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#nexus
ddarker-dreams · 3 months
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Epilogue.
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Yandere Blade x F Reader.
Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, codependency, Blade's love language is committing murder for you. Word count: 1.5k.
Nexus index.
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“You went overboard.”
Blade doesn’t respond.
You know he heard you. He’s lucid enough to comprehend your words, but that doesn’t mean he’ll acknowledge them. Not when he’s standing there, parsing through his frenetic thoughts, which must feel more like a distant dream than reality. This is how you’ve come to understand his mara. It’s a capricious affliction, despite how adept you’ve become at soothing it.
This burden isn’t yours alone to bear. Blade has his part to play. He has to at least, on some level, want to ward off the beckoning madness. Your psionic abilities lay in amplifying base desires, not writing over them. Usually, this isn’t a problem. Usually, you both prefer he retains control instead of leaving a trail of contorted corpses in his wake.
Today, however, was decidedly unusual.
The nature of your new ‘work’ invites risk. Danger has never been a stranger to you — there was a reason why leaving the LOTUS-EATER’s premises was discouraged. This daunting acquaintance loves seeking you out. The feeling isn’t mutual, regardless of how successful the attempts are. It’s the aftershocks that you dread most. In the moment, everything happens so fast, there’s no time to be afraid until you reflect on it later.
Nona would tell you that what’s done is done, no point in dwelling on it further.
Lear would suggest you exercise more caution in the future, whilst barely being able to hold back tears of relief that it wasn't worse.
They aren’t here, though, you think. I only have him.
You swivel around on the kitchen island’s barstool to examine Blade like he’s examining you. He’s wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist as his clothes were dirtied beyond saving. Water trickles down the contours of his scarred, lithe body. The scent of orange and vanilla wafts in the air beside him, courtesy of the safehouse’s shower, no doubt. You prefer that over the metallic miasma which clung to him previously.
His crimson eyes pierce through the dimly lit room. You can’t decipher his expression, nor do you care to. What matters is that he gives some reassurance there won’t be a repeat of today’s incident. Knowing him, however, that’s too much to ask, but you’re starting to wonder if sweet lies are kinder than the truth.
Blade’s predatory gaze pauses at the fresh bruise on your forearm. What he doesn’t reveal outwardly is more than made up for by the sickening wrath his mind emanates. You wince beneath its intensity, a reaction he ignores, surprisingly, as he’s too focused on the hand-shaped indent. It isn’t until you inhale sharply that he snaps out of his reverie and the pressure in the room lessens.
While you rub your aching temples, he approaches, slinking forward like a stray cat. Though he viciously defends you as a guard dog would, you think he shares more similarities with the feline species. He bristles at anyone’s touch but yours, silently stares until you give him attention, and would gladly lay a pile of his kills at your feet, seeking approval for the macabre offering.
There was a time you’d voice this musing to observe his displeasure.
That time has long since passed.
Blade’s calloused fingertips run over the bruise, light enough to spare you any pain.
“Are there more?” he asks.
“I haven’t checked,” you shift back to rid yourself of his touch. His eyebrows pinch together, forming creases. “Is that really all you have to say?”
He’s glowering now. You don’t know what displeases him more — your avoidance of his touch, irate tone, or the condemnation hitherto left unsaid.
“You would’ve had me show mercy to your attackers?”
Blade enunciates the word mercy with every ounce of contempt one would regard their mortal enemy with. Now you’re beginning to better understand why getting him under control was such an ordeal. You encountered every possible resistance when attempting a link with him, a phenomenon you hadn’t experienced since that fateful day in The Lounge’s private room. He was always so receptive to, well, you, oddly pliant to your whims so long as you framed them right.
“You didn’t need to—” your throat goes dry, as the sights, sounds, and smells from earlier resurface, “—Need to…”
Fucking terrify me.
Sometimes, you forget on purpose.
You forget so you can drunkenly ramble anecdotes about your strangest clients over drinks, let him teach you the steps of weapon forging, and not struggle when he pulls you into his chest at night.
You forget so that your resentment can stay suspended in time, never growing past a point that’d suffocate you.
You forget so you can remember how to live.
Streams of sunlight sneak past the room’s blinds. You reach out, as if to catch it, allowing the beam to settle on your hand. The closest star to this planet — Varsig — is named the Spectator. The planet’s earliest inhabitants once thought the giant orb to be a god’s eye. Following their every movement, scrutinizing their every decision.
In the current year of 2157 AE, few still believe this superstition.
