right by Harper.

And yet, despite all of Calliope’s care and kindness, Harper couldn’t shake the feeling of loss that settled heavily in her chest. Her hair had been more than just a part of her appearance; it had been a part of her identity. It was a shield, a comfort, a constant in a life that often felt anything but. Especially since she’d lost…

And now it and they were gone. And she was left exposed to this loss, to bear it all with lowered defences.

“It looks great, Calliope. Thank you,” she said, lying through her teeth. The words felt heavy and insincere, but she couldn’t bear to let Calliope know how she truly felt. She ran her fingers through her hair, feeling the now even lengths for herself, and feigned a smile. “I think it’s perfect.” The words tasted bitter, but she forced them out, not wanting to hurt the other’s feelings.

She tried to find something positive, something to hold onto as she continued to stare. Maybe it would grow on her, she thought. Maybe, in time, she would come to see this new look as a symbol of her resilience, her ability to adapt and survive.

But for now, it was just another change Harper wasn’t ready for. That had been forced upon her whether she wanted it or not.

There was more that needed to be said, surely. “Harper, what’s the real reason you came to see me? Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful you trusted me enough, but there’s more going on isn’t there? I’m not one to talk. I have my own shit. And it doesn’t even have to be now. But if I learned anything from therapy it’s that bottling it all in will only cause more harm. It’s funny…seems my family taught me something. Outward appearances are important, but they hide a lot.”

Harper felt a lump form in her throat, the words Calliope spoke resonating deeply within her. She had always been good at hiding her true feelings, at putting on a brave face for the world. But here, in this quiet room with Calliope, the facade felt fragile, ready to crumble at any moment.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She hoped the question would deflect some of the attention away from her, and give her a moment to gather her thoughts.

“Harper, we all just went through an ordeal that no average person deals with. I can only speak for myself but what I saw in there rattled me so badly I am still reeling. Hell, I am currently not in class because I needed time away.” She glanced at her phone again. She was close to sending that text.

“So what I mean is why are you talking to me specifically? If it is truly about your hair, fine, but there are plenty of others, more talented whose job it is to cut hair, that could have done it. You came here to me. I would like to know why. But I also don’t want to push you before you’re ready. If it helps, I might be willing to get something off my chest in return. Friends do that.”

Harper felt a rush of conflicting emotions. She had hoped to avoid this kind of direct confrontation, but Calliope’s words were gentle, filled with genuine concern, for her. Someone who was a teammate, but might as well be a stranger. A mere acquaintance.

She looked down at her hands, fingers playing with the hem of her hoodie again, and took another breath.

“I…guess I didn’t really think it through,” Harper began, her voice trembling slightly, each word a struggle to get out. “I just needed to do something. Anything to feel like I still had some…control of things. And you…you’ve always seemed so put together. I just figured that…”
That she could borrow some of that strength for herself. She had come to Calliope not just for a haircut, but for a lifeline, a way to feel grounded when everything else felt like it was slipping away.

How selfish could she be?

Very.

Calli took a deep breath and thought about how to go about this. Harper was clearly going through a lot and she had opened herself up briefly. Enough for Calli to safely see inside. She didn’t want to make it any more painful.

“My father abused me.” Calli let the words sink in. It isn’t every day you admit to being tormented. “Growing up he had this image of what perfection looked like. He grew up poor and needed to fight for what he got. He was a first-generation Hispanic after his parents came here so he had a tough road. So when it became clear he would be a politician he…shifted. Or perhaps he was always like this but some small part of me hopes that there was a kind-hearted man back then.”

“But even still he would expect perfection everywhere. Perfect grades. Perfect posture. Perfect clothes. Perfect hair. Everything had to look perfect or else we would lose it all. And that scared him. Scared him so much that he terrorized me and my brother. It started with little comments here and there and grew. Soon my weight would be critiqued. Or my style choice. Eventually, he moved into…..physical territory. Did it in areas people wouldn’t see and scared me into never telling a soul. And anytime someone did notice something they were dealt with. When my Hyperhuman abilities manifested I was under a lot of pressure. He hates Hyperhumans. Believes them to be a scourge that needs to be eradicated. So he hid me away. Told me to never use my abilities.”

“So if I seem put together it is because I have to be. Despite me being thousands of miles away from him, I can still hear him. Worse, I can hear myself hurl insult after insult. Any semblance of control I have I use because otherwise…what’s the point?”

