Mystery’s reverie shattered as the sound of shouting erupted across the Cistern. Her head snapped up, her gaze locking on the commotion unfolding by the far wall. A prisoner was backed into a corner, his wiry frame slouched against the fleshy surface. A group of zealots closed in, their movements coordinated and menacing, led by a man whose presence radiated a bitter, desperate authority.
Vaaz.
Mystery didn’t need to strain to hear him. His voice carried across the space, sharp and venomous. “You’ve pilfered from the righteous, heretic. To think, faithful nobles like us, sharing this pit with you? The gods weep at the injustice, yet you spit on their mercy.”
The man they surrounded—Siros, Mystery recognized now—laughed. The sound was sharp, manic, echoing in a way that made the walls seem to tremble. “Mercy?” he said, his voice a mocking lilt, his fingers tracing invisible lines against the wall behind him. “You talk about mercy, but have you asked the walls? They know all about mercy. They hum with it. They sing. You hear it, don’t you?”
Vaaz’s lips curled in disdain. “Enough of your madness. The gods have no voice for a thief.”
Siros grinned wider, his head tilting to the side as though listening to something only he could hear. “Oh, but they do. The walls, you see—they talk. They see. They see all. Every lie. Every secret. Every boy. Every—”
The zealots surged forward before he could finish, their fists and boots connecting with sickening force. Siros’s laughter dissolved into grunts and gasps as they slammed him into the wall, blood smearing against its fleshy surface. Hands tore at his clothes, bound him at the wrists, and wrapped around his throat, stripping him down in search of their purportedly stolen item with a frenzy born of righteous fervor.
Mystery’s chest tightened. She pushed herself to her feet, her voice ringing out across the Cistern. “Leave him alone!”
The zealots paused, their heads turning in unison toward her. Vaaz stepped forward, his gaze narrowing as he studied her. “And what,” he asked, his voice laced with condescension, “do you think you’re doing? Intervening in the will of the gods?”
Mystery met his stare, her voice steady despite the rising tension. "There’s already enough misery feeding this place without you adding to it.”
Vaaz’s laugh was a low, gravelly sound, more like a growl. “Misery?” he said, spreading his arms as though embracing the air. “Misery is what the gods demand of us. This despair, this suffering—it is the prayer they crave. If we can no longer serve them in the clergy, we will serve them here, in this pit.” His voice rose, his words sharp as a blade. “Tell me, Whore of Babylon, where would you be without it? Where would any of us be?”
The title struck like a physical blow, but Mystery refused to flinch. She clenched her fists, stepping forward even as the zealots closed ranks around Vaaz. “That’s enough.”
The Mark on her forearm reignited in its glow, its golden light bleeding through the layers of grime and blood. The zealots hesitated, their gazes flicking to the pulsating symbol. One of them stumbled back, muttering under his breath. “It’s true what they say… The Mark of the Beast…”
Vaaz’s sneer deepened, his voice rising to rally his followers. “Hark not! The gods’ will cannot be undone by a heretic’s curse. The Beast may mark her flesh, but her soul is as filthy as the next whore. We have nothing to fear from the likes of her…” He took but a single step when a voice echoed with a gravelly warning.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that…”
The new voice cut through the air like a knife, low and gravelly, carrying a weight that silenced the Cistern. It came from the shadows, where another figure had been watching. The zealots stiffened, their eyes darting toward the source of the voice. Mystery turned, her breath catching as she saw the silhouette step forward, the glint of something sharp held tight in his right hand…
⍫⍫⍫⍫⍫⍫
The zealots froze, their retreat already beginning at the sound of his voice. The silhouette stepped forward from the shadows, and Mystery’s pulse quickened. She’d heard the stories, endless and larger than life, but this was the first time she’d laid eyes on him. The Beast of the Rebellion. Lucienne.
He moved with the kind of deliberate ease that came from knowing the power he wielded, his own burning gold mark faintly pulsing in the dim light. The fleshy walls seemed to respond to his presence, their dull, wet throbbing growing louder, as though the prison itself acknowledged him. He stopped just short of the zealots, his voice carrying the weight of inevitability.
“If blood is going to be spilled on these hollow grounds,” Lucienne said, his tone low and cutting, “then it will be yours. No exceptions.”
The zealots staggered back, fear etched into their faces. Most of them murmured their obedience, bowing their heads as they retreated. One spat on Siros as he passed, muttering, “We’ll check his cell.”
