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Ducksworth
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Quack.
STATUS: Have you ever had a dream that you um you had your you could you’ll do you wants you you could do so you’ll do you could you you want you want them to do you so much you could do anything? 20 days ago
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20 days ago
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Have you ever had a dream that you um you had your you could you’ll do you wants you you could do so you’ll do you could you you want you want them to do you so much you could do anything?
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3 mos ago
I've just come out of an existential eldritch hysteria induced nap and running on 6,000 years of sleep
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9 mos ago
I tap refresh and wait and see, a flashing note, a reply for me. No new posts, just the same old screen, yet still I hope for what might've been.
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"He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supreme happiness."
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Looking for a few people to help create a shared sci-fi universe. If that sounds fun, drop me a PM!
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Bio
Hadn't updated this in a WHILE so I deleted it. I'm Ducksworth, or Duck, or Duckie. PM if you wanna know more, yeah?
Most Recent Posts
This still have a space available? I've got an idea in mind already
The sky was wrong. That was her first thought. Too wide. Too open. No ceiling. No dome. No steel ribs holding it together. Chrys lay on her back for half a breath too long, lungs dragging in air that tasted impossibly clean, and it made her skin crawl. Freedom had never felt like this. It felt exposed.
She rolled to her side and pushed up onto her hands. Grass. Real grass. Damp against her palms. Alive. Someone laughed. A kid. The sound hit something soft in her chest, and she looked over in time to see the little boy from holding splashing in mud like it was treasure. Good, she thought distantly. At least someone gets the fairytale version.
She didn’t stand right away. She scanned. Tree line: dense. Old growth. Too much shadow. Mountains: good landmarks. Bad escape route. Open clearing: terrible defensible position. People were turning in circles, staring at the sky like it might applaud them. Chrys got to her feet slowly, brushing dirt from her hands. She clocked the soldier immediately, posture tight even here, eyes already calculating. Good. At least one other person wasn’t drunk on blue.
The Tear sealed behind them with a pulse. Chrys didn’t look at it. That chapter was done. Then the roar came. It didn’t sound mechanical. Didn’t sound human. It sounded ancient. The vibration moved through her boots, up her spine, into her teeth. Her jaw set.
“Yeah,” she muttered under her breath. “Of course.”
Birds exploded from the trees. Movement followed. Not the animal. People. Chrys’ eyes narrowed as the armed squad broke through the tree line at a sprint, formation tight, weapons up. Not scavengers. Not panicked civilians. Organized. Been here a while.
“On your feet!”
She was already moving. She didn’t run toward them blindly like half the group. Instead she angled slightly, closing distance but keeping sight lines open. The woman leading the squad had command presence, and Chrys clocked that immediately. Not corporate. Not soft.
Branches split again behind them. That was not a bluff. Chrys reached down without thinking and hauled one of the stunned men up by the back of his collar as he hesitated. “Move,” she snapped, voice low and sharp. Not panicked. Directive. “Unless you want to find out what that is up close.”
He moved. Good. Another roar. Closer. This time she felt the weight of it in her ribs. Perez was stepping forward with the boy tugging his hand. Chrys saw the conflict in his movement, advance or rear guard, and for a fraction of a second their eyes met across the clearing. You take front. I’ll take back. No words. Just an understanding born from knowing what collapse looked like.
She fell back slightly, not far enough to isolate herself, but enough to watch the trailing edge of the group as they scrambled toward whatever refuge these armed strangers offered. The clearing wasn’t secure. The leader had said it. That meant they had somewhere that was. Which meant territory. Which meant structure.
Chrys felt something almost like relief. A system to step into before she stepped out of it. As the ground trembled again and something massive moved in the trees, she cast one last look over her shoulder at the forest edge. “Not today,” she murmured. Then she turned and ran with the others, not toward safety. Toward information.
She rolled to her side and pushed up onto her hands. Grass. Real grass. Damp against her palms. Alive. Someone laughed. A kid. The sound hit something soft in her chest, and she looked over in time to see the little boy from holding splashing in mud like it was treasure. Good, she thought distantly. At least someone gets the fairytale version.