Harper felt another lump form in her throat, the raw honesty of Calli’s words hitting her hard. She had never imagined that Calli, who always seemed so composed, had endured such torment. The revelation was like a punch to the gut, leaving her momentarily breathless and unable to say anything at first. She had always seen Calli as the epitome of strength and grace, much like her known moniker, someone who navigated life with an ease that Harper envied. To learn that beneath that composed exterior lay a history of pain and abuse was both shocking…and immensely humbling.

Harper’s mind raced, trying to process the full weight of Calli’s confession. She thought about her own father, strict and demanding, but always loving when he needed to be less soldier and more papa. He had pushed her to be her best, but never in a way that made her feel unloved or unworthy. The contrast between their experiences was clear, and it made Harper’s heart ache for the blonde.

Everyone had their battles, she supposed then. And sometimes the strongest-looking people were the ones fighting the hardest.

The room seemed to close in around her, the silence heavy. Too heavy. Harper felt her eyes filling with tears, and she blinked rapidly, trying to keep them at bay. The last thing that she wanted was for Calliope to believe she pitied her. Or found her weak. Not again.

“Calli, I’m so sorry,” Harper finally whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I had no idea.” The words felt inadequate, but they were all she could manage in the face of such a profound revelation. She reached out, her hand trembling slightly, and placed it gently on Calli’s arm. The gesture was small, but she hoped it conveyed all the support she could muster. To give freely as she did with the few friends she had.

As the seconds ticked by, Harper found herself reflecting on her own struggles. She should share one of those now, right? It would be fair. And perhaps that’s what the other woman truly wanted. The thought of opening up about her own pain was daunting, but she knew it was the right thing to do. It was a way to bridge the gap between them, to show that she trusted Calli just as much as Calli had trusted her.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again, her mind urging her all the while to just say something. The words felt trapped in her throat, a jumble of emotions that she couldn’t quite untangle. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, and finally spoke.

“Lately I feel like…I’m just drowning,” Harper began. “And weirdly enough…I don’t come up for air.” She paused, her eyes distant as she tried to find the right words to convey the depth of her feelings. Her fear. Her yearning. “Because they would be there. Waiting for me to surface. I can’t see them, and perhaps that’s a bit of a blessing. But I can hear them. Calling out to me to join them.”

She took a shaky breath, her chest tightening as if she wasn’t here, but back in the nightmare. “I feel like…I’m constantly fighting to stay afloat. Ever since I lost them…my parents.” She paused again, closing her eyes against the painful memories. Of seeing them in her head. Of being able to give the goodbye she never got to.

“And sometimes…sometimes I wonder if it would be easier to just…let go.” To join them. The same scenario that the simulation had tempted her with. The thought of being reunited with her parents, of escaping the pain and loneliness, was a seductive one. It whispered to her in her darkest moments, promising peace and sweet relief.

“But that would mean leaving her behind. My sister. And I can’t do that to her again.”

Calli could very well understand where Harper was coming from. Despite how awful her parents were, it seems Harper’s had cared a great deal for her. “I am sorry for your loss Harper. I can relate to hoping to let go and let the overwhelming feelings take over. It’s exhausting trying to pretend you are okay when you aren’t.”

“My brother was a light in that dark time, but even he struggled. He took a lot of the impact that was meant for me and when he came out as Trans that shattered any amount of perfection our father wanted. I haven’t spoken to him in years.” And that made Calli feel immense guilt.

Harper’s heart ached for Calli, understanding the pain of family rifts all too well. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said softly, her voice filled with genuine empathy. “It’s hard, isn’t it? Carrying all of this… weight.” She paused, her mind drifting back to her own sister, Sierra. Their memories were pretty….bittersweet. The fights, the laughter, the unspoken bond that had always been there, even in the toughest times.

“My sister and I…we actually fought a lot growing up,” Harper continued, her voice growing softer as she spoke. “But…funnily enough, there was always this unspoken understanding that always remained between us.” She reached up to twiddle with one of her hair strands, her eyes going distant as she lost herself in the memories. The familiar motion was a small comfort, a way to ground herself in the present while she navigated the past.

“She’s always been my rock,” Harper said. “The only family I have left. And if it weren’t for her, I don’t know where I’d be. She keeps me grounded, gives me a reason to keep fighting.”

Harper’s eyes met Calli’s, and she saw what she thought was a flicker of understanding there.
“Family can be so…complicated,” Harper added, her voice tinged with wistfulness. “Which is why it’s so nice that you can choose your own, as well.” The meaning of her words was not directly said, but she sincerely hoped Calliope understood them. She wanted Calli to know that Blackjack could be her family, as well. A very, very weird one, but a good one no less.