Only Vaaz lingered. His lips curled into a sneer, though his stance betrayed a subtle wariness. "Very soon,” Vaaz said, his voice dripping with venom, “the day will come when they finally put the beast down.”
Lucienne tilted his head, his gaze cold and steady. “I’ve been waiting for that day for eighteen years now.” He paused, his voice dropping even lower. “Still waiting.”
Vaaz’s sneer faltered, but he said nothing more. With a sharp gesture, he turned and strode after his followers, his retreat deliberate but no less a retreat.
The tension in the Cistern ebbed, though the heavy atmosphere remained. Lucienne’s gaze shifted to Mystery, and she froze under the weight of it. His eyes flicked to her arm, to the glowing mark etched into her skin. “Godburn,” he said, his tone tinged with curiosity. “So there was some truth to that petty myth after all… You do surprise me.”
Mystery blinked, confusion knitting her brow. “What?” she asked, her voice quiet and unsteady. “What are you talking about? What myth?”
Lucienne didn’t answer. He turned away, his attention moving to Siros, who had slumped against the wall, his breathing ragged. Blood smeared his face and neck, but he was grinning faintly, his expression a mix of defiance and exhaustion.
“You all right?” Lucienne asked, his voice softer now, though no less commanding.
Siros flinched, cowering away from him as though seared by his very presence. “A demon,” he whispered, his voice quaking. “Begone now. Go back to the shadows where you belong.”
Lucienne regarded him for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he straightened and turned to Mystery. “Take care of him,” he said, nodding toward Siros. “Careful with this one. His mind isn’t all there.” Without another word, he walked away, his silhouette soon swallowed by the dim, pulsating corridor.
Mystery stood there, her thoughts racing, questions piling up faster than she could make sense of them. She turned her gaze to Siros, who was muttering to himself, his hands twitching as if clutching at invisible threads.
“Zealots,” Siros said suddenly, his voice sharp but distant, as though addressing someone unseen. “Sins upon sins. They think the gods don’t see, but the walls… the walls know. They whisper it all. Blood on their hands. Lies in their throats. That’s why they’re here. That’s why we’re all here.”
Mystery approached cautiously, lowering herself to his level. “I’d ask if you’re okay but…” Something told her even he didn’t know. Or at the very least the answer was a solid ‘no’. Instead, she turned her efforts to the zealots’ claim. “Vaaz… He said you stole something from him…” Words lingered with a careful consistency, keeping her tone steady. “Did you?”
Siros’s eyes darted to her, wide and manic. He hesitated for a moment, his lips moving soundlessly before he answered. “Yes,” he admitted, the word barely more than a breath. “Yes, I did. Of course, I did. They had it. I needed it. I took it. I used it. They want it back. And-- And-- And now…” His manic tone briefly abated as he recoiled in horror. “And now they’re going to my cell!” He hissed. “They’ll take it. They’ll ruin it. Must stop them! I’m not done using it!”
He pushed himself to his feet, his movements frantic and unsteady. Blood dripped from his face as he stumbled toward the corridor.
“Wait,” Mystery called after him, rising quickly. “You can’t just rush into—” She stopped herself, sighing as she muttered under her breath, “Look who’s preachin’.”
With a shake of her head, she gave chase, her steps squelching through the muck as she followed the trail of his erratic movements into the dark.
Mystery’s thoughts churned in the dark, disjointed and desperate. How many days has it been? Have I really lost track of time? Does anyone out there even remember me?
A bitter voice in her mind answered: Not Mystery, no. Just the Whore of Babylon.
The title struck like a lash, sharp and venomous, a reminder of the day her existence became a curse. From the moment the Queen of Babylon—Asha, First of Her Blood—had learned of her, she’d been branded. A symbol of everything that defied the Queen’s control. Not a person. A warning.
Her thoughts spiraled, grasping for anything to anchor her, and pulled forth a name from the depths of her fragmented memory: Lucida. Her adoptive mother’s face flickered in her mind, warm and stern all at once. She clung to the image, to the faint hope that Lucida was still out there, still alive, still… okay. But even that fragile hope felt like sand slipping through her fingers.
Then the visions came.
A flash of blood, wet and pooling, seeping into soil and mulch. Screams tearing through her ears, indistinguishable from her own. Flesh ripping, iron groaning, towers crumbling in on themselves. A deep, resonant thrum reverberated through the chaos, vibrating in her chest like the world itself was keening. And above it all, a floating island hovered in the sky, its tendrils swaying lifelessly—until one snapped out, jagged and predatory, slashing through the air like a serpent.