She didn’t stand right away. She scanned. Tree line: dense. Old growth. Too much shadow. Mountains: good landmarks. Bad escape route. Open clearing: terrible defensible position. People were turning in circles, staring at the sky like it might applaud them. Chrys got to her feet slowly, brushing dirt from her hands. She clocked the soldier immediately, posture tight even here, eyes already calculating. Good. At least one other person wasn’t drunk on blue.
The Tear sealed behind them with a pulse. Chrys didn’t look at it. That chapter was done. Then the roar came. It didn’t sound mechanical. Didn’t sound human. It sounded ancient. The vibration moved through her boots, up her spine, into her teeth. Her jaw set.
“Yeah,” she muttered under her breath. “Of course.”
Birds exploded from the trees. Movement followed. Not the animal. People. Chrys’ eyes narrowed as the armed squad broke through the tree line at a sprint, formation tight, weapons up. Not scavengers. Not panicked civilians. Organized. Been here a while.
“On your feet!”
She was already moving. She didn’t run toward them blindly like half the group. Instead she angled slightly, closing distance but keeping sight lines open. The woman leading the squad had command presence, and Chrys clocked that immediately. Not corporate. Not soft.
Branches split again behind them. That was not a bluff. Chrys reached down without thinking and hauled one of the stunned men up by the back of his collar as he hesitated. “Move,” she snapped, voice low and sharp. Not panicked. Directive. “Unless you want to find out what that is up close.”
He moved. Good. Another roar. Closer. This time she felt the weight of it in her ribs. Perez was stepping forward with the boy tugging his hand. Chrys saw the conflict in his movement, advance or rear guard, and for a fraction of a second their eyes met across the clearing. You take front. I’ll take back. No words. Just an understanding born from knowing what collapse looked like.
She fell back slightly, not far enough to isolate herself, but enough to watch the trailing edge of the group as they scrambled toward whatever refuge these armed strangers offered. The clearing wasn’t secure. The leader had said it. That meant they had somewhere that was. Which meant territory. Which meant structure.
Chrys felt something almost like relief. A system to step into before she stepped out of it. As the ground trembled again and something massive moved in the trees, she cast one last look over her shoulder at the forest edge. “Not today,” she murmured. Then she turned and ran with the others, not toward safety. Toward information.
══════ ❖ ══════
• The Planes - Aethelguard
• Feat. Queen Serena Esolotáir
& Princess Liana Esolotáir
• 4:45am
══════ ❖ ══════
• The Planes - Aethelguard
• Feat. Queen Serena Esolotáir
& Princess Liana Esolotáir
• 4:45am
══════ ❖ ══════
It was not yet dawn when Serrèlian D’Vyrens rose. The world beyond his chambers lingered in that suspended indigo hush which belonged neither wholly to night nor morning, when the sea struck the cliffs below Aethelguard with steady, patient rhythm and the palace breathed in long, unhurried intervals. These were the hours he preferred, before petitioners gathered, before courtiers rehearsed ambition, before variables began to move of their own accord. In such stillness, the kingdom could be examined without interruption.
On most mornings, distance sufficed. Reports arrived sealed and orderly; decisions were made with measured annotation; the machinery of state turned reliably when calibrated from above. Today did not permit distance. The continental summit compressed too many sovereignties beneath a single roof. Royals would arrive adorned in legacy and ceremony, each bearing the weight of their continent’s history. Royal Mages would arrive shaped by traditions that did not share foundation, some favouring restraint, others spectacle. Some Serrèlian knew through correspondence and record; others existed only as reputation. Magic, when bound too tightly to personality, could be volatile. It was not power itself he mistrusted, but dependence upon it.
