Evil Ghost Note

Recollections: Where the Folds Meet

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The Creature

Interactions: Everyone I guess.
The Warehouse Party.

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Valor advanced first, the warehouse floor cracking beneath its weight as it surged forward, flames trailing from its weapons through the dust in the air. Heat emanated from the sword and axe, briefly illuminating the debris-stained walls with flashes of orange as the knight closed in with deliberate power. The creature didn’t retreat; instead, its body tensed. Its torso’s groove slightly flexed open as internal parts shifted beneath the surface, dense nodes rotating into impact paths while softer tissue receded deeper into its mass. It lowered its stance further, limbs spreading minimally to brace against the incoming force. Weapon trajectories had already been anticipated. Valor’s right side dipped first, following established preference patterns for the spear. The sword’s angle shifted, but its goal remained the same: penetration followed by sustained heat damage. Some variance existed, but within expected ranges. The creature was prepared to endure the strike.

Then, something entered the room.

Not force but presence.

The air exploded violently, distorting as if reality itself had briefly slipped out of focus. Thin strands of orange light shot through the warehouse in tangled fibers, spreading outward like fractures in glass. The wave moved too fast to track; it simply arrived. Debris rattled, dust lifted, and temperature shifted abruptly. Then, people began falling. Anyone without an Emotional Field dropped instantly, bodies limp before they fully understood what happened. Some bounced on impact, others folded in place as if their strings had been cut.

The Paranormals stayed conscious but just barely. The pressure hit them like deep water collapsing inward. Not exactly pain, but something heavier was pressing against their minds’ edges. Their Emotional Fields flared under the strain as the wave assaulted them. Breathing grew labored, thoughts blurred, and instinctive warnings overtook logic. Not because of the creature, but because of something else. Something worse. Something so powerful its mere presence distorted the room.

The creature responded immediately—not out of fear, but recognition. Its body convulsed as internal structures shifted abruptly. Ridges flattened, bone dissolved into softer matter, and its defensive channels collapsed as it reorganized away from combat readiness. The fight no longer mattered. The orange strands moved differently across its flesh, destabilizing parts of its adaptable tissue and causing it to reform out of sequence. Movements that were once precise and calculated suddenly lost efficiency.

Without hesitation, the creature moved, ignoring Valor entirely, not to attack but to escape. Its body compressed sharply and then exploded outward, rushing across the warehouse at terrifying speed. Concrete shattered beneath its limbs, steel supports bent and snapped as it tore through the collapsing structure outside. The building groaned, supports collapsing as debris was forced aside, but it kept moving, undeterred, until it reached the edge of the place from which it emerged.

The rupture June created.

Beyond the shattered warehouse walls, the rupture swirled violently in space, never forming a stable doorway—just a chaotic red mass twisting inward, like reality folding into a wound that refuses to close. Flickers of-strangely-Cornell appeared within it in broken flashes: distorted corridors, collapsing structures, impossible angles that appeared and vanished too quickly to comprehend. Shapes moved within the distortion, never fully becoming clear. Beneath all this, the voices persisted: screaming, whispering, layered so densely they ceased sounding human.

The creature entered. For a moment, its flesh lost cohesion—stretched and blurred as the seam simultaneously rejected and accepted it. Parts appeared ahead of others as if caught between states. Then, the distortion swallowed it whole. The rupture trembled violently after the creature’s passage. The warped glimpse of Cornell flickered once or twice before collapsing inward, as if reality itself sought to close the wound.

The air was deathly quiet in the warehouse.

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???

Interactions: None.
???

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The silence that followed was unnatural; it bore an intense pressure, as if the warehouse had been emptied, leaving only the residual moment. The last traces of orange distortion lingered as faint afterimages across surfaces before fading. Nothing moved where it had fallen. Those still aware of their surroundings didn’t speak, and no one acknowledged what had just occurred.

A blade clicked softly as it slid into its sheath, a small but definitive sound in the hollow space. The figure stayed still a moment longer, head slightly inclined as if listening beyond the ruins. Whatever had entered had already retreated, leaving only consequences. Without urgency or ceremony, he began to move.

He crossed the broken floor with calm precision, stepping over collapsed beams and fractured concrete, ignoring the scattered individuals. His gaze was fixed beyond them, past the torn edge of the warehouse where reality had been torn open. The outside rupture pulsed with instability, less a doorway and more an unresolved flaw in existence. Red-black currents swirling, refusing to settle, revealing fleeting fragments of worlds that did not belong to any single realm. Its edges hinted at familiarity, but in a way that defied immediate understanding.

He stopped several meters away. The pause felt deliberate. "... Oh, this isn't good,” he said quietly, not with surprise, but with recognition—like confirming something long known rather than discovering anew. After a moment, he added, "... She'll be here soon.”

This wasn’t a prediction, it was a certainty. His hand moved to the hilt of his blade, but did not draw it; instead, he acknowledged its presence. The air around the katana subtly tightened, as if space itself recognized his intent. With controlled precision, he partially unsheathed the blade—not to strike, but to cut. The act targeted continuity itself, not matter. The air split with a clean, silent cut, forming a narrow seam beside him—structured absence shaped into a passage.

He hesitated, watching the rupture as if confirming its behavior once more. Then he stepped into the seam and vanished.

Recollections: Where the Folds Meet

@Evil Ghost Note Totally forgot say I need a bit of a break. Been swamped with school. I got a final project left, then I'll be back at it. Give me a week or two.

@silvermist1116

It's totally cool. Saylor isn't involved in any scenes so we can just push her into the background for a bit. We are still in the beginning.

Recollections: Where the Folds Meet

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Interactions: Ella @FernStone, Valor @Drag, & Nora/Tyler @NoriWasHere
The Warehouse Party Massacre.

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Kari doesn’t answer immediately.

She simply can’t.

Everything around her is too loud, too fast, overwhelming, and somehow also delayed, as if her brain is a half-second behind everything that matters. Ella’s voice merges together, words twisting and slipping away before Kari can catch them fully. Nora’s grip is firm and real, yet feels distant, like she’s touching something through glass. They’re speaking to her. Waiting for her to respond. Her chest tightens. She knows she’s supposed to have the answer. But she just—her thoughts get caught. 'Observer.' That word doesn’t help; it only adds pressure. Ella is hurt, with a head injury, blood loss, and at least a concussion. She’s moving, but unsteady. Nora is shaking, overwhelmed, still able to function but barely. Lynn is talking strategy; calm, detached, with too much input and too many variables, at a rapid pace. Kari’s breathing becomes irregular and strained.

"...Stop talking just—just—"

Her voice falters halfway through. She quickly closes her eyes, hoping to somehow align her thoughts. But it doesn’t happen. Something shifts, and her eyes snap open. The monster is no longer fixated on them; it has already moved. Her gaze follows it—not smoothly, but with jagged, frame-skipping corrections, as if she’s struggling to keep up. It passes through its previous position and appears where it is now, causing Kari a moment of nausea as she tries to make sense of it. Then realization hits. It’s not about them anymore. It’s about Valor. Kari’s head jerks toward the knight just as he steps forward, loud and purposeful, drawing the creature’s focus like a flare. A small, temporary, but real window opens. Her breath catches. There. That’s—Her body moves instinctively, before she even finishes the thought.

"It’s not on us-" she blurts, voice sharp, urgent, almost panicked. “It’s focused on him-it’s-just_"

Kari grips Ella by the arm with more force than intended, attempting to lift her upright. The movement is awkward and unsteady—Ella’s weight shifts unpredictably, and her body fails to stabilize, causing Kari to nearly lose her hold.

"We’re leaving. Now. Come on-"

Her eyes shift back to the creature—no, not just the creature, but through it, following its movements to anticipate what it will do next. She can't quite predict everything yet, but she has enough understanding. Currently, it’s not paying attention to them, and that's the only thing that matters.

“Nora, help me. Get her up. This might be our only chance..”

Her voice has grown thinner and frayed, still attempting to sound in control but failing. Because deep down she knows this isn’t a plan; it’s a window that’s already closing.

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The Creature

Interactions: Valor (@Drag), & Lexi (@FernStone)
The Warehouse Party.

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The incoming debris initially seemed harmless, scattered, and inconsistent. The creature didn’t fully turn to face it; parts of its body responded independently. When chunks of concrete and metal struck, the surface shifted slightly to lessen the impact, softening in some areas and hardening in others.

As similar debris continued to strike, the creature adapted, forming ridges on its surface, not armor, but angled structures. Subsequent impacts deflected, redirected into tissue, or lost force, rendering them insignificant. It no longer focused on Lexi; her movements were processed, unstable, and her attacks broad and inefficient.

The real threat was Valor.

The creature’s body responded to him, shifting not directly towards him but in reaction to what he symbolized. Inside, the groove from the spear flexed, and tendrils twitched—not from damage, but recognition, as the weapon’s pattern became familiar. Bones began to form again, not as a cage but as segmented structures beneath the surface, aligned with probable entry points, meant to guide rather than stop the weapon. The interior channel thickened; some areas were intentionally soft, others hardened into dense nodes slightly offset from previous strikes, preparing for the next attack.

The white fire wasn’t remembered as pain, but as behavior; the creature changed its composition where the fire burned most effectively, forming resistant patches amidst softer tissue, which could shift to carry the burn elsewhere. It wasn’t trying to stop the fire but move it. The creature subtly adjusted its balance, lowering its center by compressing its mass and widening its internal channel, preparing itself.

It paused before attacking, making precise, small adjustments—limbs shifting, movement slowing, reducing waste. It was no longer reacting impulsively; it was focusing, filtering. Valor’s weapons ignited again—this was the constant, what truly mattered. The creature remained still, not out of hesitation, but because it had completed its preparation.

When the weapon next entered, it wouldn’t be leaving. It would be ready, controlling what comes next.

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???

Interactions: None.
???

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The blade was already in his hand when the opening appeared.

It came suddenly, without warning. One moment, there was nothing; then, a clean break in space formed like a doorway. He hesitated briefly, not out of doubt but to check. Too soon. The thought passed silently; he knew it would align in time. He adjusted his grip once and smoothly slid the katana into its sheath.