Babylon.
She woke with a start, her breath catching in her throat, her chest heaving as though she’d been running for miles. Her hands dug into the flesh bed beneath her, and she recoiled from its wet, pulsing warmth. Her eyes darted to Wretch, still slumped against the wall, motionless in sleep. His ball of goop had rolled from his limp hand, coming to rest in a sticky mess near his foot.
Mystery pulled herself up, her muscles protesting with every movement. Her legs wobbled as she staggered to the door of the cell, her bare feet squelching against the floor’s sticky, organic surface.
“Xun,” she called out, her voice hoarse and uneven. The warden’s shadow shifted beyond the bars, and then his face appeared—a grinning, sharp-edged mask of disdain.
“Awake already, are we?” Xun’s voice was rich with mockery, his grin widening as he stepped closer. “Starting to learn how the world works down here in Cocytus?”
Mystery’s gaze was steady, her tone flat as she replied, “Would that make it easier for you?”
Xun laughed, a singular, guttural bark of amusement. “You’ve got fire. That’s good. It’s the whores like you that keep things interesting around here.” He dragged the word out, his tone dripping with condescension.
Her stomach churned at the title, bile rising in her throat. She shuddered, swallowing the retort that threatened to spill out. The door groaned as Xun unlocked it, swinging open with a deliberate slowness, as if savoring his control.
“Go on,” he said, stepping aside with a mocking flourish. “Try not to die out there. You’re more useful alive. For now.”
Mystery didn’t respond. She limped out of the cell, her body stiff and aching, every step a reminder of her fragility. She waited until Xun was out of earshot before muttering under her breath, “Bastard.”
The corridor beyond the cell was dimly lit, that similar pulsing dull red emanating from the slick, pulsating walls. Her joints cracked as she stretched, the motion sending a wave of sharp aches through her body. The telltale itch of exhaustion crawled beneath her skin, and she resisted the urge to scratch, knowing it wouldn’t bring relief.
She didn’t have a destination in mind. She just needed to move. To be alone. The world pressed in on her from all sides, heavy and suffocating, and for a brief moment, she wondered if she’d ever feel human again.
⍫⍫⍫⍫⍫⍫
Her bare feet left faint, bloody prints in her wake as Mystery’s journey wound deeper into the bowels of Cocytus, each step squelching against the pulsating, grotesque floor. The corridor’s stench of rot and iron grew stronger, clinging to her skin and filling her lungs like poison. She passed the Cesspool first, that vile little reservoir of blood nestled within the prison’s living walls. Inmates gathered there, some hunched over crude games of cards, their hands slick with gruel and viscera, while others drank from makeshift vessels filled with sloshing, bioluminescent grog. Their laughter was raw, bitter, a mockery of joy in a place that knew nothing of it.
Beyond the Cesspool was the Fleshyard, where prisoners toiled under the unrelenting watch of their overseers. They hacked and clawed at the decayed remnants of a mass grave, their crude tools peeling back layers of rotting flesh to feed the insatiable hunger of the prison walls. The buzzing of flies mingled with the sound of flesh being stripped and bones being splintered, the workers' faces hollow and expressionless as they labored.
Further still lay the Bloodpit, a space that reeked of sweat and fury. Prisoners battered sacks of leathery skin stuffed with ground teeth and splintered bones, their fists flying in desperate rhythm. Some grunted with each strike, releasing years of pent-up rage, while others moved with grim precision, their eyes empty of everything but survival. The sickly thud of punches echoed as Mystery passed, the sound rattling in her chest like a distant war drum.
Her destination was the Cistern. The air grew heavier as she approached, the walls narrowing and undulating, almost as if the prison itself were guiding her. The Cistern opened before her, a macabre courtyard encased in decaying flesh and pulsating carcasses. Tendrils of sinew dangled from above, swaying with a grotesque rhythm as if alive. Blood pooled beneath her feet, thick and warm, as she stepped into the space and collapsed to her knees.
For a moment, she just sat there, her body sinking into the viscera, the weight of exhaustion pulling at her bones. She glanced at her hands, now trembling and slick with gore, and finally took a closer look at the bandages Isaac had wrapped around them. The fabric was stained crimson, clinging to her skin, and she unwound them carefully, hissing at the sting of the air against the raw wounds. Her eyes drifted to the Mark on her forearm—the cursed brand that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. She ran her fingers over it, feeling the way it blinked under her touch, its golden glow faint but undeniable.