By the time the first blade of sunlight struck the eastern spires in molten amber, Serrèlian had reviewed the summit itinerary three times, ensuring that each movement, each arrival, each absence aligned precisely with his design. A harbour guard captain was summoned before the kitchens had begun their preparations and questioned with deliberate precision. Rotations were adjusted. Lines of sight reconsidered. The man left with the understanding that today’s watch was not simply ornamental. A projection from the western docks was recalculated in light of a delayed convoy, not from concern over coin, but from awareness that visible fluctuation invited commentary, and commentary hardened swiftly into narrative.
Only when all was complete did he permit himself tea. The porcelain cup was thin-walled and unadorned, its contents a clear, sunlit gold drawn from leaves cultivated along Aethelguard’s southern cliff terraces where sea mist salted the soil and wind kept the growth tight and clean. The infusion carried a faint brightness of coastal citrus and crushed verbena, sharp rather than sweet. It required precision: steeped for exactly four minutes. Steam rose in narrow spirals as he carried it to the eastern window, where the morning light turned the surface briefly to molten amber. The taste cleared rather than comforted, a ritual of discipline disguised as indulgence, and he drank without haste as the harbour stirred to life below in ordered rhythm.
Sails unfurled in practised succession, canvas catching the wind with elegant restraint. Nets were cast, mooring lines drawn taut. Trade was not merely the kingdom’s lifeblood, but its very discipline. Structured exchange fostered measured growth, which in turn reinforced authority. The Crown governed by voice and symbol; Serrèlian ensured governance held consequence.
By midmorning he passed through the inner corridors toward the grand banquet hall. The air widened as he approached; the ceiling lifted; coastal light spilled through tall arched windows in clean, luminous bands. Servants moved briskly but carefully, aware that his silence was more instructive than raised volume. Emerald and gold banners hung in deliberate symmetry. Crystal fractured sea-light in quiet brilliance. Nothing within the chamber was accidental; even the distance between place settings had been measured against sightlines and conversation flow.
Queen Serena Esolotáir descended from the dais with composed grace, silk the colour of late summer leaves whispering against marble. The servants’ movements tightened almost imperceptibly at her presence, though one attendant lingered a fraction too long within earshot, cloth suspended mid-polish near the western column.
Serrèlian held her gaze for a measured breath. He had known she would refuse; it was necessary that she do so, and do so clearly. Without turning his head, his eyes shifted briefly toward the attendant by the western column. The cloth resumed its movement at once, swift and careful, as though it had never paused.
At her nod, the sea-light caught Serrèlian more keenly than it should have, brightening along the lines of his figure until he seemed briefly wrought in gold and glass. Filaments of warm radiance traced his outline like sunlight through stained windows before thinning into ordinary air; in the space of a blink he was no longer there.
The southern courtyard lay open to the morning, pale stone warming beneath the early ascent of the sun. Chalk marked a rough duelling circle at its centre, the lines scuffed and blurred where boots had slid too eagerly across them. Ivy climbed the inner walls in disciplined green columns, and beyond those walls the sea breathed steadily against the cliffs, its rhythm indifferent to youthful miscalculation.
Princess Liana lay within the chalk boundary, her back pressed to stone dusted faintly in white. The blacksmith’s son stood over her with uncertain triumph, wooden blade held to her throat. His grip was tight but not steady; his breathing betrayed him in shallow pulls. Liana’s jaw was clenched so firmly the muscle along her neck stood taut, fury burned hotter than fear in her eyes. She saw Serrèlian standing just beyond the chalked line, his hands folded over his sleeves, his gaze steady and unhurried.
Her gaze snapped to his, defiance flaring quick and hot before calculation overtook it. For a heartbeat, she held him there, testing whether he would bend first. He, of course, did not. Through clenched teeth she forced the words out.
The blade withdrew immediately. The boy stumbled back a pace as though released from something far heavier than wood and chalk. Liana rose without assistance, brushing chalk from her sleeves in short, irritated strokes. She did not look at the boy. She looked only at Serrèlian.
She crossed the courtyard, her stride brisk but uneven at first. Halfway to the doors her posture adjusted, shoulders lowering, spine lengthening, chin levelling, as the girl yielded to the heir. Serrèlian watched the correction before turning to the blacksmith’s son.