Then the opening sealed immediately behind him, leaving no sound or trace. The air beyond felt strange, heavy but familiar, as if something large had already occurred nearby, leaving a residual pressure. He moved forward steadily, confidently, navigating turns instinctively as if he knew the layout.

The sounds from inside echoed—metal breaking, concrete shifting, impacts replaying. Continuing, he slightly adjusted his direction, confirming his sheath was secure. A faint, out-of-place sensation flickered at the edge of his perception but vanished quickly. Ignoring it, he approached the damaged building, its interior exposed through broken sections.

Whatever was happening inside had not finished.

And that was the only condition that mattered.

Recollections: Where the Folds Meet

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The Creature

Interactions: Valor (@Drag), & Lexi (@FernStone)
The Warehouse Party.

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The creature did not think in words; instead, it understood sensations like pressure, heat, and movement-the subtle rhythm of soft things breaking. Corey arrived in an unexpected manner, not thrown or running, but deliberately placed. One moment, there was empty space beneath his descending limb; the next, a trembling, living body appeared, defying the slaughter’s flow. Confused, the creature hesitated, shifting mid-motion, joints flexing in unnatural ways to reconcile the contradiction.

Its focus sharpened, and the world dimmed around Corey’s outline as if reality itself hiccupped. The creature leaned in, trying to understand. Then, it made a decision. Its limb descended with impact, and Corey was instantly absorbed by the force. The creature felt the familiar, correct structure break. Yet, the disturbance lingered, an unsettling dissonance it couldn’t immediately resolve. Its body shuddered, mass twitching as if trying to digest not just flesh but the event itself. Then, the spear struck deep, and for the first time, its form was forced to change.

The spear carved through, and, for a moment, the monster held that shape around the wound. Then, it reacted violently. The flesh around the spear didn’t bleed but reorganized, layers peeling and folding inward, wrapping the shaft as if learning a new anatomy. Tendrils, too thin for veins but too deliberate for nerves, snaked along the spear, tasting and mapping it. The white fire burned, prompting the creature to change what could burn. Surrounding tissue blackened and hardened into a chitinous sheath, insulating deeper layers. Softer matter liquefied and shifted, redistributing damage from vital regions (though “vital” was constantly shifting).

Structures dissolved and reformed elsewhere, organs shifting to avoid the intrusion. The spear drove deeper, and the creature grew around it-a second “ribcage” unfolded within its torso, blooming like a grotesque flower of bone to trap the spear’s tip. Ribs snapped into place, intercepting and locking them into a cage of calcified matter that hadn’t existed moments before. Its surface rippled again—a face appeared near the wound, not Corey’s but something older and angrier. It split open quickly, teeth or tooth-like protrusions grinding uselessly against the embedded shaft. The creature emitted a sound—not a roar or a cry of pain, but an adjustment. Its mass shifted forward, deliberately impaling itself further to understand the resistance. Tendrils tightened, pulsing to learn the rhythm of the fire and how it consumed.

They then adapted, slowing the burn but not stopping it completely, producing a thick, translucent coating around the spear. The substance bubbled, burning away, reforming repeatedly until a terrible equilibrium was reached. The creature steadied—not in defiance but in understanding. The white fire still burned inside, but now had defined edges. Tendrils tightened along the spear’s length, pulsing slowly, as if the weapon had become part of a circulatory system that didn’t exist seconds before. It tested the boundary. Its torso flexed, and the spear moved with it. Not freely, not yet.

The inner cage of bone ground against the shaft, splintering and reforming in each instant—each break a calculation, each regrowth a correction. The coating thickened, bubbling where the fire resisted, until the reaction dulled from raging burn to contained friction. The creature leaned forward and twisted before a wet, industrial tearing sound filled the warehouse. Its upper mass rotated independently of a spine, dragging the spear along as muscles and tissues tightened in sequence, forcing the weapon to conform to its new geometry.

More bones grew around, forming jagged, ivory segments that spiraled up the embedded shaft, turning it into a handle within a living mechanism. The creature didn’t pull the weapon free; removal became irrelevant. Its limb—if it could still be called that—split open, unfolding into layered grips that clamped over the exposed part of the spear. Each “finger” sealed shut, fusing into a solid mass around it. Now, it had leverage—now, it understood. Its full attention was on Valor. For the first time, its movement aligned with intent. It stepped—or rather, compressed—forward, its bulk condensing and releasing like a coiled spring of flesh and bone. The floor cratered beneath as it drove itself through the space between them, dragging the spear—and everything attached—along. Then, it swung—not wildly, but with precision.

The internal cage shifted at the exact moment of impact, releasing just enough resistance to convert its entire body’s momentum into the arc of the strike. The spear became an extension of the creature’s axis, a pivot point weaponized by something that had only just learned what a weapon was.

Valor didn’t just get hit—

—he was carried.

Driven sideways in a violent, uninterrupted line as the spear tore free from its internal constraints at the last possible instant, bone snapping open to let it slide, tissue parting and resealing around the motion like a living sheath. Wall met body and lost. The impact detonated through rusted metal and concrete alike, the structure giving way in a scream of tearing supports and collapsing panels as Valor was launched through it, white fire trailing in a fractured arc behind him.

The creature stood there, half-open. The wound where the spear had been was no longer a wound. The inner ribcage collapsed inward, bones liquefying into a thick slurry before rehardening in a different configuration. The charred outer layer cracked and peeled away in slabs, revealing fresh, pale tissue beneath that pulsed with a slow, deliberate rhythm. The translucent coating remained, now lining the interior like a membrane that remembered the spear's shape. And it kept building. A groove formed where the weapon had sat—perfectly contoured, reinforced with layered bone and dense muscle, as if preparing for the next time something like that tried to define it.

The air around it seemed to tighten as its attention narrowed—

”You owe me a fucking drummer, Tyler!”

Lexi

-And settled on Lexi. She was not fleeing, and that alone was significant. More than that, her movement defied the flow—while others dispersed, she pressed forward. In a time of chaos and panic, she maintained a strange form, detached from the madness. To the creature, this was not insanity but pattern deviation. Its mass rippled, the inside groove of its torso flexed as if recalling the spear, with tendrils twitching internally, reacting not to injury but in anticipation. Lexi pointed, spoke, and moved towards Tyler. The creature ignored her words but perceived her direction and intent.

It shifted slightly, redistributing weight, limbs adjusting into new positions on the fractured floor, bones sliding into place with faint cracks. It was preparing—not to attack blindly, but to intercept. Part of its torso split open again—not violently but precisely, revealing a reinforced channel lined with a heat-resistant membrane—an indication of learning and adaptation. No longer regenerating randomly, it was designing, learning from its wounds to become a tool.

The creature took a step. The ground cracked and gave way, as if expecting impact but failing to withstand it. Its movement grew faster, cleaner, and with no wasted motion. It was no longer reacting; it was hunting.

And Lexi had just become the most intriguing thing in the room.

Recollections: Where the Folds Meet

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Interactions: Ella @FernStone, & Nora @NoriWasHere
The Warehouse Party Massacre.

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Kari approaches the window, hand braced on the frame, ready to climb, but suddenly everything shifts. Her thoughts falter, sounds distort, and movements slow down. A sharp pain and a sense of wrongness flood her mind, then she sees it: Isabelle, a thread in her chest pulling violently out of place, as if space itself warps and lifts her body without support.

The thread tugs again, then stretches away into the outside. Her body jerks with the force of it, and a cry escapes her: "ISABELLE!" The feeling of loss is immediate and raw. Her body freezes, caught between escaping and being fixed in place. She clenches her fists on the wall without feeling it. Confused, she recalls how she was attentive (she knew something was wrong) and wonders why she hadn’t acted sooner. Another pulse hits her harder, causing her world to wobble. She missed the signs, misunderstood the danger, always presuming there’s time. But she was watching. That’s the point. Yet everything still seems to slip away. The thread weakens and fades; her chest tightens. Desperate, she struggles to think and move, but her mind clings to understanding, trying to catch up with what’s already occurred. It’s impossible. That truth hits hard: she’s always behind.

For a brief moment, Kari stops—then something sparks within her.

Kari doesn’t fall. She just... stops. The warehouse noise becomes distant, like it’s happening behind glass. Her breath catches, not from fear, but because something inside her has shifted. Then the presence arrives. Just there, like someone sitting beside her.

“Ah. There you are.” The voice is old but smooth, familiar in a way she doesn’t understand yet.

“She’s a bit early, isn’t she?”

“Early? No, no. She's right on time. She’s just dramatic about it.”

Kari tries to speak, but nothing comes out. “What.... is happening?”

A pause, as if they’re smiling.

“Oh, that’s a good question.”

“You’re kindling, sweetheart.”

Her mind stalls at the word—kindling.

“Long story short? We’re your ancestors. Curators of the Owl’s Library. Or what’s left of it in you.”

Her chest tightens further. “Ancestors…?” “Oh yes,” the first voice says casually.

“Very old family business. Watching. Recording. Not interfering unless things get really messy.”

“.... And things are getting messy,” the second adds lightly.

“In case you hadn’t noticed.”

The space around her shifts—like awareness itself is turning.

“You’ve got White Lux,” the first continues.

“Information. Perception. Seeing how things connect when others cannot.”

“White Lux...?”

“Not flashy,” the second voice says, almost fondly. “But very, very important.”

A pause. “Especially now.” Kari’s breathing steadies (Just barely).

“Magic is real?” And a soft laugh answers.

“Oh, yes. Always has been. People just get very creative about ignoring it.”

"And our specialty is Observation," the first voice adds, with the word standing out differently.

It resonates more strongly than the others.

“All-seeing eye. Look far enough, and distance no longer matters."

"Observation..."

A quiet hum of approval.

"It's an old spell,” the second voice explains. "Handed down. Not something you start with. Something you learn.”

Kari’s thoughts tighten.

“What does it do?”

"It allows you to see and hear places as if you’re there,” the first voice states simply. “If you focus. If you learn how to anchor it properly.”

A pause.

“You’ll need to learn it on your own. We just don’t have the time to teach you now.”

Something shifts again—her perception expands outward uncontrollably.

“Then why tell me now?”

A gentle sigh.

“Because you’re going to need it.”