You understand where those ancient civilizations were coming from.
Eris’ eternal night hid wrongdoings behind a silvery veil. Stars, however, ensure you witness everything. Every misstep, shame, and regret is crystal clear. There’s no questioning the integrity of what you see. It burrows into your memory where it intends to remain forevermore. You’re reminded again and again that you’re no longer an Exalted Arbiter, but a means to an end for the universe’s most notorious criminal faction.
Either way, it’s a glorified transfer of ownership.
Still. At least then you had Loopy, Nona, Lear—
“You’re thinking about him.”
You freeze upon hearing his gruff accusation. Swiftly, perhaps suspiciously so, you turn the faucet of your thoughts off. Too much slipped through in your carelessness. Blade might not have your level of experience when it comes to decrypting the minds of others, but he’s spent enough time around you to pick up on a few things. The low-level link you share with him goes both ways, as per that miscreant Kafka’s suggestion.
For the most part, it’s an unobtrusive function that’s no more noticeable than one’s breathing. This prevents the continuous uptime from placing heavy strain on you. Identifying fluctuations in Blade’s mara is its main function. However, if you’re not being vigilant, a few segments from your psyche can pass through to him.
“Sorry,” you murmur.
It’s an unconvincing apology.
His mara, previously satiated from its earlier gorging, rouses. It seeks to form a tribunal with you as the defendant. This disease hates you, worships you, and longs to break you so that it might stitch you up and do it all over again.
Blade shakes his head and sighs.
The mara’s deliberation over your sentencing fades, leaving nothing but uncomfortable silence.
He turns around and starts walking away. Your eyes, ever keen in the dark, trace over the scars that cover his back. The off-color testimonies to his many battles have welcomed a newcomer, inducted into the ranks hours prior. The skin is red and angry. His long hair partially covers it — a slash made from the right side of his back to the lower left.
There’s little you know about combat, but from what you can tell, his opponents were skilled. They moved too fast for you to get an accurate count. In the aftermath, the remains were either butchered beyond recognition, or the few intact limbs so spread out, you couldn’t arrive at a number then either. Blade intercepted every shot and stab intended for you. He parried most, yet some slipped through the cracks. Without a second’s hesitation, he’d shield you from the onslaught, unfazed by what must’ve been excruciating pain.
That undying devotion is yours.
He belongs to you, really. Possibly more than you belong to him. This husk of a man who flayed the flesh of your foes and hung them by their entrails. Only the Aeons above know what other desecrations he committed when your consciousness gave out.
Sometimes, you calm the chaos simmering in his veins.
Other times, you raise it to a rapid boil.
“Yingxing.”
His retreating figure stills. Before, holding the memories of who he once was guaranteed he’d succumb to the mara’s influence. It’s less definitive now. There’s an undeniable intimacy to it — speaking a name scratched from history. He isn’t Yingxing anymore, nor can he ever be again. Somewhere, wedged deep into a forgotten crevice of his psyche, a tiny fragment of that splintered identity slumbers.
You rouse it when you think he needs to remember the anguish of losing everything.
“Do you want to be loved by me?”
You’re plenty capable of feeling love.
You love your student, who wrestled with life to reclaim the joy it previously stole. You love your first friend, who didn’t cower away from the unruly girl who decided to change his name on a whim. On some days, you could even love your mother, if your memories deceived you enough.
What about him, whom you might spend centuries beside?
Can loneliness outweigh resentment?
After what feels like multiple lifetimes, he responds.
“Anything’s enough.”
When he leaves, he takes a part of you with him.
You rise from your seat.
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shima-draws · 11 months
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Doodle dump :”D Thanks to everyone who sent in suggestions, this was SO much fun I haven’t done one of these in ages!
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milffanblog69 · 6 months
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I stole this post from someone else because he’s an idiot buuuuut
FUCK YEAH NEXUS MODS WHAT A FUCKING WIN
One of the biggest modding platforms/communities out there has stood in solidarity with staying your pronouns, despite mass criticisms— never thought I’d see the day if I’m being honest.
And shout out to Starfield for making you choose your pronouns!!!
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mr-laveau · 24 days
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Lav’s Listener Design Lab
Hello folks! Do you wanna have a design of your listener from a particular Audio RP series but have no idea how to draw or even design a listener who may appeal to your aesthetic sensibilities? Do you wanna change that?
I introduce you to Lav’s Design Lab! A thing that I, Laveau, have decided to do off of my own whims and personal curiosity!
How does the design Lab work?