For a moment the courtyard returned to quiet, chalk disturbed and dust settling in the sea breeze. Serrèlian stood within it without expression, cataloguing what he had observed, improvement in recovery, regression in restraint, potential intact if guided correctly. The light around him brightened subtly, fine threads of warm radiance tracing the line of his shoulders before thinning into air, and in the space of a breath he was gone.
When he returned to the banquet hall, preparations were nearing completion. After the final touches, the servants withdrew at his quiet instruction. He walked to the grand oak doors himself and closed them with deliberate care, the echo reverberating through vaulted stone. Alone at the centre of the chamber, he lifted one hand. Pale lines of ivory and muted gold traced themselves across the marble floor in precise geometry, threading outward and climbing pillars in luminous symmetry. The lattice expanded upward in a seamless arc until a dome of ordered radiance sealed the hall in perfect hemisphere before softening to invisibility. The gold thinned; the ivory dimmed; what remained was absence, a sustained quiet that settled into the stone itself. Magic within the hall did not flare or resist; it simply failed to answer. Serrèlian lowered his hand. The absence was precise, like stepping into cool water after standing too long beneath the harsh sun.
Precisely on time, an attendant entered bearing a small faceted crystal glowing steady blue. As she crossed the threshold, the light faltered and faded, leaving only clear stone in her hands. Despite herself, the servant hesitated, unsure as to whether she had imagined it.
Serrèlian inclined his head, the chamber around him silent and exact. Everything stood precisely as it should, arranged not merely for spectacle but for inevitability, and those who entered would do so within terms already set.
On most mornings, distance sufficed. Reports arrived sealed and orderly; decisions were made with measured annotation; the machinery of state turned reliably when calibrated from above. Today did not permit distance. The continental summit compressed too many sovereignties beneath a single roof. Royals would arrive adorned in legacy and ceremony, each bearing the weight of their continent’s history. Royal Mages would arrive shaped by traditions that did not share foundation, some favouring restraint, others spectacle. Some Serrèlian knew through correspondence and record; others existed only as reputation. Magic, when bound too tightly to personality, could be volatile. It was not power itself he mistrusted, but dependence upon it.
By the time the first blade of sunlight struck the eastern spires in molten amber, Serrèlian had reviewed the summit itinerary three times, ensuring that each movement, each arrival, each absence aligned precisely with his design. A harbour guard captain was summoned before the kitchens had begun their preparations and questioned with deliberate precision. Rotations were adjusted. Lines of sight reconsidered. The man left with the understanding that today’s watch was not simply ornamental. A projection from the western docks was recalculated in light of a delayed convoy, not from concern over coin, but from awareness that visible fluctuation invited commentary, and commentary hardened swiftly into narrative.
Only when all was complete did he permit himself tea. The porcelain cup was thin-walled and unadorned, its contents a clear, sunlit gold drawn from leaves cultivated along Aethelguard’s southern cliff terraces where sea mist salted the soil and wind kept the growth tight and clean. The infusion carried a faint brightness of coastal citrus and crushed verbena, sharp rather than sweet. It required precision: steeped for exactly four minutes. Steam rose in narrow spirals as he carried it to the eastern window, where the morning light turned the surface briefly to molten amber. The taste cleared rather than comforted, a ritual of discipline disguised as indulgence, and he drank without haste as the harbour stirred to life below in ordered rhythm.
Sails unfurled in practised succession, canvas catching the wind with elegant restraint. Nets were cast, mooring lines drawn taut. Trade was not merely the kingdom’s lifeblood, but its very discipline. Structured exchange fostered measured growth, which in turn reinforced authority. The Crown governed by voice and symbol; Serrèlian ensured governance held consequence.