How much did he know? she wondered, her mind drifting back to Isaac. His cold, calculating gaze, his detached hands working with eerie precision—she couldn’t shake the memory of him crouched beside her, the faint smile that hadn’t quite reached his eyes. How much did he see? How much did he understand?
A dark thought whispered through her mind: He wouldn’t have left me alive if he truly knew… would he?
The question hung heavy, unanswered, as she let out a sigh and tilted her head back, her gaze catching the tangled mess of tendrils above her. Her thoughts turned inward, back to the nightmare that had jarred her awake. The floating island, the snapping tendrils, the towers crumbling into ruin. The visions clawed at her mind, dragging her back into their suffocating embrace.
And then there was Magdalene. Her mother, crucified and unbroken, her defiance etched into Mystery’s memories like a scar she could never escape. Was this the world Magdalene had fought to prevent? This pit of rot and despair, where flesh and bone were nothing more than raw materials for a system that thrived on suffering?
Her thoughts turned to Lucida next, her adoptive mother’s stern, steady voice echoing in her mind. Don’t ask questions you aren’t ready to answer. Lucida’s warnings had always been cryptic, her eyes shadowed by something Mystery could never quite name. But why? If Magdalene had fought to change the world, why had Lucida warned her against the very path she seemed destined to follow?
Her hands clenched, the Mark on her arm glowing faintly as if in response. She didn’t have answers, only more questions, and the weight of them pressed against her like the living walls of Cocytus itself. With a final sigh, she dragged herself to her feet, her legs trembling beneath her. Blood and muck clung to her as she moved, the Cistern’s grotesque floor refusing to let her go easily.
She needed time. Time to think. Time to breathe. But in Cocytus, time was a luxury the damned could rarely afford.
The stench of sweat and blood hits you before you even reach the edge of the Bloodpit. It clings to the damp, flesh-lined walls of Cocytus, a reminder of the brutal life within this hellish prison. You push through the crowd, each inmate reeking of desperation and decay, their voices a cacophony of jeers and cheers. You can barely make out the center of the spectacle, but deep down, you already know who’s there.
A scrawny figure with flaming red hair stands toe-to-toe with a brute twice his size. The man’s hulking frame dwarfs him, muscles straining as he swings a fist like a wrecking ball. But Wretch—quick, reckless Wretch—dodges, his movements erratic and almost animalistic. His silver eyes flash in the dim light, alive with a mix of defiance and madness.
You’re not sure why you stop to watch. Maybe it’s morbid curiosity. Maybe it’s the faint hope that this won’t end with his blood soaking the floor. Or maybe, just maybe, you hate the idea of him doing this alone. Again.
The brute lands a hit, and you wince as Wretch’s body crumples briefly under the impact. But he doesn’t fall. No, that would be too easy. Instead, he spits blood onto the ground, a wild grin splitting his face as he taunts his opponent. “That all you got, you gutless sack of shit?”
Your fingers curl into fists at your sides as the fight continues. Every hit Wretch takes feels like it should drop him, but he keeps coming back, faster and more vicious with each attack. It’s like he doesn’t care whether he wins or dies—as if he’s daring the world to end him and failing to care when it doesn’t.
The crowd roars as Wretch finally gains the upper hand. The brute slips on the blood-slicked floor, his massive form crashing down. Wretch wastes no time. He grabs a shard of bone from the ground, ramming it into the man’s mouth. The crack of his boot against the brute’s skull echoes through the pit, silencing the crowd in a mixture of awe and horror.
And then it’s over.
Wretch stands there, bloodied and panting, his chest heaving as he glares down at the lifeless body. Xun’s voice cuts through the silence like a blade. “Hell of a show, Wretch. You never fail to deliver.” The warden’s sadistic grin matches the twisted amusement in his voice. “Take this waste of space to the Fleshyard. Double duty tomorrow.” His laughter grates against your nerves as he strides away.
Wretch spits blood onto the corpse before limping toward the crowd. Toward you. His silver eyes meet yours briefly, and for a moment, he looks... tired. But then the mask is back—a sharp smirk, the glint of mockery in his gaze. “What? Come to play nurse again, Whore?”
You don’t answer, stepping forward to guide him out of the spectacle and into a quieter corner of Cocytus. His protests start immediately. “What’s your problem, huh? Always gotta be playin’ big sis or some shit. Didn’t ask for your help.”