Simple! Below you'll find a list of questions regarding your listener's personality, backstory, aesthetic, what audio RP fandom they're from, etc. You'll fill these out in a public ask and send them to me, Laveau, who will work on a design each week/based on my available time!
For those who may have not come across my art, lemme show you some examples of what you'd be getting:
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If you're interested, here are the questions you need to fill out in regards to your listener design and send in your ask to me:
What's your listener's name and nickname?
What's their backstory?
What's the desired aesthetic of your listener character (punk, greaser, bimbo, scene kid, schoolgirl)?
What's your listener's gender presentation like?
What's your listener's ethnicity?
What's your listener's age?
What's your listener's body type/build?
What's your listener's star sign?
What are your listener's most important relationships and who are they connected to?
What's your listener's hobbies/interests?
If your listener was a deity from a known mythology, what deity would they be?
What Audio RP series are they from?
What kind of lover are they to their partner/what kind of friend are they?
What is something/are some things that your listener values?
Pick a song that you think represents your listener.
What's the inspiration behind your listener's design?
Could you give me a vague concept of what your listener's visual vibe is?
What are some extra tidbits you wanna tell me about your listener?
Those are the questions! I look forward to what you've gotta tell me about your listener!
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silver-horse · 2 months
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badly translated bg3
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Ah yes nobles=have high morals 😅🤣🤣
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Ah yes, Astarion ... a long pixie conman and a fraud
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my penis type is valve C
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romance dialogue be like...
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browsethestacks · 1 year
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The Comic Art Of Francis Portela
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bop-y · 1 month
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skellies
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obsidiangx · 1 year
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Armored Core consistently does a really good job at making you feel like a mercenary. An amoral warrior who will slaughter anyone for a paycheck. It does this through text logs and voice lines that hammer home the real actual harm caused by your violence. But Nexus?
Armored Core Nexus has a mission called Eliminate VIP. It takes a few seconds, and is one of the best missions in the entire series. You drop in near a helicopter that immediately tries to escape. It explodes in one shot. It has no escort.
It feels dirty.
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beandaqueen · 5 months
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Day 17- Loyalty and Embers
oh my God yall I can't even this is so cool
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gacha-incels · 4 months
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insane behavior…like many people have commented, are animators just never going to be able to draw a character picking something up or snapping? The fact that these women-hating men have entire Korean industries and their society at large in a chokehold is sick and disturbing to say the least. If you’re still playing Limbus Company, you should know they’ve got that game under their thumb as well. I remember reading about the disgusting things Chinese misogynists were doing because they hated one of the genshin impact characters that catered to female players, but the company didn’t write them a full page apology and delete him from the game 🙄 it seems like they’re producing more merch for him than ever. they had Korean misogynists shitting their pants over another male character’s demo video and yet again were able to do the bare minimum of….not catering to delusional men. I’m not saying the game is some bastion of feminism or anything close to that, it is quite literally the bare minimum. well the reaction of male “waifu” gacha gamers to that game specifically could be a whole other post lol. I’ll post more tweets under the cut regarding this situation
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links: 1, 2
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trekkie-polls · 26 days
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ddarker-dreams · 8 months
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Nexus.
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Yandere Blade x F Reader.
Warnings: Nothing major yet, some minor Honkai: Star Rail spoilers. Word count: 4.6k.
Nexus index.
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On the planet Eris, in the city of Perianth II, night reigns, for there is no star close enough to challenge its rule. 
Deep within the bowels of the metropolis lit only by manmade contraptions, sits a bar known as LOTUS-EATER, carved into the cragged terrain as if it’d always been there. It had not, in fact, contrary to local legend. Had the IPC not run into issues with overcrowded prisons, this planet they now consider a scourge would never have had the means to limp on. 
Easy solutions cultivate the conditions for worse problems to develop later on. 
This is what your mother — a shrewd woman to her core — instilled in you. 
Grimacing, you reread the words on your screen for the umpteenth time. 
… You wish she had instilled some business management skills instead. 
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“Miss Exalted-One-Ma’am, when are you coming back inside? This client is refusing to leave until he can speak with you. Lear is running interference, but that’s going as well as you can imagine,” a feminine voice calls out. 
You glance up fast enough to assess her expression. Despite the severity of her words, she’s smiling, amber eyes crinkling by the corners. Her chestnut-colored hair is worn in a braid that extends down the length of her back, meaning she hasn’t clocked out yet, or else it’d be loose. You have some wiggle room, then.
“Nona,” you beckon her over, “What do you think this means?” 