By midmorning he passed through the inner corridors toward the grand banquet hall. The air widened as he approached; the ceiling lifted; coastal light spilled through tall arched windows in clean, luminous bands. Servants moved briskly but carefully, aware that his silence was more instructive than raised volume. Emerald and gold banners hung in deliberate symmetry. Crystal fractured sea-light in quiet brilliance. Nothing within the chamber was accidental; even the distance between place settings had been measured against sightlines and conversation flow.
“Serrèlian, dear.”
Queen Serena Esolotáir descended from the dais with composed grace, silk the colour of late summer leaves whispering against marble. The servants’ movements tightened almost imperceptibly at her presence, though one attendant lingered a fraction too long within earshot, cloth suspended mid-polish near the western column.
“It is magnificent,” she said, surveying the hall with measured satisfaction.
“It will serve its purpose,” Serrèlian replied.
Her lips curved faintly. “You have always had a talent for turning sufficiency into splendour.”
“Splendour is most effective when it appears effortless.”
She studied him briefly, warmth beneath the regality. “I require a small favour.”
“You rarely require small favours, Your Grace,” he observed mildly, a small smirk touching the edge of his mouth.
“Liana has vanished.”
He inclined his head. “I will dispatch a small detachment to retrieve her.”
Serena’s expression sharpened, though not unkindly. “No guards. She requires instruction, not spectacle. I will not have my daughter escorted back like a delinquent on the morning of a summit.”
Serrèlian held her gaze for a measured breath. He had known she would refuse; it was necessary that she do so, and do so clearly. Without turning his head, his eyes shifted briefly toward the attendant by the western column. The cloth resumed its movement at once, swift and careful, as though it had never paused.
“Of course,” he said. The exchange settled with quiet precision, authority remaining visible and intact without having been raised.
“See that she understands the importance of today, would you?” Serena added, softer now.
“She will.”
She regarded him a moment longer, something affectionate threading beneath the steel. “Do not let her charm you.”
“I am immune to all charm, but yours, my lady,” he said with a small bow, a hand pressed lightly to his chest.
“Flatterer,” she murmured with a chuckle
“If Your Majesty will excuse me.”
At her nod, the sea-light caught Serrèlian more keenly than it should have, brightening along the lines of his figure until he seemed briefly wrought in gold and glass. Filaments of warm radiance traced his outline like sunlight through stained windows before thinning into ordinary air; in the space of a blink he was no longer there.
════════ ❖ ════════
The southern courtyard lay open to the morning, pale stone warming beneath the early ascent of the sun. Chalk marked a rough duelling circle at its centre, the lines scuffed and blurred where boots had slid too eagerly across them. Ivy climbed the inner walls in disciplined green columns, and beyond those walls the sea breathed steadily against the cliffs, its rhythm indifferent to youthful miscalculation.
Princess Liana lay within the chalk boundary, her back pressed to stone dusted faintly in white. The blacksmith’s son stood over her with uncertain triumph, wooden blade held to her throat. His grip was tight but not steady; his breathing betrayed him in shallow pulls. Liana’s jaw was clenched so firmly the muscle along her neck stood taut, fury burned hotter than fear in her eyes. She saw Serrèlian standing just beyond the chalked line, his hands folded over his sleeves, his gaze steady and unhurried.
“Yield,” he said. The words carried across stone and ivy without force, yet altered the air more surely than a shout might have done. The boy stiffened at once, yet Liana did not move. Her teeth pressed harder together as pride resisted instruction on instinct alone. Serrèlian watched her carefully, noting the inward turn of her right ankle where she had pivoted too aggressively. The same flaw revealed itself again. “Yield, Liana.”
Her gaze snapped to his, defiance flaring quick and hot before calculation overtook it. For a heartbeat, she held him there, testing whether he would bend first. He, of course, did not. Through clenched teeth she forced the words out.
“I yield.”
The blade withdrew immediately. The boy stumbled back a pace as though released from something far heavier than wood and chalk. Liana rose without assistance, brushing chalk from her sleeves in short, irritated strokes. She did not look at the boy. She looked only at Serrèlian.
“He got lucky,” she said too quickly. “I had him.”