Calli had thought a lot about family. Family wasn’t always blood. It’s why she considered Banjo part of her family. And Katja. And Rory. Hell, Blackjack could be her family as she assumed that was Harper’s point. It’s part of what made her feel so guilty over what they had all been through.

“Yeah, family is complicated. Sounds like you and your sister are super close. I really should reach out to my brother. I haven’t seen my niece in years.” Calliope let out a sigh. “That’s why I am glad to have some people in my life I care about who care about me too. Banjo’s the obvious one. Did I ever tell you we originally only got together during the first night because I wanted to stick it to my father and Banjo seemed like the right person my dad would hate? Turns out he’s actually super considerate and sweet and cares about me without expecting me to be perfect.” Calli glanced at the phone again. She was glad she didn’t send that text.

Harper listened, her feelings about Banjo swirling in her mind. She had always found him a bit too carefree, his laid-back attitude often clashing with her more serious nature. It frustrated her how he seemed to breeze through life, not taking things seriously enough for her liking. Yet, she couldn’t deny that he had his moments of charm and surprising depth. There were one or two times already this week where he’d revealed a side of him she hadn’t expected, a side that was patient...and smart. She could see somewhat why Calliope cared for him so deeply.

So, what she thought about the guy overall was… complicated, to say the least.

“You should definitely reach out to your brother,” Harper said, her voice gentle but firm. “It sounds like you miss him a lot. And…I’m sure he misses you too.” She paused, letting the words sink in. “Family bonds can be incredibly strong, even when they’ve been strained. Sometimes, all it takes is a small step to start mending those connections.” Like with her and Sierra. The redhead had messaged her this morning complaining about the early morning call, and Harper had responded with a small apology. Her message, however, was still left on read when last she’d checked.

Calliope nodded in agreement. She would speak to her brother. Perhaps he could visit with his family. “What started as a haircut turned into a small therapy session. Unintentional, I assure you, but still thank you, Harper. This was…much needed.” She went to her bed and picked up her phone. “You are going to rock that hair by the way. Perhaps I missed my calling? Think PRCU will let me switch to cosmetology?”

Harper laughed, the sound genuine and warm, a rare moment of lightness breaking the heavy emotions of the day. She did feel a little guilty that she couldn’t see her new style that way, but she appreciated Calliope’s effort and kindness. And, in all fairness to the blonde, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had hair this short, and only to her chin. It was a significant change, one that would take some getting used to.

“You never know! Maybe you’ve got a hidden talent there,” Harper said, her tone playful. She nibbled on her lip, a small smile working its way across her mouth. “But seriously, thank you Calli. For everything. I mean it…You didn’t have to do this, but you did. And it means a lot to me. More than I can really put into words.”

“We're a team, Harper. Hell, after everything we’ve been through already, I’d say we are family.” Calli allowed herself to finally relax. She would have to make up the classes she missed, but even that was a little bit of freedom she allowed herself. Her father would be mortified. But, quite frankly, fuck that guy.

“Before I forget, since Gil is out of commission for a bit I am going to need help with the dance. We have the bare bones set up already such as the theme, but I’ll need help coordinating it all and getting the rest of the stuff together. Would you want to help me out?”

Harper hesitated for a moment, struggling to keep the smile on her face, the image of Gil in his hospital bed flashing through her mind. The memory was vivid and painful: the sterile white sheets, the cast encasing his lower leg, and the pallor of his skin that made him look so fragile. She had been by to see him as soon as she’d been cleared, but she just hadn’t been able to bring herself to actually enter the room. The sight of him like that had been too much to bear. The beeping of the monitors, the antiseptic smell of the ward, and the quiet hum of activity outside his room had all felt…way too overwhelming.

Way too familiar.

Her hand went to her cheek, rubbing at the scarring there, a subconscious gesture as she fought against the memories of raining crimson and animalistic instincts. The vivid recollections of blood, the metallic scent of both of theirs filling the air. The primal urge to survive, to live. Each touch of her fingers against the rough texture of her scars brought it all back in flashes.

But she won.

With a deep steadying breath, Harper pushed the memories back into the recesses of her mind, locking them away again where they couldn’t hurt her. Her hand fell away from her cheek as she offered Calliope a small, reassuring smile, hoping to convey that she was okay. That whatever she may or may not have seen a moment ago was still in her control.

“Yeah, I’d love to help with the dance. Sounds like fun.”