“Your friends are waking up.”

That hits harder than anything else.

“Not like you,” the second voice says. “Not White Lux. Different paths. Different sparks.”

“But they are changing,” the first continues softly. “And there's only one like you in Cornell.”

A pause.

“The observer.”

Kari’s fingers twitch against the wall.

"Observer..?"

“The one who sees first,” the first voice explains. “The one who understands what’s happening before it happens.”

“And the one who keeps them from dying because no one else knew how to look,” the second adds, almost matter-of-factly.

Kari’s breath catches.

"I... don’t know how to do that.”

A gentle, affectionate laugh.

“Oh, you will.”

“We didn’t either,” the second voice admits. “At first.”

A pause.

Then more quietly:

“You’re not just watching, Kari. You’re responsible for what you see.”

The weight of that settles slowly—like gravity shifting in the wrong direction.

“That’s... not fair.”

Another pause—then warmth again.

“No,” the first voice agrees with a shrug. “It isn’t.”

“But you're the only one who can do it,” The second voice begins. "The other ones, they have strength. They have power. But to stay alive, you're going to need a little more than muscle, if you catch my drift."

The world sharpens around her.

Far beyond the warehouse, something shifts, threads she can’t yet name, but can feel beginning to form. Then, briefly—so briefly it seems almost accidental-

“The Owl will explain more,” the first voice says.

A short pause.

“He’s... complicated. Old. Curious. A pain in the ass. Keeper of the Library.”

A slight hesitation, as if choosing words carefully.

“You’ll understand him fully when you meet him. Not now. We don’t have time to do him justice.”

“Just remember," the second voice adds softly, “He sees everything. Always has.”

A pause.

“You’ll learn about him the same way we did. The hard way.”

The first voice exhales softly.

“She’s going to overthink this.”

“Of course she is,” the second responds. “She’s ours.”

A pause.

"Now, look, sweetheart."

Kari recalibrated, returning disoriented. Still unhealed, unsettled, as if she’s been abruptly dropped back into reality. The sound precedes her vision: screams, overwhelming panic, and a shattering sensation that shouldn’t be possible. Her sight fixes on Ella, luminous and surreal, rushing toward the chaos as if victory is within reach. Nora is closer than expected, standing directly in the danger zone of an uncontrollable creature. The monster shifts, causing Kari’s perception to falter.

For a second, everything feels delayed, like the world is happening half a heartbeat ahead of her.

Her chest tightens.

No.

No, no—

“Ella, NORA, what are you two doing?!”

Her voice cracks hard, sharp enough to cut through the noise but not enough to control it.

Ella keeps moving.

Nora doesn’t back up.

Kari’s panic spikes instantly.

“GET BACK-GET AWAY FROM IT!”

She takes a step forward without thinking, then immediately hesitates as the air around the monster warps again, like reality itself is refusing to agree on its shape. Danger is imminent, too close, and wildly unpredictable. Her breath falters. She yells helplessly, pleading for them to stop moving closer.

Too close. Her breath stutters.

“STOP—DON’T GO ANY CLOSER!”

The monster moves too quickly for Kari’s slow perception to keep up and then strikes. Ella is in the middle of a motion, hope, and the idea of herself as capable, when the creature hits her, throwing her sideways into the wall with brutal force. The impact is so sharp that Kari feels it more in her teeth than in her eyes. Nora, caught in the same instant, is knocked off balance. For a brief moment, everything freezes in a terrible stillness; Ella slumped against the wall, Nora falling back, the monster already turning away as if it wasn’t the point—and Kari’s mind tries to process, fails, and then breaks as she accepts that it’s moving on to a different target.

Kari acts before her thoughts catch up, moving with lightning speed. She reaches Ella in an instant, a pace that doesn’t seem her own, and drops beside her, hands hovering nervously as if touching might worsen things. "Ella-Ella! Ella, are you okay? Can you hear me?" she asks sharply, her voice breaking slightly at the edges. She quickly turns to Nora, eyes wide and breathing unevenly. "Nora—Nora, talk to me—please, are you okay?!"

Behind them, the monster continues its approach towards a different target.

Vicky.

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Something broke.

In ways I’ve seen before.

A fracture not in ground, but in agreement—like reality can’t decide what “here” is anymore. Trying to exist in two places and failing.

Something deeper is pushing through. The Pit.

Close enough to stain.

And she’s coming because of it.

I don’t need more.

Too late and it’s gone. Too early, and I lose her again.

Cornell won’t hold this.

Either way—it’s begun.

Recollections: Where the Folds Meet

Zakira G. Watson

Alternate Themesong

“Don’t guess. Just... look closer.”

_______________________________________________ Zakira Gloria Watson She/Her | 16 | African-American | 5'6ft | 146lb _______________________________________________ Calibration _______________________________________________ Skills & Talents "If I miss, it’s because I didn’t understand it yet." ___________________________________ [+] Archery ⫻ Zakira is a self-taught archer who honed her skills through repeated practice rather than formal training. Her technique is slow, deliberate, and focused, emphasizing precision over speed. She relies on consistent posture and muscle memory, taking her time to carefully align each shot rather than reacting swiftly under pressure. Her accuracy is at its peak in calm, controlled settings, but diminishes when she is stressed or under observation. She often overanalyzes factors like distance and timing, which can delay her release during fast-paced situations. Still, her consistency gradually improves through disciplined practice and meticulous error correction. Archery also serves as a grounding activity for her, providing a steady rhythm that enhances her focus and helps manage stress. Botany Knowledge ⫻ Zakira has a fundamental yet expanding knowledge of plants acquired through her personal gardening experience. She identifies common species, recognizes growth patterns, and understands general plant behavior across various conditions. Although not academically trained, this knowledge directly affects her use of Green Lux, thereby influencing her ability to reliably generate specific forms or structures. Environmental Awareness ⫻ Zakira has always been naturally observant, but following her Kindling Event, this trait became even more acute and constant. She instinctively notices minor inconsistencies in her environment—such as shifts in movement, spacing, tone, or behavior—that others often miss. This isn’t about predicting the future, but rather an innate feeling that something feels off. Over time, she has grown more confident in trusting these subtle cues, even if she can’t always articulate them.

Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ “I don’t mean to stand out... and yet, I always get noticed.” The first thing people notice about Zakira is how easily she can be overlooked. She doesn’t draw attention and looks quite unremarkable at first glance, blending in with everyone else. However, a closer look reveals she’s more put-together than she appears. Her skin is smooth and evenly toned, with naturally balanced features that are neither styled nor emphasized. Her eyes are calm, but occasionally show a hint of hesitation, as if she’s a step behind her surroundings. Her overall vibe is quiet and reserved, yet not entirely settled. She seems shy, speaking only when necessary and often unsure when or how to share her thoughts. She’s still learning how to navigate social situations—she doesn’t try to stand out, but struggles to disappear as effortlessly as she’d like. There’s a subtle awkwardness in her expressions, which are controlled but imperfect. Sometimes, her reactions linger a moment too long, or she nearly says something and stops herself. Others might mistakenly think she’s inattentive or indifferent, but she usually cares deeply, just in her own way, and doesn’t often correct misunderstandings. Her mannerisms are restrained but not polished, more like she’s trying to stay inconspicuous. She rarely fidgets, but when she does, it’s to adjust her sleeves, shift her weight, or reposition her hands; uncertain what to do with them. Her movements are quiet and steady, though occasionally overly cautious, as if she’s thinking through each step. When she speaks, her voice is soft and level, tinged with uncertainty. She tends to keep sentences brief, sometimes pausing or simplifying her thoughts. She makes brief eye contact before looking away, often pausing before responding, as if she’s contemplating what to say. Zakira is black, with deep, even-toned skin and natural features. She stands around 5’6”, with a posture that varies; leaning inward when distracted, but straightening when focusing. This fluctuation sometimes makes her seem like two different people. Her build is in the “skinnyfat” range—soft in some areas, not overtly toned—yet faint signs of strength are present beneath the surface. Her arms and shoulders, more defined from habitual movement than training, hint at an “archer build”—not athletic in a conventional way, but practiced and self-taught, built slowly over time. Her clothing is simple and practical: button-ups, plain tops, jeans, or relaxed pants. The color palette is soft and neutral—light blues, whites, greens—and while not styled for fashion, her clothes are clean, often chosen for comfort rather than appearance.

_{Psychology
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Pay attention... that’s usually where things go wrong."

MAIN GOAL ⫻ Zakira’s primary aim is to achieve stability, both internally and externally. She does not pursue fame, revenge, or ambition. Instead, her focus is on understanding the situation at Cornell sufficiently to stop feeling like she is merely reacting to events. Her magic provides her with a unique sense of control, allowing her to quietly develop her skills so she can address threats early, before they grow worse. Above all, she desires to avoid being caught off guard by life's surprises.

PHILOSOPHY ⫻ Zakaria believes that many problems stem from overlooking what already exists. She perceives the world as a constant stream of subtle patterns, behaviors, and inconsistencies that most people miss due to distraction or overconfidence. For her, survival depends more on awareness, patience, and correction rather than strength or aggression. She values repetition, careful observation, and gradual understanding over instinct or impulse. When something feels off, it's usually accurate; it simply requires time to identify why. She doesn’t see the world as inherently kind or cruel—rather, it's easy to misinterpret.

SECRETS ⫻ Zakira seldom reveals how much she perceives. Since Kindling, she has quietly realized that her perception has changed—she detects patterns, shifts, and a sense of 'wrongness” that others overlook.

SEXUALITY ⫻ Zakira remains unsure and is not actively seeking relationships. She finds emotional bonds more confusing than comforting and has difficulty understanding her feelings of attraction clearly. Her focus tends to be on stability, safety, and emotional predictability rather than romance or physical attraction. Currently, she chooses not to label herself and prefers to observe rather than engage.

FEARS ⫻ Zakira fears making mistakes she can't undo. It's not about failing but realizing too late or misunderstanding something crucial. She is afraid of misjudging reality and harming others by failing to act. She also worries about being watched—not in a dramatic way, but feeling the pressure of being observed when unsure. The thought of standing out and being judged before she's ready causes her to withdraw. On a deeper level, she fears that simply being aware won’t be enough—that she will keep noticing problems without ever fully solving them.