Your jaw tightens as you unwrap the crude bandages from your arm, ready to use them on his battered fists. “For someone who’s always telling me to toughen up and stop being stupid, you’re the idiot picking fights to get out of yard duty.”
He scoffs, leaning back against the fleshy wall, but his silver eyes dart away from yours. “Yeah, well, you don’t listen to me anyway. Always runnin’ your dumb ass into danger. What’s it matter if I do the same?”
Your hold tightens around his wrist at the words as you stare dagger across into those unruly silver eyes. “Look, did you see me stop the fight? No, you didn’t.” You hope your voice holds firm through the emotional toll. “So the least you can do now is let me take care of you.” You waste no time going back to cleaning his knuckles of the blood and filth. “You earned your day off from the Fleshyard. Now don’t be an idiot.”
He sighs, his smirk faltering for just a moment. “You’re a real pain in the ass, y’know that?”
“Oh yeah, you tell me every freakin’ day, now sit still. You can’t stop me from taking care of you,” you reply with a renewed sense of will, continuing to wrap his knuckles.
Wretch tenses under your touch, his sharp retort dying in his throat. For a moment, he seems lost—uncertain. Then his lips twist into a smirk, the mask slipping back into place. “Wanna bet?” Before you can react, he grabs you, flipping the dynamic in an instant. You find yourself pinned beneath him, his hands holding yours above your head.
“Stopped ya,” he says, his voice low and teasing, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes. Vulnerability? Uncertainty? It’s gone too fast to be sure.
Your breath catches, but you force yourself to meet his gaze. “So now what? Gonna let me treat you, or are you just gonna sit there looking stupid?”
For a moment, the tension lingers, the air between you thick with unspoken words. Then Wretch sighs, letting you go as he slumps back. “Fine. Do your thing, Whore.”
You sit up, taking his hands again—this time without resistance. As you work, wrapping his bloodied knuckles with steady hands, he speaks, his voice quieter now. “Y’know, I could fight for you, too. If you ever needed it. For a price, of course.”
Wretch Character Cards: Blood in the Water // Reprimand Him
Wretch's words hang in the air between you, and you feel your pulse quicken. "For you... for a price," he'd said, like he was half-joking, half-testing you. You study his face as you work on the bandage, noting the way his smirk avers ever-so-slightly, like even he isn’t sure if he means it.
Your fingers hesitate for only a moment before your thumb presses against one of the cuts on his knuckles, the jagged skin sticky with half-dried blood. Wretch hisses sharply, jerking his hand back like you’ve lit a fire under it.
“Shit, fine!” he snaps, slapping your hand away. His voice is raw, defensive, but more annoyed than angry. “Work until your back breaks, whatever. Was just a fuckin’ idea.”
You narrow your eyes, ready to bite back, but something in his tone catches you. He doesn’t mean it—not fully. His words hang in the air, heavy with the unspoken weight of his exhaustion. He glances away, his sharp smirk softening as he mutters, “Still sat there watchin’ the whole thing, though, didn’t ya?”
You freeze for a moment, caught off guard. “I didn’t—” The denial is automatic, but he’s already pointing at you, a sly grin creeping back onto his face.
"Aw, c’mon. Yer tellin’ me ya didn’t get the tiniest lil thrill watchin’ me push that guy’s teeth down his neck?” His voice drips with sarcasm, the mocking edge impossible to ignore. “Y’know, maybe the dumb girl’s finally learnin’ somethin’. Maybe I’m finally rubbin’ off on ya.”
You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of your skull. But his words stick, like everything else he says—whether you want them to or not.
The truth is, he’s not wrong. You’d stayed. Watched. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder why. It wasn’t fascination, certainly not enjoyment, but there was something grounding about his raw survival instinct. Something almost stabilizing in how he exists in this nightmare, so unapologetically alive despite it all.
And you can’t help but think about how different things might’ve been if you were stuck with anyone else. How much faster you might’ve cracked under the weight of this place without him anchoring you in his twisted, brutal way.
“Y’know,” you start slowly, catching his eye again. “You’re a good person, Wretch. For all your bluster and bullshit.”
He freezes like you’ve slapped him. For a heartbeat, he doesn’t say a word, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and discomfort. Then, a laugh bursts out of him—sharp and bitter.
“Geez, yer really beggin’ me ta show you my ugly side, huh?” He shakes his head, but there’s something softer in his gaze now, something almost vulnerable. His voice lowers, losing some of its edge. “Don’t go thinkin’ I’m some kinda hero, Whore. Ain’t nothin’ ‘good’ about me.”