Inquisitive creature she is, she doesn’t waste this opportunity to poke around in your private matters. Her eyes flitter back and forth as she takes in the contents of your phone. Interlocking her hands behind her back, she hums. 
“Looks like we’re due for a visit.” 
“That’s what you gathered too?” You murmur. “What a mess this is turning into. The last thing we need is for the hounds to start sniffing around.” 
“I dunno what you’re frazzled about, exalted one. The locals wouldn’t cough up info to the IPC even if their life depended on it.” 
“Therein lies your answer — the locals won’t, but our clientele is vast as the universe is infinite. Someone looking to score quickly could put in a tip. The hounds are just itching for an excuse to put an embargo on Eris again.” 
She shrugs. “Outsiders bribed and snuck their way in last time, they would now too. Benefits of a quality product.” 
You shake your head and pinch the bridge of your nose. Nona means well, but if she thinks in such simple terms, her training period won’t ever end. Or perhaps you’re being a tad too harsh on the girl, you haven’t slept since receiving this text message two cycles ago. If it weren’t for how scarce this technology is, you would’ve smashed it to pieces for causing you such prolonged strife. 
Alas, as a native of Eris, there are two things you intrinsically cherish above all else — any object that emits light and the special nectary cradled within the planet. 
“I’ll take your input into—” 
A shrill shriek cuts you off before you can finish your sentence. 
“The hysterical client, I reckon,” Nona dryly remarks. “Now, can you please come in before Lear gets stabbed? If it isn’t already too late.” 
You don’t bother dignifying her macabre speculation with a reply. You enter through a back door accessible only to LOTUS-EATER staff, weaving around boxes of cargo that need to be sorted. A heady, aromantic scent clings to the wood, yet its temptation is long lost on you. Where the clients indulge, you abstain. The livelihood of yourself and your workers relies heavily on your psyche’s clarity. 
Emerging from the back rooms has you standing on the building’s second floor, an area known as The Lounge. Here, the spherical, gravity-defying emitters of lights standard in this region are set dimly. This latest model even allows you to adjust the dimensions, ranging from small enough to fit in the palm of your hand to the size of a room. There was supposed to be one more on this floor, but while unpacking the order, it slipped from Lear’s hands and met an early demise. Great cooperation was needed to locate the glass that floated to the ceiling. 
You check the status of occupancies. Two private rooms are in session, the other eight are empty. By your design, it had been a slow night. You gave orders to the receptionist, Thalia, to only book appointments for influential customers, just in case the omen floating over your head comes true. You walk down the hallway which leads to the first floor, only to notice cool colors set in a square array by the digital lock. 
The sight doesn’t sit right with you. You consider taking a detour to investigate, only for the commotion downstairs to encourage otherwise. 
“Sir, if you’d please calm down—”
Lear’s gentle voice is cut off by another. 
“I demand to speak with her,” it heaves. “The mind witch. Where is she?” 
The electronic curtains that lift for those put into the LOTUS-EATER’s database part in a magnificent flurry of scarlet hues. You feel each set of eyes that glance your way. It’s a typical ensemble present — affluent travelers, political emissaries, and well-to-do merchants. Some drink at the bar, others watch the live entertainment playing soft music. Everyone aside from the heaving interloper is dressed in the formalwear expected of the establishment. 
The click of your heels against the dark wood floor reverberates throughout. The man’s reaction to your appearance is delayed, though he eventually turns his head to see where Lear is looking. Resentment contorts his face upon spotting you. You recognize him. Jay R. Alister, a client who gave Thalia a difficult time due to his demands to have a Synalink booking today. You thought you smoothed over the matter by granting him access to the first floor, The Club, and placing him on a priority list for next time. 
Copious amounts of alcohol must’ve unraveled your hard work. 
“Shall we take a moment to collect ourselves, sir?”
“No one— no one understands,” he insists, swaying ever so slightly. It’s a peculiar sight. One message from a handful of the individuals present would be enough to spell doom for Alister, this charade likely already has him blacklisted across multiple star systems. To be a client at LOTUS-EATER is a privilege. Everyone adheres to the unspoken rule of the honor system, eliminating the need for security inside. 
“I’d like to, Mr. Alister, if you wouldn’t mind explaining to me outside.” 
He’s drunk, but a low-level link can be established, you surmise. It isn’t an option without risks. As a recurring client, he could catch onto the invasive feeling and grow further agitated. The eyes fixated on you grow heavier. Some are curious, others bemused, and a few pass silent judgment, comparing your capabilities with the previous Exalted Arbiter. 