REPUTATION ⫻ Zakira appears quiet, polite, and somewhat reserved. People often say she's “hard to read,” not unfriendly. While she's not widely popular, she's not disliked either—she tends to stay on the fringes of social groups, only really noticed when she's missing. Those who know her well view her as dependable in subtle ways: observant, cautious, and surprisingly perceptive during moments of confusion or disorder.

FLAWS ⫻ Zakira’s main flaw is her tendency to avoid direct conflict. She usually prefers de-escalation, silence, or withdrawal instead of confrontation, even when confrontation is needed. This stems not just from passivity but from a deep belief that she handles conflict poorly, often escalating or worsening it. Consequently, she tends to leave problems unresolved until they feel unmanageable. Her confidence is fragile and uncertain. Even when right, Zakira doubts her judgment without external validation. She second-guesses her perceptions, especially under pressure, making decisive action hard. Her lack of self-trust often leads her to rely on others or to wait for a “clear certainty” that rarely exists in real life.

She also avoids being the center of attention in meaningful ways. While she functions well in groups, she feels uncomfortable taking initiative or asserting herself, often settling for passive support roles rather than leadership or decision-making. If her input might be challenged or dismissed, she prefers to stay quiet rather than risk public embarrassment. Emotionally, Zakira internalizes stress, rarely expressing frustration, fear, or uncertainty. She processes emotions privately, leading to emotional buildup that she seldom releases healthily. When overwhelmed, her instinct is to retreat—physically or socially—rather than confront the source of pressure.

This makes her highly observant and reliable in stable environments but vulnerable under high pressure or rapid change, where hesitation, self-doubt, and avoidance can cause her to miss opportunities or react too slowly.

_{Backstory
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
“I thought I could just blend into the background... turns out life doesn’t let you do that.”

Zakira grew up in Cornell, feeling like she never quite belonged. Her home life was steady, quiet, busy, and distant; no one paid critical attention, yet no one neglected her either. She learned early to stay out of the way, occupy herself quietly, and avoid asking for much. Most days, she was alone, inside or outside, seeking places where she wouldn't be bothered. School was harder. Zakira wasn’t socially loud or quick, making her an easy target for bullying. It wasn’t constant violence but ongoing comments, jokes, being ignored, or talked over. Over time, it wore her down, leading her to stop fighting back. Silence felt safer than making things worse.

To escape it, she spent more time outside, where her overgrown backyard became her sanctuary. Tending to the plants gave her a stable focus. They were predictable; if she paid attention, they grew; if she didn’t, they didn’t. No guessing, no pressure. It became a routine, a way to control something without needing skills or power. She discovered archery through school, mainly because it didn’t require talking. She started out badly but persisted, repeating the same motions until they became natural. Her progress was slow, but steady, and soon she improved without anyone noticing how much effort she’d put in.

She only attended a warehouse party because others told her she should “get out more.” She kept to the edges, watching rather than joining, already uncomfortable even before anything truly happened. When the attack started, Zakira froze. Her Kindling Event hit unexpectedly, overwhelming and disorienting her. It wasn’t about power: it was awareness. Suddenly, the world revealed something beneath its surface that she couldn’t quite understand but couldn’t ignore.

She doesn’t remember choosing anything during that moment. Something shifted inside her, and afterward, everything felt... different, sharper, more noticeable. Patterns visible before now seemed clearer, as if she finally saw what had been hidden or just unseen. After that night, Zakira no longer left confused about whether anything had changed-she knew it had. The difference was that she didn’t yet understand how to use it.

She kept her discovery to herself and began experimenting on her own.

Initially, her efforts were clumsy and frustrating. Zakira started paying more attention to things she already understood. Gardening, routine, repetition. She didn’t begin with magic; she began with what she could control. Most of the time, nothing happened. When responses did occur, they were inconsistent; growth occurred at different speeds, shapes appeared uneven, and results didn’t always match her intentions.

However, Zakira didn’t give up when faced with setbacks.

She approached it like everything else in her life: through repetition, trial and error, and small adjustments. She treated it as a process rather than a mystery, changing one factor at a time and observing what made a real difference. Over time, she realized it wasn’t just about actions but also about intent—how clearly she could visualize her goal and maintain that focus.

That’s when it became reliable.

Once she established consistency, she integrated this new skill into her existing knowledge. Archery became more than just a skill; it served as a framework. The draw, the aim, the release—they provided a structure to anchor her focus. She started attaching small seed pouches to her arrows, transforming them into carriers for her spells, instead of trying to conjure everything directly from nothing.

Even then, it wasn’t flawless. Some shots were perfect, others misfired, overgrown, misplaced, or weaker than intended. But now, failure wasn’t a stop sign. It was just another step to adjust.

She’s still learning, refining. But unlike before, this isn’t something that just happened to her.

It’s something she’s actively creating.

_{Abstraction
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
“Sometimes it listens. Sometimes it guesses.”

TYPE ⫻ Adept.

ABSTRACTION ⫻ Green Lux, Zakira's channeler is a dandelion seed locket.

ABSTRACTION DESCRIPTION ⫻

Verdancy ⫻ Zakira manifests Green Lux using seed pouches—small biological catalysts she is still learning to master. Usually, for convenience, she embeds them on arrows; she can also scatter, throw, or bury them in soil or on surfaces with enough “life potential” for Green Lux to activate. At this stage, she’s experimenting with what qualifies as a valid activation point. Once a seed pouch is placed, Zakira channels Green Lux into it, instantly transforming it into fully formed plant structures. This isn’t biological acceleration but direct manifestation, where her intent and imagination complete an incomplete reality. Being new to Verdancy, her system isn’t perfectly refined. Sometimes plants emerge exactly as she envisions; other times, they are slightly misshapen, unstable, or behave unexpectedly. She is still learning what her magic interprets as a “valid" representation of her thoughts.

This ability enables her to instantly produce vines, roots, thorns, moss spreads, bark formations, and flowers at each seed location, allowing her to reshape terrain in real time. Her success depends on her knowledge of plant biology, her ability to visualize structure and function under pressure, and her growing intuition about what feels “right” for the plant to become. When she understands a plant well, she can produce it accurately and reliably. Without that understanding, the results may be simpler, less stable, or behave unpredictably—still useful, but less dependable.

At this stage, she’s exploring the best ways to deploy seeds, so her fighting style is partly structured and partly improvisational. She knows her system’s capabilities but is still discovering how it prefers to manifest in her hands.

Venom-Arrow ⫻ Zakira channels Green Lux into a temporary toxin she can apply to any arrow at the moment of firing. The venom is not physical but a Lux-based biological override that activates on impact with a living target, causing localized necrosis and rapid tissue breakdown around the wound. The effect is precise but unstable. When her focus and visualization are clear, the necrosis spreads cleanly and quickly; when they aren’t, it can become uneven, slower, or partially ineffective. Because Zakira is still learning the biological details and controls, the severity and spread of the effect vary with her understanding of the target’s anatomy. Venom Arrow is a single-use, momentary construct that cannot be sustained or layered repeatedly without weakening the effect. It functions best as a precision strike to disable or weaken targets rather than as a wide-area damage tool.

LIMITS ⫻ Zakaria cannot generate plant matter from nothing; each effect demands seed material or a biological source. Without proper preparation, her Abstraction becomes less effective and less reliable. The success of her verdancy magic depends greatly on the environment. Sterile, burnt, or heavily artificial areas hinder growth, slowing it or leading to weaker structures. Cold or chemically hostile conditions can delay activation or yield distorted results. Additionally, her magic is not instant in its current form. Even rapid growth processes have a delay period during which opponents can react, damage seedlings, or interrupt the formation before it fully matures.

Zakira’s Abstraction relies heavily on understanding, preparation, and environmental factors, making it unreliable on unfamiliar or rapidly changing terrain. Since her Verdancy isn't completely instinctive yet, gaps in her knowledge of plant structures can lead to weaker or unstable forms. If she misjudges her creation, the result may still appear, but often as a less effective or flawed version lacking durability. Her dependence on seed pouches also limits her tempo and availability. When supplies are low or she faces prolonged combat without time to restock, her options become very limited. Although she is learning to improvise, her most powerful and consistent effects still come from planned strategies rather than spontaneous creation.

Her main challenge in confined spaces is feeling overwhelmed by the surroundings. Verdancy performs best when she can easily see the growth points and understand their connections. Multiple seed points activating at once or enemies moving unpredictably through her formations can make it hard for her to mentally distinguish structures. This often leads to hesitation, making her control more reactive than intended. When faced with direct combat without time to prepare or establish terrain, she becomes significantly more cautious. Not weaker overall, but with fewer options—she ceases trying to shape the fight and focuses solely on survival. Venom-Arrow is inherently unstable during formation. If her internal alignment is disrupted during activation, the effect loses coherence, leading to weaker or partial necrosis rather than full propagation.

WEAKNESSES ⫻ Zakira’s Abstraction is highly sensitive to disruptions in her intent. If her focus breaks during activation, her Verdancy not only fails but also produces incorrect or unstable growths, potentially hindering her movement, impairing visibility, or creating dangerous terrain for both sides. Her output becomes inconsistent under mental stress, as her Abstraction relies heavily on uninterrupted internal pacing. Any disruption to her rhythm causes cascading timing errors, causing her actions to fall out of sync with her intended sequence and reducing overall coordination across multiple seed points. Recovering from failed or misfired manifestations is difficult; instead of cleanly resetting, her cognition often “echoes” the failed intent, biasing her toward repeating or compensating even when it's no longer optimal. In high-pressure situations, her ability to visualize complex plant structures diminishes, leading her manifestations to default to simpler, less durable forms with less control. Her Abstraction also struggles in close-range combat; when near enemies, her control over activation points drops significantly, resulting in less precise and often incomplete manifestations. Prolonged use causes rapid mental fatigue. Additionally, her Venom-Arrow formulation is psychologically intrusive; repeated use triggers mild aversion responses, increasing her hesitation subconsciously even when she tries to act decisively.

^{Other
_{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Not all of us were meant for the spotlight. Some of us are here to help the people who are."