You don’t answer right away, letting the silence stretch between you. Maybe he believes it. Maybe he needs to. But in this place, where survival is a currency and cruelty is the law, sometimes just being there—being human—is enough.
Wretch Character Cards: Blood in the Water // Enable Wretch
You pause, his words rolling around in your mind. What kind of price? The question slips out before you can stop yourself, curiosity pricking at your resolve. “What kind of price are we talking about?”
Wretch barks a laugh, low and sharp, and before you know it, his hand shoots out, grabbing yours. His grip is rough, his palm calloused, and his expression shifts—no longer joking but sharp-edged and intense. “C’mon,” he says, tugging you toward the edge of the corridor.
“Wretch—what—”
He doesn’t answer, just pulls you along until you’re out of earshot from the others, the distant roar of Cocytus’s misery fading into a muffled hum. When he finally stops, it’s to crash you against the wall, his hands planted firmly beside your head as he leans in, his silver eyes boring into yours.
“Don’t,” he growls, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. “Don’t go ‘round makin’ promises your pretty little lips don’t wanna keep.”
You blink, stunned, your breath hitching as his words sink in. His proximity feels like a razor’s edge—dangerous and unyielding, but not cruel. His smirk, sharp and sardonic, doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s something deeper there, something raw and dark.
“If you’d said somethin’ that stupid to anyone else…” His voice trails off, and he shudders slightly, his lips pulling into a tight line. “They wouldn’t let it slide, Whore. They’d—” He cuts himself off again, his throat working as he swallows hard. “Doesn’t matter. You didn’t. Lucky you, huh?”
“I wouldn’t,” you manage to say, your voice quieter than you’d like. You clear your throat, steadying yourself under his gaze. “I wouldn’t say something like that to anyone else.”
He scoffs, but the sharpness in his expression softens—just barely. “Yea, yea, yea. ‘Cause I’m prince friggin’ charmin’, clearly.”
The sarcasm is thick, but there’s something in the way he says it, a thread of disbelief and maybe even relief. He pulls back slightly, giving you room to breathe, but his eyes stay locked on yours.
“Look,” he says finally, running a hand through his tangled hair. “I’ll let your stupidity slide this time. But next time, I’m cashin’ that check. So you better make damn sure you’re ready to deliver.”
The warning is sharp, his voice low and steady, but there’s no malice in it—only the brutal honesty that defines him. He steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets and glancing away.
The choice feels like a noose around your neck, tightening with every passing second. But for all his teasing and taunts, you can’t shake the feeling that Wretch—this infuriating, volatile, broken man—means every word he says.
When Mystery next opened her eyes, her vision pulsed, swimming in and out of focus. The world around her undulated in sickening waves, its edges blurring into grotesque forms. The surface beneath her shifted unnaturally, a horrific parody of a bed—if a bed were made of muscle and sinew, slick with blood and glistening like raw meat. It squirmed beneath her weight, almost alive, pulsing in time with her own labored breathing. A wet, nauseating squelch came with every slight shift of her body.
She tried to move her head, but pain shot through her neck and shoulders like an electric current. Her arm throbbed, a deep, searing ache that refused to fade. She clenched her fingers—not her fist, just her trembling fingers—desperate to feel something solid, something real. A flash of memory assaulted her: a face, sharp and clinical, framed by the stark white of a lab coat. The doctor. The whip. The fire. The mark.
The Mark of the Beast still burned on her right forearm, its divine gold etching searing into her flesh like molten metal. It hummed with a presence of its own, alien and intrusive, a brand that mocked her humanity. She wanted to scream, but her throat was raw, her body too weak to muster even a whisper.
A shadow fell across her. She tensed, every nerve in her body screaming for her to fight, to run, to do anything. But she was powerless. Her heart raced as another figure loomed into her wavering view. It wasn’t him. This man’s face was different—thinner, sharper, with a cruel kind of curiosity flickering in his eyes.
“Well, well,” the man drawled, his tone teetering between amusement and hunger. He leaned in too close, his breath warm and invasive against her cheek. “What a marvel you are. Such resilience… such exquisite design.” His gloved hand hovered over her, not touching, but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him. “Tell me, Isaac, why bother keeping her alive when we could learn so much more from… disassembly?”
“Parth.” The reprimand cut through the room like a blade. The voice was cold, deliberate, and unmistakably familiar. Isaac. He stepped into view, his expression unreadable but no less commanding. “You’re here to observe, not indulge.”