He blinks slowly. “My Roze… she’s upstairs. She’s waiting for me. I can’t— can’t be late…” 
“You won’t be,” your voice takes on a concerned lilt, “Let’s go meet her elsewhere. Follow me and I’ll take you to her.” 
A white ring forms around his pupils. 
“You… will?” 
“I will. Come, now, we wouldn’t want to waste any more of her time, would we?” 
The ring goes from opaque to solid. 
The low-level link has been made manifest. You feel the thread connecting you to the essence that makes Jay R. Alister himself. 
You stride past him and he immediately scrambles to follow. Out of the corner of your eye, you note how Lear’s shoulders relax and give him a reassuring nod. He did a good job stalling until you could personally see to this matter yourself. If this had occurred any other time, it would’ve been your top priority, but a far more sensitive issue threatened to ensnare you in a worrisome web. 
One after another, the pairs of eyes fall, like a flying pest in its final moments. Conversation resumes and the music increases in volume. 
Cool air embraces you once you’re outside. This particular region is well-lit, a testimony to its prestige. Restaurants, boutiques, and other fine shops have been built with walls of dark stone naturally found on Eris for better insulation. The once rugged streets are smooth, painstakingly cobbled together by a city planner many Amber Eras ago. Any crack has molten gold poured into it so that when it dries, the ground beneath your feet is a never-ending sea of ebony and gold. 
You wave over the closest security guards. The rest can be left to them, Mr. Alister has damaged his reputation enough for you to consider his dues paid. You’ll tell Thalia to take him off the registered client list for LOTUS-EATER and that’ll be the end of it. You’re preparing to head back inside when a pervasive, overpowering influence freezes you in place. It’s reminiscent of an electric current.  
The taut link between you falters. 
Straining…
(He’s reaching into his pocket). 
Fraying…
(His hands wield a sharpened implement).  
Until it snaps. 
The subjugated lunges at the subjugator. 
You try to re-establish the link, but there’s a fortress around his mind that wasn’t there moments prior. Imposing and unbreachable. Where did this surge of mental fortitude come from? You need to think, you need to act. There must be a way for you to regain control, your technique is unshaken even in the face of imminent demise. In the three seconds it takes for him to close the distance, you make seventy-four attempts, each ending in failure. 
Has the last grain of sand fallen to the bottom of the hourglass, cementing this choice to believe in your abilities as the wrong one? 
This can’t be the end. Who will take care of—
Metal clashes against metal. 
The being in front of you is a shade. Tendrils of agony untold slither up from his thigh and squeeze around his neck, constantly choking him, yet refusing the sweet reprieve a crushed windpipe would give. This is a person acquainted with every suffering a living creature could ever endure. The prismatic shards that detail his countless tragedies aren’t just broken, they’re eviscerated, an indecipherable mess. Some scattered to the wind and others forcibly scratched out. 
This nightmarish presence eclipses your would-be killer. 
His eyes meet yours and the hairs on the back of your neck stand. 
“Don’t bother,” is all he says. 
He could sense you trying to poke around in his head? Has he come into contact with Arbiters before? That can’t be possible, you’re familiar with everyone on the LOTUS-EATER registry. You cease your ministrations without verbally acknowledging him. His hollow expression burns into your retinas, invading your mind’s eye. The sword he saved your life with holds a similar weight. It radiates such intensity that you needn’t use any techniques to get a better read on it. 
Walking up the steps in a casual manner is the last person you wanted to see — Kafka of the Stellaron Hunters. She spares the now subdued Alister a glance then turns to face you. 
“Fortunately, I had the foresight to send Bladie ahead,” she smiles. You resist the urge to scoff. “Otherwise, our meeting would’ve been far less pleasant.” 
So that man’s with her, you think. That’d explain why I couldn’t make any progress. 
If the defenses surrounding Alister were comparable to a fortress, the minds of the Stellaron Hunters are like a deflective shield. Any extensive attempts at trying to gain access end up backfiring and causing you damage so long as they remain up. The only other being capable of a similar feat was your mother. Now, in the few years since her death, you’ve encountered three more with similar capabilities. 
Are your abilities growing dull? Or are other species simply evolving? 
You order the guards to deal with Alister as they see fit, he’s no longer your primary concern. 
There’s a far worse headache forming on the horizon. 
“... I suppose you’ll follow me inside whether I invite you or not?” You question, just barely managing to maintain the smile painted hastily on your face. 