Serrèlian allowed a measured silence to settle. “It would seem that the position was not as certain as you believed.”
“I did have him!”
“You overcommitted again, didn’t you?”
A flicker, brief and unwilling, passed through her expression before she turned her shoulder slightly. “He wouldn’t stop pressing.”
“You are not wrong to seek strength,” he continued evenly. “But strength displayed without discipline invites correction, and visibility governs consequence. You may be strong, but you will never be unseen.”
She drew in a breath. “I’m going.”
She crossed the courtyard, her stride brisk but uneven at first. Halfway to the doors her posture adjusted, shoulders lowering, spine lengthening, chin levelling, as the girl yielded to the heir. Serrèlian watched the correction before turning to the blacksmith’s son.
“Do you understand what has just occurred?”
“We were only sparring, sir.”
“Yes. You were.” He stepped forward slightly. “You placed a weapon at the throat of the Princess of Aethelguard within palace walls, unsanctioned and unsupervised. In another context, it could be construed as an attempted assassination.”
The colour drained from the boy’s face. “I would never—”
“I am aware, and this shall remain between us. For now.” The boy’s panic settled into wary comprehension. “If you wish to duel Her Highness again, it will be sanctioned and supervised. Position alters perception, and perception will govern consequence. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Be off with you, then.” The boy turned toward the ivy-lined wall. “And take the narrow passage behind the western trellis, the one you and the Princess believe escapes notice. The guards would be rather displeased to find you wandering the grounds at this hour. Is that understood?”
The boy nodded. “Yes, sir.” He slipped through the break in ivy and vanished.
For a moment the courtyard returned to quiet, chalk disturbed and dust settling in the sea breeze. Serrèlian stood within it without expression, cataloguing what he had observed, improvement in recovery, regression in restraint, potential intact if guided correctly. The light around him brightened subtly, fine threads of warm radiance tracing the line of his shoulders before thinning into air, and in the space of a breath he was gone.
════════ ❖ ════════
When he returned to the banquet hall, preparations were nearing completion. After the final touches, the servants withdrew at his quiet instruction. He walked to the grand oak doors himself and closed them with deliberate care, the echo reverberating through vaulted stone. Alone at the centre of the chamber, he lifted one hand. Pale lines of ivory and muted gold traced themselves across the marble floor in precise geometry, threading outward and climbing pillars in luminous symmetry. The lattice expanded upward in a seamless arc until a dome of ordered radiance sealed the hall in perfect hemisphere before softening to invisibility. The gold thinned; the ivory dimmed; what remained was absence, a sustained quiet that settled into the stone itself. Magic within the hall did not flare or resist; it simply failed to answer. Serrèlian lowered his hand. The absence was precise, like stepping into cool water after standing too long beneath the harsh sun.
Precisely on time, an attendant entered bearing a small faceted crystal glowing steady blue. As she crossed the threshold, the light faltered and faded, leaving only clear stone in her hands. Despite herself, the servant hesitated, unsure as to whether she had imagined it.
“You requested this, my lord.”
“Thank you.” Serrélian regarded the now-ordinary stone for a moment. “You may return it to my study.”
“V-Very well, sir,” she hesitated. “I was instructed to inform you that the first of the guests have arrived.”
Serrèlian inclined his head, the chamber around him silent and exact. Everything stood precisely as it should, arranged not merely for spectacle but for inevitability, and those who entered would do so within terms already set.
════════ ❖ ════════
In
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴏɴꜱ - ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴛᴏʟᴅ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀɢᴇꜱ [ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ, ᴍᴜᴛɪɴʏ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ]
→
4 mos ago
Forum: Casual Interest Checks
@SilverPaw As a fellow brit, yeah, Imgur images simply won't work for us due to region lock. If you follow @Obscene Symphony's advice above and upload whatever image you want to your profile on RPG, it'll be re-hosted here and we can access it then.