Zakira mainly uses a traditional hunting bow, valuing its reliability and simple design over modern or specialized options. Her leather hip quiver, filled with standard arrows, is kept organized and easily accessible for quick use. When possible, she recovers spent arrows after each engagement. This practice is practical and habitual; it is focused on maintaining her supply and control over her limited resources rather than sentiment.

Recollections: Where the Folds Meet

Zakira G. Watson

Alternate Themesong

“Don’t guess. Just... look closer.”

_______________________________________________ Zakira Gloria Watson She/Her | 16 | African-American | 5'6ft | 146lb _______________________________________________ Calibration _______________________________________________ Skills & Talents "If I miss, it’s because I didn’t understand it yet." ___________________________________ [+] Archery ⫻ Zakira is a self-taught archer who honed her skills through repeated practice rather than formal training. Her technique is slow, deliberate, and focused, emphasizing precision over speed. She relies on consistent posture and muscle memory, taking her time to carefully align each shot rather than reacting swiftly under pressure. Her accuracy is at its peak in calm, controlled settings, but diminishes when she is stressed or under observation. She often overanalyzes factors like distance and timing, which can delay her release during fast-paced situations. Still, her consistency gradually improves through disciplined practice and meticulous error correction. Archery also serves as a grounding activity for her, providing a steady rhythm that enhances her focus and helps manage stress. Botany Knowledge ⫻ Zakira has a fundamental yet expanding knowledge of plants acquired through her personal gardening experience. She identifies common species, recognizes growth patterns, and understands general plant behavior across various conditions. Although not academically trained, this knowledge directly affects her use of Green Lux, thereby influencing her ability to reliably generate specific forms or structures. Environmental Awareness ⫻ Zakira has always been naturally observant, but following her Kindling Event, this trait became even more acute and constant. She instinctively notices minor inconsistencies in her environment—such as shifts in movement, spacing, tone, or behavior—that others often miss. This isn’t about predicting the future, but rather an innate feeling that something feels off. Over time, she has grown more confident in trusting these subtle cues, even if she can’t always articulate them.

Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ “I don’t mean to stand out... and yet, I always get noticed.” The first thing people notice about Zakira is how easily she can be overlooked. She doesn’t draw attention and looks quite unremarkable at first glance, blending in with everyone else. However, a closer look reveals she’s more put-together than she appears. Her skin is smooth and evenly toned, with naturally balanced features that are neither styled nor emphasized. Her eyes are calm, but occasionally show a hint of hesitation, as if she’s a step behind her surroundings. Her overall vibe is quiet and reserved, yet not entirely settled. She seems shy, speaking only when necessary and often unsure when or how to share her thoughts. She’s still learning how to navigate social situations—she doesn’t try to stand out, but struggles to disappear as effortlessly as she’d like. There’s a subtle awkwardness in her expressions, which are controlled but imperfect. Sometimes, her reactions linger a moment too long, or she nearly says something and stops herself. Others might mistakenly think she’s inattentive or indifferent, but she usually cares deeply, just in her own way, and doesn’t often correct misunderstandings. Her mannerisms are restrained but not polished, more like she’s trying to stay inconspicuous. She rarely fidgets, but when she does, it’s to adjust her sleeves, shift her weight, or reposition her hands; uncertain what to do with them. Her movements are quiet and steady, though occasionally overly cautious, as if she’s thinking through each step. When she speaks, her voice is soft and level, tinged with uncertainty. She tends to keep sentences brief, sometimes pausing or simplifying her thoughts. She makes brief eye contact before looking away, often pausing before responding, as if she’s contemplating what to say. Zakira is black, with deep, even-toned skin and natural features. She stands around 5’6”, with a posture that varies; leaning inward when distracted, but straightening when focusing. This fluctuation sometimes makes her seem like two different people. Her build is in the “skinnyfat” range—soft in some areas, not overtly toned—yet faint signs of strength are present beneath the surface. Her arms and shoulders, more defined from habitual movement than training, hint at an “archer build”—not athletic in a conventional way, but practiced and self-taught, built slowly over time. Her clothing is simple and practical: button-ups, plain tops, jeans, or relaxed pants. The color palette is soft and neutral—light blues, whites, greens—and while not styled for fashion, her clothes are clean, often chosen for comfort rather than appearance.

_{Psychology
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Pay attention... that’s usually where things go wrong."

MAIN GOAL ⫻ Zakira’s primary aim is to achieve stability, both internally and externally. She does not pursue fame, revenge, or ambition. Instead, her focus is on understanding the situation at Cornell sufficiently to stop feeling like she is merely reacting to events. Her magic provides her with a unique sense of control, allowing her to quietly develop her skills so she can address threats early, before they grow worse. Above all, she desires to avoid being caught off guard by life's surprises.

PHILOSOPHY ⫻ Zakaria believes that many problems stem from overlooking what already exists. She perceives the world as a constant stream of subtle patterns, behaviors, and inconsistencies that most people miss due to distraction or overconfidence. For her, survival depends more on awareness, patience, and correction rather than strength or aggression. She values repetition, careful observation, and gradual understanding over instinct or impulse. When something feels off, it's usually accurate; it simply requires time to identify why. She doesn’t see the world as inherently kind or cruel—rather, it's easy to misinterpret.

SECRETS ⫻ Zakira seldom reveals how much she perceives. Since Kindling, she has quietly realized that her perception has changed—she detects patterns, shifts, and a sense of 'wrongness” that others overlook.

SEXUALITY ⫻ Zakira remains unsure and is not actively seeking relationships. She finds emotional bonds more confusing than comforting and has difficulty understanding her feelings of attraction clearly. Her focus tends to be on stability, safety, and emotional predictability rather than romance or physical attraction. Currently, she chooses not to label herself and prefers to observe rather than engage.

FEARS ⫻ Zakira fears making mistakes she can't undo. It's not about failing but realizing too late or misunderstanding something crucial. She is afraid of misjudging reality and harming others by failing to act. She also worries about being watched—not in a dramatic way, but feeling the pressure of being observed when unsure. The thought of standing out and being judged before she's ready causes her to withdraw. On a deeper level, she fears that simply being aware won’t be enough—that she will keep noticing problems without ever fully solving them.

REPUTATION ⫻ Zakira appears quiet, polite, and somewhat reserved. People often say she's “hard to read,” not unfriendly. While she's not widely popular, she's not disliked either—she tends to stay on the fringes of social groups, only really noticed when she's missing. Those who know her well view her as dependable in subtle ways: observant, cautious, and surprisingly perceptive during moments of confusion or disorder.

FLAWS ⫻ Zakira’s main flaw is her tendency to avoid direct conflict. She usually prefers de-escalation, silence, or withdrawal instead of confrontation, even when confrontation is needed. This stems not just from passivity but from a deep belief that she handles conflict poorly, often escalating or worsening it. Consequently, she tends to leave problems unresolved until they feel unmanageable. Her confidence is fragile and uncertain. Even when right, Zakira doubts her judgment without external validation. She second-guesses her perceptions, especially under pressure, making decisive action hard. Her lack of self-trust often leads her to rely on others or to wait for a “clear certainty” that rarely exists in real life.

She also avoids being the center of attention in meaningful ways. While she functions well in groups, she feels uncomfortable taking initiative or asserting herself, often settling for passive support roles rather than leadership or decision-making. If her input might be challenged or dismissed, she prefers to stay quiet rather than risk public embarrassment. Emotionally, Zakira internalizes stress, rarely expressing frustration, fear, or uncertainty. She processes emotions privately, leading to emotional buildup that she seldom releases healthily. When overwhelmed, her instinct is to retreat—physically or socially—rather than confront the source of pressure.

This makes her highly observant and reliable in stable environments but vulnerable under high pressure or rapid change, where hesitation, self-doubt, and avoidance can cause her to miss opportunities or react too slowly.

_{Backstory
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
“I thought I could just blend into the background... turns out life doesn’t let you do that.”

Zakira grew up in Cornell, feeling like she never quite belonged. Her home life was steady, quiet, busy, and distant; no one paid critical attention, yet no one neglected her either. She learned early to stay out of the way, occupy herself quietly, and avoid asking for much. Most days, she was alone, inside or outside, seeking places where she wouldn't be bothered. School was harder. Zakira wasn’t socially loud or quick, making her an easy target for bullying. It wasn’t constant violence but ongoing comments, jokes, being ignored, or talked over. Over time, it wore her down, leading her to stop fighting back. Silence felt safer than making things worse.

To escape it, she spent more time outside, where her overgrown backyard became her sanctuary. Tending to the plants gave her a stable focus. They were predictable; if she paid attention, they grew; if she didn’t, they didn’t. No guessing, no pressure. It became a routine, a way to control something without needing skills or power. She discovered archery through school, mainly because it didn’t require talking. She started out badly but persisted, repeating the same motions until they became natural. Her progress was slow, but steady, and soon she improved without anyone noticing how much effort she’d put in.

She only attended a warehouse party because others told her she should “get out more.” She kept to the edges, watching rather than joining, already uncomfortable even before anything truly happened. When the attack started, Zakira froze. Her Kindling Event hit unexpectedly, overwhelming and disorienting her. It wasn’t about power: it was awareness. Suddenly, the world revealed something beneath its surface that she couldn’t quite understand but couldn’t ignore.

She doesn’t remember choosing anything during that moment. Something shifted inside her, and afterward, everything felt... different, sharper, more noticeable. Patterns visible before now seemed clearer, as if she finally saw what had been hidden or just unseen. After that night, Zakira no longer left confused about whether anything had changed-she knew it had. The difference was that she didn’t yet understand how to use it.

She kept her discovery to herself and began experimenting on her own.

Initially, her efforts were clumsy and frustrating. Zakira started paying more attention to things she already understood. Gardening, routine, repetition. She didn’t begin with magic; she began with what she could control. Most of the time, nothing happened. When responses did occur, they were inconsistent; growth occurred at different speeds, shapes appeared uneven, and results didn’t always match her intentions.

However, Zakira didn’t give up when faced with setbacks.

She approached it like everything else in her life: through repetition, trial and error, and small adjustments. She treated it as a process rather than a mystery, changing one factor at a time and observing what made a real difference. Over time, she realized it wasn’t just about actions but also about intent—how clearly she could visualize her goal and maintain that focus.