Kafka doesn’t reciprocate your hostility. She never does. Instead, she motions in the direction you were planning on taking them to avoid any unwanted attention. The guards won’t be an issue, since they’re on your payroll. You don’t want to risk lingering and being spotted by someone without an allegiance to you.
“I won’t overstay my welcome, Exalted Arbiter. You have my word.” 
By essentially showing up uninvited at your front door, she’s placed you in quite a precarious situation. The man who parried Alister’s attack hasn’t dropped his vigilance for an instant. His posture is that of an animal poised to pounce. You lack the means to fight them off should they choose to utilize force. 
Your gut instinct tells you it’s a bad idea to get involved any further. Your mind reasons you can only play the cards you’re dealt. 
A sigh passes by your lips. “Very well. Let’s get on with it then.” 
The duo follows wordlessly behind you. Kafka remains close, whereas the swordsman lingers further back, taking care to avoid well-lit areas and remaining hidden. Had you not already been alerted to his presence, he could’ve easily slipped past your detection.  
The Stellaron Hunters are a formidable group indeed. 
During the short journey, you recall the text message that pushed you into this vat of strife. 
It was accompanied by an animated emoticon of the magenta-haired fugitive blowing a kiss. 
You’ll be in need of me shortly. See you then xoxo 
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“Absolutely not!” 
An exclamation of unrivaled proportion leaves you, accompanied by your palms slamming against your desk. Old-fashioned writing stationary clatters noisily in the aftermath. She stops the doomed descent of one pen and then looks back to you, unperturbed. 
This woman is a shadow that follows her target persistently, devising fresh torments and sowing discord wherever she steps. To fight her is to do battle with a phantom, no attacks will land. The hopeless charade serves to tire you out. Still, your pride is wounded and without a balm to assuage the tender gash. It can’t scab over to heal. Again and again, it’s reopened, fresh blood washing over what had just dried. 
“I haven’t finished my proposition,” she hums. She sits in front of your desk, legs crossed, her eyes shining an eerie shade. “I wouldn’t dare to ask so much of your resources if you didn’t stand to benefit as well. Our current arrangement has helped you cut down on costs, yes?” 
You drum your fingers over the wood’s lacquer finish. “The word ‘arrangement’ implies cooperation, I believe extortion would be a better fit.” 
“I’ll stand by my original phrasing. The IPC has abandoned all pretense of slowly creeping up rates on shipments to Eris; what they’re charging now will look generous in a few short Trailblazer Years. They want this planet dead and their past misdeeds to die alongside it.” 
“Our current projections estimate we have at least two medium-length Amber Eras before we get to that point, by then, we’ll have countermeasures in place,” you droll out. These details have been drilled into your head ever since you became the head of this quadrant. “What proof do you have that the IPC will make such a drastic move? The other factions will lodge complaints, many of them use our… exports.” 
You wince at the awkward phrasing of the word ‘exports’, knowing full well she’ll pick through any vulnerability like a vulture does a corpse. 
Kafka leans forward. “By ‘exports’, you must mean Eris’ most sought-after natural resource. The tonic of the nectary.” 
“I’m not allowed to discuss such sensitive material with outworlders.” 
“You needn’t say anything, just listen,” she pulls out a vial from inside her jacket. The familiar sheen of glimmering gold within causes your breath to hitch. “Here I have a sample of the latest synthetic developments into the tonic, courtesy of Silver Wolf. The IPC is discreetly channeling funds into the Genius Society to revitalize the research effort.” 
You bite back a laugh. “That knowledge is nothing new. They’ve been trying to replicate the tonic for ages; it’s a money pit. The last I heard, the closest they could get after investing billions of credits is a 14% match.” 
“Try 70%.” 
She sets the vial down and nods, encouraging you to take it. You don’t. 
“... You can’t be serious,” your voice sounds far away, as if it were coming from another room. “You’re bluffing.” 
“You don’t have to take my word for it. Have your alchemists examine it and come to your own conclusions.” 
As a disciple of Destiny’s Slave, she’s confident that this will suffice to convince you, and loathe as you are to admit it, she’s right. The repercussions of this allegation could be disastrous. It’d be irresponsible on your part to not at least run it by the appropriate channels. 
“What does this intel cost me?” 
“Nothing, consider it a token of good faith. There’s a more pressing matter I hoped to bring to your attention, now that that’s out of the way.” 
You raise an eyebrow. “More pressing than the future of my home?” 