In
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴏɴꜱ - ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴛᴏʟᴅ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀɢᴇꜱ [ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ, ᴍᴜᴛɪɴʏ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ]
→
4 mos ago
Forum: Casual Interest Checks
Is this still open? I'm incredibly intrigued!
It had been curiosity that pulled Chrys toward the lottery draw, or at least that was the version she’d settled on. Curiosity sounded cleaner than the truth. It sounded better than I’ve run out of reasons to stay or what the hell else am I supposed to do. Curiosity made her sound like someone who still had the energy to care.
The walk to the facility was long, but long walks had become a kind of rhythm in her life. Grief stretched distance, made every journey feel familiar. She’d walked to hospitals, to vigils, to places she didn’t want to remember. This was just another path in a world that had already taken too much from her. Maybe it was duty that kept her moving. Maybe guilt. Maybe the quiet, stubborn belief that she owed it to the people she’d lost to at least try again. Or maybe she just wanted a place where the world wasn’t constantly collapsing on top of her.
She already knew she wouldn’t stay with the others once they crossed through. She’d get tools, supplies, whatever they issued, and then she’d slip away. Slow, careful, methodical, the way she’d been taught. Fell a tree. Shape it. Build something that didn’t need permission to exist. What could they do to her on the other side? Drag her back through sixty-five million years?
The facility interior was exactly what she expected: metal walls, soldiers, the hum of machinery pretending to be mercy. She stepped into the scanner without ceremony.
“Clear.”
That was it. No welcome. No explanation. Just clearance, like she was a piece of lumber being graded. Inside the holding room, she found an empty cot and claimed it without fuss. Bag down. Body down. One foot on the floor, the other bent. She let herself sink into the thin mattress, eyes half-closed, letting the noise of the room fade into a dull hum. The air was too clean. Too still. It made her skin itch. Then the announcement came.
All personal belongings.
She exhaled a long, slow breath. “Fucking bullshit,” she muttered, shoving her things deeper into her bag. There wasn’t much she cared about anymore. Not really.
Except the paper. Her fingers brushed the folded scrap, soft at the edges from being handled too many times. She held it for a moment, thumb tracing the familiar crease. It wasn’t valuable. It wasn’t even particularly useful. But it was the last thing she had that still felt… warm.
Could she hide it? Maybe. But then the woman across the room broke, panic sharp and raw, and Chrys watched her get dragged out with the same numb recognition she’d felt at too many protests. She knew what happened to people who pushed back. She’d seen it. She’d lived through the aftermath.
Her jaw tightened. She closed her fist around the paper once, just once, letting the ache settle in her chest. Then she tucked it into her bag and shut her eyes. If losing it was the price of stepping through that tear, the price of doing the one thing she knew she was still capable of, then she’d pay it. She’d already lost everything else.
The line moved. Slowly at first, then faster after the screaming stopped. Chrys stayed seated until the last possible moment, until the guard’s gaze flicked toward her with the faintest hint of impatience. She rose, slinging the bag over her shoulder, and stepped into line.
When her turn came, she didn’t hesitate, not outwardly. She set the bag on the table, fingers lingering for half a heartbeat before she let go. The officer reached for it. Chrys lifted her eyes. Her stare was flat, cold, and utterly unblinking, not loud, not dramatic, but sharp enough to cut. A silent warning. A promise. The kind of look that didn’t need volume to be understood. The officer didn’t flinch, but Chrys saw the tiny shift, the way their shoulders stiffened, the way their breath paused for just a fraction of a second.
Good.
Chrys stepped back, hands empty now, the absence of weight on her shoulder feeling like a bruise. She returned to her cot, lowering herself onto it with a slow exhale. She didn’t look at the wall right away. Across the room, the little boy, the one who’d clung to his mother like she was the last solid thing in the world, was curled against her chest, shoulders shaking with quiet, exhausted sobs. His small hands fisted in her shirt, his face buried, his grief raw and unfiltered. Chrys felt something in her chest twist. Not sharply. Not suddenly. More like an old wound remembering itself.
Yeah, she thought, settling back onto her cot, eyes drifting upward. Me too, kid. Me too.