That’s when it became reliable.

Once she established consistency, she integrated this new skill into her existing knowledge. Archery became more than just a skill; it served as a framework. The draw, the aim, the release—they provided a structure to anchor her focus. She started attaching small seed pouches to her arrows, transforming them into carriers for her spells, instead of trying to conjure everything directly from nothing.

Even then, it wasn’t flawless. Some shots were perfect, others misfired, overgrown, misplaced, or weaker than intended. But now, failure wasn’t a stop sign. It was just another step to adjust.

She’s still learning, refining. But unlike before, this isn’t something that just happened to her.

It’s something she’s actively creating.

_{Abstraction
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
“Sometimes it listens. Sometimes it guesses.”

TYPE ⫻ Adept.

ABSTRACTION ⫻ Green Lux, Zakira's channeler is a dandelion seed locket.

ABSTRACTION DESCRIPTION ⫻

Verdancy ⫻ Zakira manifests Green Lux using seed pouches—small biological catalysts she is still learning to master. Usually, for convenience, she embeds them on arrows; she can also scatter, throw, or bury them in soil or on surfaces with enough “life potential” for Green Lux to activate. At this stage, she’s experimenting with what qualifies as a valid activation point. Once a seed pouch is placed, Zakira channels Green Lux into it, instantly transforming it into fully formed plant structures. This isn’t biological acceleration but direct manifestation, where her intent and imagination complete an incomplete reality. Being new to Verdancy, her system isn’t perfectly refined. Sometimes plants emerge exactly as she envisions; other times, they are slightly misshapen, unstable, or behave unexpectedly. She is still learning what her magic interprets as a “valid" representation of her thoughts.

This ability enables her to instantly produce vines, roots, thorns, moss spreads, bark formations, and flowers at each seed location, allowing her to reshape terrain in real time. Her success depends on her knowledge of plant biology, her ability to visualize structure and function under pressure, and her growing intuition about what feels “right” for the plant to become. When she understands a plant well, she can produce it accurately and reliably. Without that understanding, the results may be simpler, less stable, or behave unpredictably—still useful, but less dependable.

At this stage, she’s exploring the best ways to deploy seeds, so her fighting style is partly structured and partly improvisational. She knows her system’s capabilities but is still discovering how it prefers to manifest in her hands.

Venom-Arrow ⫻ Zakira channels Green Lux into a temporary toxin she can apply to any arrow at the moment of firing. The venom is not physical but a Lux-based biological override that activates on impact with a living target, causing localized necrosis and rapid tissue breakdown around the wound. The effect is precise but unstable. When her focus and visualization are clear, the necrosis spreads cleanly and quickly; when they aren’t, it can become uneven, slower, or partially ineffective. Because Zakira is still learning the biological details and controls, the severity and spread of the effect vary with her understanding of the target’s anatomy. Venom Arrow is a single-use, momentary construct that cannot be sustained or layered repeatedly without weakening the effect. It functions best as a precision strike to disable or weaken targets rather than as a wide-area damage tool.

LIMITS ⫻ Zakaria cannot generate plant matter from nothing; each effect demands seed material or a biological source. Without proper preparation, her Abstraction becomes less effective and less reliable. The success of her verdancy magic depends greatly on the environment. Sterile, burnt, or heavily artificial areas hinder growth, slowing it or leading to weaker structures. Cold or chemically hostile conditions can delay activation or yield distorted results. Additionally, her magic is not instant in its current form. Even rapid growth processes have a delay period during which opponents can react, damage seedlings, or interrupt the formation before it fully matures.

Zakira’s Abstraction relies heavily on understanding, preparation, and environmental factors, making it unreliable on unfamiliar or rapidly changing terrain. Since her Verdancy isn't completely instinctive yet, gaps in her knowledge of plant structures can lead to weaker or unstable forms. If she misjudges her creation, the result may still appear, but often as a less effective or flawed version lacking durability. Her dependence on seed pouches also limits her tempo and availability. When supplies are low or she faces prolonged combat without time to restock, her options become very limited. Although she is learning to improvise, her most powerful and consistent effects still come from planned strategies rather than spontaneous creation.

Her main challenge in confined spaces is feeling overwhelmed by the surroundings. Verdancy performs best when she can easily see the growth points and understand their connections. Multiple seed points activating at once or enemies moving unpredictably through her formations can make it hard for her to mentally distinguish structures. This often leads to hesitation, making her control more reactive than intended. When faced with direct combat without time to prepare or establish terrain, she becomes significantly more cautious. Not weaker overall, but with fewer options—she ceases trying to shape the fight and focuses solely on survival. Venom-Arrow is inherently unstable during formation. If her internal alignment is disrupted during activation, the effect loses coherence, leading to weaker or partial necrosis rather than full propagation.

WEAKNESSES ⫻ Zakira’s Abstraction is highly sensitive to disruptions in her intent. If her focus breaks during activation, her Verdancy not only fails but also produces incorrect or unstable growths, potentially hindering her movement, impairing visibility, or creating dangerous terrain for both sides. Her output becomes inconsistent under mental stress, as her Abstraction relies heavily on uninterrupted internal pacing. Any disruption to her rhythm causes cascading timing errors, causing her actions to fall out of sync with her intended sequence and reducing overall coordination across multiple seed points. Recovering from failed or misfired manifestations is difficult; instead of cleanly resetting, her cognition often “echoes” the failed intent, biasing her toward repeating or compensating even when it's no longer optimal. In high-pressure situations, her ability to visualize complex plant structures diminishes, leading her manifestations to default to simpler, less durable forms with less control. Her Abstraction also struggles in close-range combat; when near enemies, her control over activation points drops significantly, resulting in less precise and often incomplete manifestations. Prolonged use causes rapid mental fatigue. Additionally, her Venom-Arrow formulation is psychologically intrusive; repeated use triggers mild aversion responses, increasing her hesitation subconsciously even when she tries to act decisively.

^{Other
_{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Not all of us were meant for the spotlight. Some of us are here to help the people who are."

Zakira mainly uses a traditional hunting bow, valuing its reliability and simple design over modern or specialized options. Her leather hip quiver, filled with standard arrows, is kept organized and easily accessible for quick use. When possible, she recovers spent arrows after each engagement. This practice is practical and habitual; it is focused on maintaining her supply and control over her limited resources rather than sentiment.

[April Fools] New Feature Announcement: AI RP Companion

no

@Blizz

YES

Recollections: Where the Folds Meet

---

^And...

Interactions: None.
The Warehouse Massacre.

---

---

Isabelle didn’t move when the first body dropped. Not at first. It wasn’t calm. It wasn’t controlled. It was a split-second stall—her brain trying to catch up to something that just didn’t make sense. The second impact hit, and something in her chest lurched hard enough to hurt.

Her breath caught.

"Wha-

The word didn’t finish. Her eyes snapped down instead. Not to the body. Not to the blood. To the floor. It dipped as something stepped. Her heartbeat kicked hard, uneven. She swallowed, forcing air back into her lungs too fast at first. Around her, people began to shift, confused at first, then faster, louder, breaking apart into noise and panic. Isabelle stayed one second too long. Just enough to see it again: a distortion in the air, a pressure that didn’t belong to anything visible. Moving. Toward the exit.

Her head snapped up.

The doorway was already clogging with people shoving, yelling, and falling over each other. Wrong. They were all running straight into it.

“Don’t—”

Her voice was swallowed instantly.

Someone slammed into her shoulder, nearly knocking her off balance. She caught herself against the pillar, fingers slipping for a second before gripping tight. Another step—closer—and she felt it through the concrete, up her arm, into her chest.

Too close.

Isabelle pushed off the pillar hard and forced herself forward, but not toward the exit. She cut across the crowd instead, sharp and lateral, slipping through gaps instead of following them.

Someone grabbed her sleeve. “WAIT—!”

For a split second, she almost stopped. Almost turned. Almost listened.

She ripped free.

“Sorry-” slipped out automatically, breathless, not even realizing she said it.

Her focus stayed ahead. Step. Shift. Step. But it wasn’t clean. Her foot caught on something slick, balance wavering, a half-step too far. She corrected hard, shoulder clipping someone as she pushed through.

Behind her, a sound—cut short.

She flinched.

Didn’t look.

Don’t look. Don’t—

Her breath hitched, chest tightening as she pushed forward.

Side door. Left wall. Past the bar.

There.

Half-open. Cold air slipping through.

Her pace quickened. Too fast. Someone stumbled into her, and she didn’t recover cleanly this time, knee dipping before she caught herself on a table edge. Her hands were shaking now. She hadn’t noticed until that moment.

Another step.

Something right behind her.

Her skin prickled.

Her body locked for a fraction of a second.

Move.

She dropped too slowly.

Something tore through the air above her—so close it dragged heat from her skin, pulling at her hair. The impact behind her shattered into the wall, concrete cracking as people screamed.

Dust fell.

Isabelle sucked in a sharp breath, scrambling up. Her pulse hammered in her ears now, loud and messy.

It’s on you.

The thought wasn’t controlled. It wasn’t clean. It hit and stayed.

No—no, just—

But the rhythm had changed.

Not the crowd anymore.

Her.

“... Fuck,”

Her voice shook. She heard it.

Didn’t have time to think about it.

She ran.

No clean path now. No control. Just motion—dodging too late, correcting too often, forcing her body forward through chaos that was now closing in.

The door was right there.

A body slammed into her side, and she staggered hard, breath knocked halfway out of her. She caught herself, barely. A hand grabbed her wrist.

“Don’t leave me! Please!”

Isabelle froze.

Not fully. Not long. But enough.

Her fingers tightened around theirs. They’re going to die. The thought was quiet. Certain. She yanked her arm back hard, and the grip broke. She didn’t even look at them-She couldn’t.

Three steps. Two—

The floor shifted under her foot.

Her stomach dropped.

No.

Too late.

It hit her. There was no shape. No warning. Just force. Something punched through her midsection with violence that erased everything else. Sound vanished. Air vanished. Thought vanished. Her body lifted instantly, feet leaving the ground as gravity disappeared. Her mouth opened. Nothing came out but blood.