“That’d depend on who you ask,” Kafka dances around your apprehension to a rhythm no one else has ever composed. “It has to do with my companion. I didn’t bring him here to take in the sights, he’s to stay on a job until further notice.” 
The mention of that enigmatic man brings with it a resurgence of the feelings you experienced earlier. It hit like a tidal wave, concentrated and suffocating. What would someone have to endure for their psyche to be saturated in such wretchedness? 
“Alright. I’ll arrange for accommodations somewhere more discreet.” 
“I think it’d be best if he stayed here, at the LOTUS-EATER.” 
“What?” 
Kafka has made many requests in the time she’s known you. Normally, she uses you as a point of contact to meet influential individuals or a warehouse of yours to store important items, but this is an entirely different beast. Those endeavors fester outside your purview. You give the push necessary and wash your hands clean of the implications. 
To host a Stellaron Hunter in your most lucrative establishment could very well be the start of the end. 
“After the events that unfolded earlier, you should see the potential advantages. You’re in a precarious situation. The IPC can’t place a bounty on you in an official capacity, but there are ways around bureaucracy. That attempt today won’t be the last.” 
She lowers her voice to an enticing whisper. “And we both know you’re not financially sound enough to hire competent help. Take him. He’ll be yours if you permit him.” 
How her melodious voice can invoke such a raw desire to argue is unknown, and yet, each fiery word fizzles out to ash on your tongue. In the same way you’d establish a link for the first time, you take the pieces of information at your disposal to test where the edges might align. The unusual fees on shipments, the supposed progress on the tonic, and the overall strain that’s been placed on every level of your business — the mosaic it forms is a crimson shade with a metallic scent. 
You can’t die. Not yet, not when it’d cause so many to perish alongside you. 
“This goes beyond ‘a token of good faith’,” you murmur. “Kafka… there’s far more to this, isn’t there? Just what are you planning?” 
For once, the curvature of her smile is genuine. Blatant insincerity would unsettle you less. 
“A gift for a friend.”
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Upon LOTUS-EATER’s roof sits your favorite getaway, a secluded balcony. 
There’s nothing fancy about the decor, if anything, it’s worn rugged by the elements. Paint chips off the three chairs and stubborn foliage congregates no matter how often you banish it with your broom. After ensuring you can only be contacted in an emergency, you wipe the condensation off the chair furthest to the right and sit tall. 
Although you aren’t alone, you keep your eyes on the starry sky.
“I would like to apologize for the behavior I displayed earlier,” you take your time with the words, ensuring each syllable has a pleasant ring. “It must’ve been from the shock, although that’s no excuse. Please allow me to thank you properly.” 
An icy wind whistles through. Once it finishes, you fuss over your hair, putting each strand back in its designated place. You grimace when it picks back up again. 
“You can express your gratitude by speaking normally.” 
Your head snaps in his direction. You examine his side profile through narrow eyes, impatience writhing beneath your skin. He pays your poorly masked hostility no mind. One by one, each muscle in your body relaxes, a domino effect you can’t bother putting a stop to. You slump down into your chair and cross your arms over your chest. 
“Have it your way,” you sigh. Your capitulation earns you his piercing stare. “Pretty words or not, I meant what I said. So, um… thank you, and…” 
Despite yourself, you try meshing together a more subtle phrasing, only for those infinite pools of vermillion to act as a successful deterrent. 
“I don’t like being indebted to others, it’s a hassle. So, here is my offer. I’ll perform a Synalink on you, free of charge. Or a waitlist.” 
Blade exhales sharply through his nose. It takes a moment to register that your proposition amused him more than it intrigued him. The perceived affront on your capabilities causes you to bristle. This is a rare opportunity you’re granting him, surely he must’ve heard of your abilities somewhere! People spend years trying to get an audience with you. The other Arbiters you employ are capable enough, otherwise, they couldn’t work here; but you transcend their combined efforts. 
“There is only one thing I’d want to experience, it’s beyond your means.” 
Propping yourself up on the chair’s arm, you scoff. “Hah, try me. Any emotion, scenario, for whatever length of time; tell me what you want to experience and I can make it happen.” 
He doesn’t instantly rebuke you. You share a moment of silence — almost solemn, certainly more meaningful for him than it is for you. There’s a light tug of guilt that pulls at your conscience. Perhaps it isn’t him underestimating you, but not wanting to set himself up for disappointment again. If you’re going to be occupying the same space for an unknown amount of time, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get on adequate terms. This could be the door that’ll open that path. 