Only then did she let her gaze settle on the wall, jaw tightening as she braced herself for whatever came next.
The walk to the facility was long, but long walks had become a kind of rhythm in her life. Grief stretched distance, made every journey feel familiar. She’d walked to hospitals, to vigils, to places she didn’t want to remember. This was just another path in a world that had already taken too much from her. Maybe it was duty that kept her moving. Maybe guilt. Maybe the quiet, stubborn belief that she owed it to the people she’d lost to at least try again. Or maybe she just wanted a place where the world wasn’t constantly collapsing on top of her.
She already knew she wouldn’t stay with the others once they crossed through. She’d get tools, supplies, whatever they issued, and then she’d slip away. Slow, careful, methodical, the way she’d been taught. Fell a tree. Shape it. Build something that didn’t need permission to exist. What could they do to her on the other side? Drag her back through sixty-five million years?
The facility interior was exactly what she expected: metal walls, soldiers, the hum of machinery pretending to be mercy. She stepped into the scanner without ceremony.
“Clear.”
That was it. No welcome. No explanation. Just clearance, like she was a piece of lumber being graded. Inside the holding room, she found an empty cot and claimed it without fuss. Bag down. Body down. One foot on the floor, the other bent. She let herself sink into the thin mattress, eyes half-closed, letting the noise of the room fade into a dull hum. The air was too clean. Too still. It made her skin itch. Then the announcement came.
All personal belongings.
She exhaled a long, slow breath. “Fucking bullshit,” she muttered, shoving her things deeper into her bag. There wasn’t much she cared about anymore. Not really.
Except the paper. Her fingers brushed the folded scrap, soft at the edges from being handled too many times. She held it for a moment, thumb tracing the familiar crease. It wasn’t valuable. It wasn’t even particularly useful. But it was the last thing she had that still felt… warm.
Could she hide it? Maybe. But then the woman across the room broke, panic sharp and raw, and Chrys watched her get dragged out with the same numb recognition she’d felt at too many protests. She knew what happened to people who pushed back. She’d seen it. She’d lived through the aftermath.
Her jaw tightened. She closed her fist around the paper once, just once, letting the ache settle in her chest. Then she tucked it into her bag and shut her eyes. If losing it was the price of stepping through that tear, the price of doing the one thing she knew she was still capable of, then she’d pay it. She’d already lost everything else.
The line moved. Slowly at first, then faster after the screaming stopped. Chrys stayed seated until the last possible moment, until the guard’s gaze flicked toward her with the faintest hint of impatience. She rose, slinging the bag over her shoulder, and stepped into line.
When her turn came, she didn’t hesitate, not outwardly. She set the bag on the table, fingers lingering for half a heartbeat before she let go. The officer reached for it. Chrys lifted her eyes. Her stare was flat, cold, and utterly unblinking, not loud, not dramatic, but sharp enough to cut. A silent warning. A promise. The kind of look that didn’t need volume to be understood. The officer didn’t flinch, but Chrys saw the tiny shift, the way their shoulders stiffened, the way their breath paused for just a fraction of a second.
Good.
Chrys stepped back, hands empty now, the absence of weight on her shoulder feeling like a bruise. She returned to her cot, lowering herself onto it with a slow exhale. She didn’t look at the wall right away. Across the room, the little boy, the one who’d clung to his mother like she was the last solid thing in the world, was curled against her chest, shoulders shaking with quiet, exhausted sobs. His small hands fisted in her shirt, his face buried, his grief raw and unfiltered. Chrys felt something in her chest twist. Not sharply. Not suddenly. More like an old wound remembering itself.
Yeah, she thought, settling back onto her cot, eyes drifting upward. Me too, kid. Me too.
Only then did she let her gaze settle on the wall, jaw tightening as she braced herself for whatever came next.
Just a FYI for those who may have missed it, this is the IC!
Apologies on the delay! I never got a ping this was created :o I have posted my CS but will update it to be fancy later! o/
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