For a second, she felt it—not physically, but spatially. Something around her. Through her. Holding her in a way that made no sense.

Then pain arrived all at once.

Blinding.

Her body jerked, spine arching violently as something inside her tore wrong, deep, and wet and final. Her vision flared white at the edges. Her hands twitched uselessly. She looked down. The floor. People are still running. Still screaming. Not even registering that Kari was distraught upon her death. Then she was thrown, being flung outside into cold air, then trees, then impact after impact—branches, trunks, ground.

Finally, a tree stopped her. Silence followed. Her body hit the forest floor and didn’t move. For a moment, there was nothing.

Then a twitch.

Her fingers curled weakly into the dirt. Her breath tried to return. It didn’t. Her chest spasmed once. Twice. Nothing. Her vision flickered, edges darkening. The sky above looked too far away. Too still.

Wrong.

In the distance, the bass still thumped faintly—warped now, disconnected, as it belonged to another world entirely. Isabelle tried to inhale. Her body didn’t respond.

And somewhere deep inside—

something unseen, unformed, and waiting—

noticed.

Somewhere below, but not...

---

The Pit did not feel like a place. It felt like something that had already been destroyed and simply refused to stop existing. Reality there fractured in layers—collapsed dimensions stacked like bruised glass, each one pressing into the next. The red glow of the sky was the only light provided. That was the only constant in the Pit. Time didn’t flow so much as hesitate, as if uncertain whether continuing was worth the effort.

A Threaded remnant, small by most standards, but patient in a way that outlived empires. She drifted across a seam of broken causality, where a collapsed world had folded into itself like a crushed spiderweb. Something tugged at her awareness.

A rift.

D’rryha paused. For the first time in what might have been centuries, she did not simply observe it—she approached. The rift pulsed like a wound between realities; Cornell bleeding into nowhere. Warm. Full of unclaimed threads. Fragile in a way that almost invited correction.

“... Escape,” she noted softly, though the word meant little in the Pit. Everything here was already escaping something. She pressed forward, and the rift did not resist—it gave way. Cornell struck her like noise after silence. Sudden. Overfilled. Chaotic with life that didn’t understand how close it was to unraveling. She emerged beneath a fractured night sky, half-sewn into the edge of a wooded collapse where reality thinned near the warehouse’s disturbance.

So many threads.

So many weak anchors.

And then—

One stood out.

A girl.

Broken near the edge of the forest. Barely functioning.

Still aware, despite it all.

D’rryha stilled, in evaluation.

Perfect.

D’rryha descended. And Isabelle did not hear her arrive. But something in her did. Not thought or instinct. Something deeper. Older than panic. The air around her tightened. Cold, though it shouldn’t have been. Wrong, though she could not name why. Then—

Weight.

Not physical at first. Not even pressure, but an occupation of space. As if the idea of her body had been touched. Isabelle’s fingers twitched in the dirt. Her breath stuttered once. Her eyes opened halfway.

“No...” It was barely a sound.

Something approached-Then it stopped pretending it was approaching at all. The air around her split its attention. Limb-like extensions unfolded where there should have been nothing. And then it reached her.
Into the very concept of her body. Isabelle tried to move, but her body did not respond. Like her muscles had stopped being recognized as valid endpoints for command.

“Get away... from... me...” she forced out weakly.

D’rryha did not acknowledge the sound as requiring a response.

“You are damaged,” she said gently.

Isabelle’s breathing sharpened.

“Who... what are you?!”

A pause.

“I am what remains when the rest fails to persist,” D’rryha replied. "I am forever."

Then the space between them collapsed inward.

Not metaphorically.

Physically.

Something thin and impossibly precise touched Isabelle first, not breaking skin so much as finding seams that had always been there and had never been named. Places where body and identity did not align cleanly. Where “Isabelle” ended and biology continued without permission. Her ribs tightened—not from pressure, but from something sliding between them as they had briefly forgotten how to stay together.

“No-”

The word fractured immediately. Because something was already inside the space where the second half of it should have existed. Her body convulsed once, sharp and involuntary, as if accommodating something too large to reject cleanly—except it wasn’t entering all at once. It was moving in increments she could feel separately, like steps being taken inside her without her consent.

And then—

D’rryha stopped being “around” her. She stopped being “touched” by her. She became something that had found enough continuity within Isabelle’s structure to no longer need the distinction. Isabelle’s breath turned ragged—not just stolen, but briefly misrouted, like her lungs forgot which direction air was supposed to belong to.

“NO... NO!” The sound tore in half as her throat tried to follow instructions that no longer had a consistent owner. A second later, even the act of screaming felt delayed, like her voice was no longer synchronized with her mouth.

D’rryha did not rush, as there was no urgency in something that had already calculated survival past the moment resistance mattered. She simply extended further, sliding through damaged structure, reinforcing what would hold, dismantling what would not—not as destruction but as reconstruction without consent for the original design.

Except now Isabelle could feel the editing. Not metaphorically. Physically. Like sections of her were being lightly lifted, examined, and set back down in slightly different positions while she was still awake inside them.

Her vision flared white at the edges.

Her thoughts split into two currents: hers and something colder moving underneath like a tide learning her shape from inside—except it wasn’t underneath anymore. It was sharing space with her reflexes, arriving a fraction of a second before she did.

“Stop...stop....stop—”

Her voice degraded into repetition, not because she chose it, but because everything else in her throat had become harder to coordinate than the single surviving instruction.

Then silence.

Her body shook violently where it lay, breath uneven, eyes unfocused. Something inside her had changed position in the world and no longer agreed with being singular.

Her voice degraded into repetition.

Then silence. Her body shook violently where it lay, breath uneven, eyes unfocused. Something inside her had changed position in the world and no longer agreed with being singular.

D’rryha spoke again, closer now—not louder, just nearer.

“This place is dangerous,” she said. “We should move.”

Isabelle laughed once, out of disbelief.

“... We?”

A pause.

"Yes."
"Yes"

D’rryha lifted her, spider-like legs splaying in all directions.

Isabelle gasped, grabbing at dirt, roots, anything she could still interpret as external.

“Stop! I can—walk-”

“You cannot,” D’rryha corrected.

“I never ask you to-”

“You did not need to.”

That ended the conversation.

They moved into the woods. Isabelle stumbled in partial control at first—legs dragging, coordination unstable, as if her body were forgetting how to obey a single owner. Every few steps, she resisted. Every time, something inside her adjusted her balance before she could fully fail.

“Let me go,” she rasped.

"No"
"No"

“Why me?!”

D’rryha considered that as they walked.

“Because you persist.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is the only reason you were not allowed to die.”

Branches bent aside as they passed, not broken, but recomputed around her presence. Isabelle’s breathing turned uneven. Anger and fear collide, neither stable enough to become coherent.

“You’re going to kill me.”

A pause.

“If I wished you dead, you would already be dead.”

That made her go quiet.

Not reassured, but something worse. The forest grew darker as they went deeper, as if the world itself were slowly refusing to acknowledge them. Isabelle’s voice came again, smaller now.

“... What are you going to do to me?”

D’rryha’s answer was almost gentle.

“Preserve you.”

A beat.

Then, more honestly:

“Then use whatever you become.”

Isabelle’s breath trembled.

“No-no, that’s not-this isn’t-”

Her voice broke on itself, turning uneven, panicked.

“No,” D’rryha agreed.

They continued walking, leaves shifting around them without a breeze, and Isabelle looked down at her hands. They were shaking. Still hers.

Mostly.

“... I’m still me,” she whispered, like she was trying to force the universe to confirm it.

D’rryha did not respond immediately.

Then, gently:

“For now.”

---

The forest did not get quieter as they went deeper. It got less real. Branches stopped behaving like branches. Shadows stopped staying attached to anything that should have been casting them. Even Isabelle’s sense of direction began to fail. Her body was still moving, and that was the worst part.

“Stop... ” she whispered again, weaker now, “Just... stop, please...”

D’rryha did not answer immediately. She never did when the answer was already decided.

“You are unstable,” she said gently, almost conversational. Then, softly, “We are correcting that.”

Isabelle tried to pull back, but stopping was impossible at this point; her body recognized it.

“I want to go home...” she whined.

D’rryha slowed.

For the first time, she looked almost attentive.

“You are not in any condition to return,” she said.

That word—condition—landed wrong inside Isabelle’s chest. Like she was no longer a person. The forest opened into a clearing that shouldn’t have existed. Too still. Too clean. The ground there was soft in a way soil wasn’t supposed to be, as if it had been prepared long before she arrived. Isabelle's body simply.... agreed to stop resisting.

“No...” Barely audible.

D’rryha leaned closer.

Something began to unfold behind Isabelle—not visible at first, but felt, as if the idea of being enclosed had been introduced into her mind. Every instinct she had screamed to move, to run, to do anything—

Nothing answered.

Her arms lifted slightly on their own, not in surrender but in failed resistance.

“Don’t-don’t-” Her voice broke.

D’rryha moved her.

“It will be easier if you stop fighting.”

Then—

The first thread touched her; it adhered to her skin like it had been waiting for her specific shape. Isabelle jerked violently-or tried to. Her body responded as if it were already decided, and more threads followed. Each one connecting to the last with terrifying intention, mapping her outline as if confirming she existed correctly enough to be contained. Her breath turned ragged.

“I can’t-I can’t move!”

She could in small ways now. The cocoon did not wrap her as cloth would. It learned her shape as it enclosed her. Her vision blurred at the edges. The world felt farther away than it should have been as something was quietly reducing how much of it she was allowed to perceive at once.

“Please...” she whispered, and it didn’t sound like panic anymore. D’rryha’s presence felt strange for a moment. Almost protective, if protection meant containment.

“You will stabilize here,” she said.

“...I don’t want... this...”

A pause.

Then, gently:

“You will not experience this for long.”

The last thing Isabelle felt clearly was not pain-it was being sealed. Her breathing slowed against her will. Her thoughts stopped arriving in full sentences. The world narrowed to a final, suffocating quiet as her eyes closed—

And then even that quiet stopped needing her to remain awake for it.

The forest did not feel like it had gained a monster.