You clear your throat to dispense the accumulating tension. “That clothing… you must have ties to The Xianzhou Luofu, or some experience with them. Are you familiar with Immersia games?” 
“Vaguely. An acquaintance of mine plays them.” 
You’re confident you could put a name and face to this ‘acquaintance’. For the sake of cordiality, you keep your opinion to yourself.
“I’ve never been fond of the comparison to my work, but I suppose it’s a decent touchstone. An Immersia grants the player a simulated experience predetermined by developers. There is a degree of immersion, hence, well, the name, but that’s barely scratching the surface,” you explain. 
Reassessing his body language only reveals neutrality. You decide it’s better than blatant disinterest and continue. 
“Traditionally, there are thought to be five senses in advanced lifeforms. These senses don't create the continuity of reality we experience, they just break it down into bite-sized pieces for easy consumption. Forming a Synalink is akin to overclocking a computer, not placing a hard drive in a different system. Your brain finds the stimuli I send it indistinguishable from the touch of your hair against your face, or the woody scent of incense in that jar.” 
His eyebrows crease slightly downward. “A single glimpse into my mind was enough to send you recoiling, and still, this is an offer you’re comfortable making?”   
You purse your lips. It’s a fair point. 
“That was… different. Ideally, any link should be made in a stable environment to minimize disruptions. I had nearly been—” You cut yourself off, finding the sentence to be one you’d rather not finish. “—You know, so I wasn’t at optimal performance. That’s why we have private rooms in The Lounge.” 
Your nostrils flare when he keeps regarding you with that impassive expression. Is his face permanently frozen? Does he need to be unpaused? You almost want to snap your fingers in front of him.
“Hey, you’d be less effective if you had to improvise and fight with, say, a spoon. Would your combat ability be based on that one irregular instance or the total sum of all your fights? Hm? What you witnessed earlier was my irregular instance. If you’re open to the idea, I can make it work.” 
Blade shifts so that he can resume gazing at the sky. Before you can celebrate your victory in this one-sided battle of wits, he speaks up. His voice adheres to a softer creed. 
“You are…” he trails off, taking care to select the proper description, “Remarkably strange.” 
Your eye twitches. 
This has been a miserable cycle. You had to breathe the same air as Kafka, deal with a drunk client that later tried to stab you, and you found out the main export that keeps your planet’s economy from total collapse might be duplicable. All things considered, you should be giving this guy the cold shoulder for the problems he’ll inevitably cause in your future. Altruism gets you about as far as jumping into the air and hoping that’ll transport you through space. 
“Forget it, then,” you get up and twist around. The chair you formally occupied scrapes loudly against the ground. You don’t spare him a single glance while traversing the few steps that separate you from a long, well-deserved rest. Maybe you’ll be extra petty and lock the door so he has to remain here until you wake up. The olive branch has been extended, if he wants to take it and break it in two, that’s his prerogative. 
You raise your hand to unlock the door when abruptly, something captures your wrist. 
Your heart stutters. 
There isn’t the softness of flesh or the warmth that radiates off skin. Instead, you feel the textured surface of bandages graze against you in a featherlight touch. You know the vice-like grip he’s capable of. You saw it in how he clutched the grip of his sword, like it was the only thing he was good for. Gentleness cannot come naturally to someone of his disposition. It’s an intentional choice that requires swimming against the tide. 
Shakily, you exhale, hoping it’ll ease how your hands tremble. 
When was the last time someone touched you? Ah… it must’ve been then. 
You will the thought away. 
Blade doesn’t tether you down for more than a few seconds, just long enough to ensure your attention is back on him. Your skin tingles where he came into contact with you. It’s a prickly, blisteringly hot sensation that starts at your wrist and spreads all over. You squeeze your eyelids shut in a last-ditch effort to recompose yourself. 
He’s looking straight at you when your eyes reopen. 
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he says. You find it strange how quick you are to believe him. “If you sincerely think yourself up to the task, then…” 
There it is again, that swelling of feeling, visceral to a degree every survival instinct screams at you to turn away. 
You find yourself leaning in closer. 
He rewards your burning curiosity with the unprecedented utterance: 
"Show me what it's like to die." 
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chernobog13 · 4 months
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Mike Allred's Madman and Nexus by Steve Rude.
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Nexus S (2010)
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ranchuppi · 11 months
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mock up of a fake batfinder cover. you guys have no idea how much i wanna make a comic w kaleido in it. I WANT TO SOOO BAD. its coming... i just have to... graduate fooorst... Q-Q
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silver-horse · 5 months
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lol
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