---

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

A

---

A and Pia exchanged concerned glances, the frantic cellmate’s terror palpable. The air in the small cell felt thick with fear and desperation. Feeling a surge of bravery, A took a cautious step closer, her heart pounding in her chest. She reached out a steadying hand, gently placing it on the man’s trembling shoulder.

“We need to know what you remember. Anything could help us get out of here,” she said, her voice firm but laced with empathy.

The cellmate’s eyes darted around the room, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. He seemed to be wrestling with his own memories, the effort of recalling them visibly straining him. A could see the haunted look in his eyes, the shadows of past horrors lurking just beneath the surface.

“What did you mean by…the darkness? What…did they do to you?” she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper as if speaking too loudly might summon the very nightmares he was trying to escape.

Realms of Sun & Shadow

_{Interactions: Octavia-@The Savant}

---

Taking a deep breath, Elara moved around the room, tidying up and ensuring Octavia’s surroundings were as comforting as possible. She adjusted the curtains to let in just the right amount of moonlight, bathing the room in a soft, silvery glow that provided a sense of calm. The shadows danced gently on the walls, creating a tranquil atmosphere that contradicted the storm brewing outside the castle walls and within its occupants’ hearts. One of those hearts being her own.

As Elara worked, she couldn’t help but reflect on the magnitude of the events unfolding around them all. The death of Queen Antoinette, the mysterious circumstances surrounding her passing, the unsettling news about the king’s swift remarriage to a pregnant woman—all of it weighed heavily on her mind. She had always known that life at court was fraught with intrigue and danger, but the reality of it all was overwhelming.

It was all…so much. All of it.

Elara paused in her preparations, taking a moment to gather her thoughts and compose herself. She straightened her posture and let out a slow, steady breath. She knew that the conversation about the letter and the troubling news would not be easy, but it was necessary. She had to be strong, however, for Octavia’s sake, to provide the support and guidance the princess needed during this tumultuous time.

With a final glance around the room to ensure everything was in perfect order, Elara moved to the bedside and settled into a chair. She smoothed the fabric of her skirt, her fingers trembling slightly as she steeled herself for the challenges ahead. The weight of her role, the burden of the secrets she now carried, and the uncertainty of the future all pressed down on her, but she knew she could not falter.

As Octavia stirred and began to wake, Elara’s heart ached with sorrow. She knew right then and there she would do everything in her power to protect the princess and help her navigate the treacherous path that lay ahead. For now, though, she focused on the immediate task at hand: being there for Octavia and providing the strength and reassurance she so desperately needed.

“Your Highness,” she began softly once the other had fully awaken, “I arrived shortly after you had fallen asleep. Pleiades informed me of your situation and the need for my assistance. I didn’t see anything inappropriate, I assure you.”

She looked down for a moment, twiddling her fingers nervously before looking back up, her eyes reflecting genuine concern and unwavering loyalty. “I’m just here to help, as always,” Elara continued, her tone imbued with warmth and sincerity. “If there’s anything you need to talk about or anything troubling you, please know that I am here for you.”

She hesitated for a moment, however, her gaze steady and compassionate. “Princess, I understand that you’ve already read the letter. I actually….wanted to discuss it with you, to see how you’re feeling and what your thoughts are on the situation.”

Elara paused once again, carefully choosing her next words. “And, if I may, Your Highness… Pleiades also mentioned that he was close to your mother, Queen Antoinette. He seemed genuinely concerned for your well-being. I just wanted to ensure you understand that I am here for you, always, but…. it is a little unusual still for him to be alone with you at this hour. Is everything… alright between you two?”

She might be crossing a line with that last question, but she had to know. Had to make sure. The delicate balance of courtly propriety and personal concern weighed heavily on her. Elara’s heart pounded in her chest as she awaited Octavia’s response, hoping she hadn’t overstepped her bounds. The silence that followed her question felt interminable, each second stretching out as she watched Octavia’s face for any sign of distress or discomfort.

Elara’s mind raced with possibilities. She knew that Pleiades had always been a trusted advisor and friend to Queen Antoinette, but his relationship with Octavia was less clear. Was there something more between them? Or was it simply a matter of old loyalties and protective instincts? Elara needed to understand the dynamics at play here to better support Octavia in these trying times.

That is what she truly felt deep down.

"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

^{_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

_{Location:Ursus House - Pacific Royal Campus}

Take On Me #3.011: No Expectations, No Pretenses

^{_{___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

_{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.

---

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