---

Interactions: None.
The Warehouse Massacre.

---

---

The warehouse doesn’t feel like it’s breaking anymore. It feels like it’s already broken—and Lupe is just arriving late to the collapse. She moves through it anyway. Not running now. Not dancing. Something in between—motion stripped down to purpose. Lupe cupped her hands together as she shouted.

“Diego! Alejandro!”

Her voice barely exists under the screaming crowd. It gets swallowed instantly.

No answer.

Lupe cuts past overturned tables, slipping between panicked bodies. Someone grabs her shoulder, and she shrugs them off without looking. Someone else screams near her ear-she doesn’t register it. Her eyes are locked forward, searching.

“¡DIEGO!” she calls now, louder, sharper, cracking at the edges.

Still nothing.

Then—something shifts. Lupe feels it before she understands it, like the space ahead of her just remembered it can end. Her steps slow without permission.

“No...”

She sees Alejandro first, not fully at first. He’s trying to run, half turned, arm lifted like he’s about to grab someone. And then he air around him misaligns-Lupe’s breath catches. It’s like something intersects him mid-step. Not touching him like hands would. More like the world decides there’s too much of him in one place and corrects it violently. His body jerks at an angle that's wrong.

“... Papi?”

It comes out soft. Confused. Because her brain still hasn’t accepted what it’s seeing.

Alejandro turns his head. He sees her. And for a fraction of a second, he smiles—stupid, familiar, unshakable—like he’s still in the party, like none of this is real.

]“Lu-”

The sound doesn’t finish. Something pulls. Alejandro is lifted out of alignment with the floor, and his body twists as if something is trying to fold him into a shape he doesn’t fit. His arm reaches out and Lupe is already moving before she thinks.

“NO!”

She runs.

She runs.

She runs.

But Alejandro hits the ground—but it isn’t a landing. It’s an interruption. A correction. The sound arrives half a second late, like the world is buffering. Lupe reaches forward anyway, hand outstretched, too far. Always too far. When she reaches her brother, she gets down and shakes him back and forth, gently at first, then it quickly degrades into violence.

“Get up—get up, stop-stop playing!”

Her voice is shaking apart mid-sentence.

Alejandro doesn’t respond. He doesn’t move.

The realization tries to enter her mind, but is rejected on impact.

No.

No, no, no—

Her vision stutters. She lifts her head up.

And then Diego. She sees him. Not clearly. Not fully. Just enough. He’s on the ground already. His hand is still slightly raised, like he was reaching for her. Like he was trying.

“Diego!”

Her voice breaks completely on his name. Lupe feels it in her bones.

And suddenly—her Third Eye opens.

Not gently. Not as a choice. It tears through her perception like something inside her skull is forced open and refused permission to close again. The world layers. Splits. Stacks itself in impossible geometry.

And she sees it.

She sees him.

The thing standing where Alejandro was. Where Diego is. Where everything is ending.

Too tall. Too wrong. Its shape refuses consistency, limbs flickering between presence and absence, weight bending the floor. And its eyes—no looking, no searching—just awareness.

Gets up.

Lupe drops.

Her knees hit concrete hard enough to sting. She doesn’t feel it properly. Her hands follow. Then her whole body. She scrambles back onto her feet, only to fall back to her hands and knees, raising her head as she desperately hopes the worst has not occurred.

Diego is still moving.

Still alive.

Still trying.

Lupe sees him clearly now. Just him, running wrong through a collapsing world, his head turning like he’s searching for her even while everything else is screaming at him to leave.

“PAPI-RIGHT HERE!” she screams, voice cracking open as she pushes forward.

He sees her.

For a split second, everything in him locks into place—relief, recognition, instinct.

"... Lupe!" He yells.

Relief flashes across his face—sharp, immediate, real.

And Lupe sees it too.

She sees him.

She sees the monster behind him. And its eyes are locked right on him. Calculating.

“No—no—no—no!”

The monster steps forward.

Fast.

Before Diego can react, a single arm shoots out and grabs him, lifting him off the ground like he weighs nothing.

“Diego!” Lupe screams, already on her feet and running. He thrashes immediately, grabbing at the arm holding him, kicking, fighting.

“LUPE!” he yells, voice cracking now. Real fear breaking through.

Lupe reaches them—but the distance is suddenly too much. Always too much.

The monster tightens its grip and there’s a sickening, final motione. Diego goes limp, head dropping forward. Lupe stops so hard her legs nearly give out.

“... Diego?”

Her voice doesn’t understand what it just said.

The monster doesn’t hesitate; it just turns slightly toward her and then throws him in a cold, dismissive motion, and Diego’s body hits the ground directly at Lupe’s feet. She freezes completely.

Her hand is still half-raised, like she was going to catch him.

“... No...” she whispers.

She stares at him like he’ll get back up and call her stupid and shove her shoulder like always.

“... No, no—get up... get up, papi...” her voice breaks immediately, cracking under its own weight. “... stop messing around...”

Nothing.

The warehouse keeps screaming around her, but it feels far away, like she’s underwater.

Behind Diego, the monster stands still.

Watching.

Lupe’s breathing starts to fall apart.

“Diego...” A whisper this time.

Her knees begin to shake, threatening to give out as her entire body tries to accept something her mind refuses to process. And for the first time since this started—

Lupe doesn’t move toward anything.

She just stands there.

Looking down at what’s left.

The moment Diego’s body settles at her feet, the warehouse stops feeling like a place she can survive. It stops feeling like anything she can reach at all. Lupe stands frozen over him. Her hand is still half-raised—like if she holds it there long enough, the last second will undo itself, and he’ll sit up again, laughing, calling her dramatic, messing up her hair like he always did.

But he doesn’t.

Nothing moves except the screaming in the distance. The monster doesn’t even look at her anymore-it’s already gone. Lupe swallows hard. Nothing comes back up right. She drops beside Diego.

Just... down.

Concrete meets her hard enough to sting, but she doesn’t react to it. Her hands land on the floor beside him, hovering like she’s afraid contact will confirm something she still refuses to accept.

For a second, she just stares at him.

His face.

Still him.

Still Diego.

Still supposed to get up and yell at her for something stupid.

She breaks.

“No...”

It’s barely a sound. Behind her, the warehouse keeps dying—people running, screaming, the distant impacts of something heavy moving through them like they’re nothing at all. But it doesn’t reach her properly anymore. It’s all muffled, distant.

Her fingers twitch.

Then curl.

Then press into the floor like she needs something to hold onto before she disappears entirely.

A breath hits her wrong.

And then it begins.

At first, it’s not voices.

It’s feelings that aren’t hers.

Her vision fractures into patterns. Into the colors that don’t belong to light.

Red.

Green.

Purple.

The warehouse is still there, but layered over it are other places. Other moments. Echoes. And through them her ancestors. They arrived like memory becoming conscious.

Not with mouths.

With certainty.

The Red lineage comes first.

"You are Awakened."

Lupe flinches slightly.

“... What...”

The Green follows, slower, like something growing through soil.

"You are Lux-bound."

Her breath catches harder. Her fingers tighten against the floor. Lupe shakes her head slightly, tears still falling.

“I don’t-what are you?”

The Red surges forward again, cutting through her confusion.

"You have no spells yet."

That lands.

Hard.

Lupe goes still.

“... No spells...?”

Green clarifies immediately, softer but absolute.

"Spells are not given. They are created."

A pulse of understanding follows it, like instinct being unlocked.

"You experiment. You attempt. You fail. You try again."

Purple adds, precise as a blade:

"Movement defines your domain. Velocity. Position. Transition. Space between moments."

Then Red again, almost like it’s leaning closer to her grief.

"Your rage shapes the world."

Lupe’s breath shakes.

Her eyes flick down to Diego again.

Her throat tightens violently.

“...that’s not0” she starts, then breaks. “...that’s not fair...”

Green answers immediately.

"Fairness is irrelevant to the world. Or the creatures that inhabit it."

A heavier silence.

Then Purple continues the explanation, unbothered by her grief:

"Red Lux manifests through elemental force. Heat. Impact. Destruction. Creation through force."

A flicker of heat stirs in Lupe’s chest without her choosing it.

"Green Lux manifests through biological authority. Growth. Regeneration. Control over living systems."

Her fingers twitch slightly.

Like her body is trying to understand something it hasn’t learned yet.

"Purple Lux manifests through motion. Acceleration. Redirection. Positioning. The manipulation of “where” and “when” something is."

Lupe swallows hard.

“I don’t have anything...” she whispers.

The Red lineage answers immediately.

"You have everything. You did not fail because you were weak." He pauses, before he says, "You failed because you were not yet ready to stop it."

The Green follows, quieter.

"And now you will be tested."

Lupe’s head lifts slightly. Tears still streak her face.

“Tested, papi...?”

Purple answers first.

"The Beasts of this world will notice you."

Green sharpens it:

"And Adepts and other beings will feel it too."

A beat.

Then all three, one after the other,

“You were never in a simple world.”

“You weren't ready to see it.”

“But you have already seen far too much to go back.”

Lupe’s breathing stutters. Behind her grief, something begins to anchor itself. Potential. The warehouse screams again somewhere behind her—another impact, another death—but it doesn’t fully reach her anymore. Her awareness is splitting. One-half is Diego and Alejandro. The other is something newly awake and trying to learn how to exist.

“Look, I don't want this...” she whispers.

The Red lineage is immediate.

"They never do."

Green is gentler now.

"But it is already yours."

Silence.

Lupe’s hands slowly curl into fists against the concrete. Stabilizing. Not healing, not accepting, but changing.

“So now what?” she whispers.

A pause.

Then the answer comes one after the other.

"You survive."

"You learn."

You move.

A longer pause.

Then all three together, softer now—but absolute:

"And you begin with nothing."

Then they fade away. Lupe's back in the warehouse.

Lupe lets out a broken breath that almost becomes a laugh. She looks down at Diego again. Still there-still dead.

“I'm still here...”

Around her, the warehouse continues to burn itself out, and the monster is still moving.

“... I'm still here.”

And the first thing the world teaches her is this:

She will be tested. When the Diddler Ghost arrives.

Recollections: Where the Folds Meet

Post coming soon...