Parth straightened, his lip curling in a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Indulge? Is that what you think I’m doing? Forgive me for wanting to cut open your precious specimen before you patch her up. Think of what we could discover…”
“I have thought of it,” Isaac replied, his voice even but edged with finality. “And I’ve decided against it.”
Parth sighed, his shoulders slumping in exaggerated defeat. “Always so clinical, aren’t you? Fine, have it your way. But don’t expect me to celebrate your restraint when you’re wasting such potential.” He turned on his heel, casting one last lingering glance at Mystery before disappearing into the shadows of the room.
Isaac exhaled quietly, his attention shifting back to her. His movements were slow, methodical, as he crouched beside her, checking the state of her wounds. There was no malice in his touch, only a detached precision that somehow felt even more unsettling. He worked in silence for a moment, the soft hum of the room filling the void.
“Were we to have met under better circumstances…” He trailed off, his eyes flicking to her face. Whatever thought he had was quickly abandoned, his focus returning to his task. “It doesn’t matter now. You need to rest.”
He reached for a mask, his gloved hand steady as he placed it over her mouth and nose. The cool hiss of gas filled her lungs, and the edges of her vision darkened once more. Isaac’s voice followed her into the void, low and measured, a lingering echo that felt less like comfort and more like a chain dragging her deeper into the abyss.
“You’ll be useful yet.”
And then, there was nothing.
⍫⍫⍫⍫⍫⍫
The fire poker dug into Mystery’s back, the jagged, searing metal forcing her forward step by agonizing step. Her muscles screamed in protest, the newly patched wounds across her body burning with every motion. When she faltered, the poker jabbed deeper, its tip grinding against her shoulder blades like it was trying to carve through to her soul.
“Move it, meat,” a voice snarled behind her, sharp and guttural. With a final shove, she stumbled into the cell, her bare feet slipping on the slick, glistening surface of the floor. The door slammed shut behind her, the heavy clang reverberating through the grimy, pulsating walls.
She barely had time to register the sound before a low, raspy laugh cut through the stale, rotting air. “You never fuckin’ learn, do you?”
Mystery turned slowly, her body trembling from pain and exhaustion. Perched on the grotesque imitation of a bunk—a structure of bone and sinew half-buried in the oozing wall—was her cellmate. Wretch grinned down at her, his yellowed teeth sharp and uneven, his eyes glinting with something that might have been amusement or disdain. With a fluid motion, he hopped down, landing in the viscous muck that served as their floor. Strands of sticky gruel clung to his boots as he sauntered over, his tattered clothes hanging loosely on his wiry frame.
“Yer lucky that stupid doc likes ya,” he said, his grin widening as his eyes flicked to the fresh bandages Isaac had wrapped around her. “Y’know that, right? If it were anyone else…” He trailed off, shaking his head with exaggerated pity. “Nah, you wouldn’t be here. You’d be parts. Useful parts, maybe, but parts all the same.”
Mystery didn’t respond. She didn’t have the energy to bite back, to roll her eyes, or even to glare at him. Wretch’s teasing fell on deaf ears as she stumbled forward, each step a battle against the sucking, squelching pull of the cell floor. She reached the other bunk—if the mass of flesh and tissue could even be called that—and collapsed onto it. The surface pulsed faintly beneath her, warm and sticky, like a living creature resigned to its grotesque existence.
Her head hit the sinewy surface with a dull thud, and for a moment, the world seemed to spin. Today’s torture had stripped her of everything—her energy, her will, even her thoughts. All she had left was the faint echo of a name in her mind: Isaac.
Who was he, really? And why had he bothered to keep her alive? The memory of his voice lingered, cold and clinical but somehow… human. It wasn’t kindness, she knew that. Men like him didn’t have room for kindness. So why? Why save her?
Her train of thought dissolved as Wretch’s voice cut through her haze again. “Wounded and tired, and you’re just gonna lay there like a corpse, huh?” He leaned over her, his wiry frame blocking the dim, flickering light thrumming from the veins crawling against the cell’s ceiling. “In front of a wretch like me? You really do wanna die, don’t ya? Dumbass.”
She closed her eyes, too drained to muster a response. Her breathing slowed, her body sinking deeper into the grotesque embrace of the flesh bed. A small, stubborn part of her trusted he wouldn’t do anything—not to her. Maybe that part of her was stupid, just like Wretch said. Or maybe it was something else entirely. Either way, she let herself drift.
Wretch lingered for a moment, his sharp eyes studying her as though trying to decide whether her exhaustion was an act. Finally, he sighed and backed off, muttering something about her being a “boring corpse.” He slid down against the oozing wall opposite her, the muck squelching beneath him as he sat.
Pulling a lump of bloody goop from his pocket, he began molding it with his fingers, shaping it into a lopsided ball. He tossed it into the air, catching it with a wet slap as it splattered faint streaks of red across his hands. Over and over, he repeated the motion, the rhythmic sound oddly calming.
Mystery’s breathing evened out, her consciousness fading into a merciful abyss. Wretch glanced at her once, his expression unreadable, before turning his focus back to his gruesome toy. The cell fell silent save for the occasional squelch of flesh and the distant hum of something alive—and waiting—in the walls.
The air was pregnant with the stench of blood and rot. Somewhere, far off in a city drowned by its own sins, a bell tolled for the dying. But here, in the heart of Babylon’s splintered shadow, there was only the hammer and the nails.
Each crash of iron against flesh screamed louder than any of the jeering crowd. Blood burst from the split skin of her hands, running rivulets down the grain of the wood. The Queen had demanded her silence, but my mother, Magdalene the Witch, had no use for silence. She wielded her suffering like a blade, weaponizing every second she remained unbroken.
I wasn’t there that day. How could I have been? I was only hours old, an infant cradled in the arms of flight and fear. But the memory burns so bright, so jagged, it has carved itself into me. Lucida, my adoptive mother, always said memory was a kind of infection—some toxin that burrowed deep, reshaping you from the inside out. Maybe she was right. Maybe my mind is a fevered wound that never healed.
Still, I see it. The hammer, heavy and cold as justice, splitting the air like a gunshot. The Queen—Asha, First of Her Blood, Monarch of Babylon—loomed over her, bathed in sunlight like some false god. “The sins of the mother,” she’d declared, her voice sharp and cruel as glass, “will be crucified for all to see. Her treason, her heresy—her existence—dies today.”
Magdalene’s head jerked back as the first nail plunged into her flesh, the agony spasming through her body. But she didn’t scream. She wouldn’t scream. Her teeth gnashed, her jaw locked tight enough to crack. The veins in her neck stood out like war banners, trembling with effort. Her defiance was a hymn, each drop of her blood a verse sung for the damned.
And Asha stood there, drinking it in. The Queen didn’t flinch as blood spattered her boots, didn’t blink as Magdalene’s arms sagged, crucified before the unholy cross. Babylon cheered, a symphony of baying wolves. But Magdalene—my mother—stared at her executioner with eyes hollowed by rage and despair. I could almost hear her thoughts, see the words twisting on her blood-slick tongue: You will die choking on the ruin you’ve built.
The memories come unbidden, like shadows writhing in the periphery. I wasn’t there, and yet I was. I hear the second hammer strike, feel the splintering wood bite against her skin, taste the metallic tang of blood in the air. I wasn’t there, but it doesn’t matter. The memory lives in me, carved into the sinew of my soul like a scar I never earned.
Magdalene’s gaze fell skyward as her breath rattled, her body trembling with the weight of the inevitable. Even as her arms went limp, her chest heaving in shallow gasps, she never surrendered to the screams clawing at her throat. Not one goddamned word. She died like a star imploding—a cataclysm in the heavens that takes the light with it.
Queen Asha stood triumphant, her scepter glittering with false promise. The crowd roared its approval. But I know the truth. I know my mother wasn’t beaten. She may have fallen that day, but she didn’t break.
Because she never screamed.
⍫⍫⍫⍫⍫⍫
The room reeked of burnt flesh and bleach, a cruel cocktail that clung to Mystery’s nose even as her senses began to flicker. Pain came in waves, a cruel tide pulling her under, dragging her to the edge of oblivion and back again. The whip struck again, carving fiery lines into her back, each crack ricocheting through her nerves until all she could do was scream.
She hated herself for it. Her mother never screamed. Not once. Magdalene had faced the hammer and the nails, the jeering crowd, the Queen’s cruelty, and still, she had defied them with her silence. But Mystery? She wasn’t her mother. Not yet.
The fire roared to her left, its blistering heat licking at her exposed skin. The water to her right cascaded over her body in relentless torrents, sharp as glass and cold as death. They called it "purification," but Mystery knew better. There was no cleansing here—only breaking. Only shaping.
Her body spasmed again, muscles seizing in a futile attempt to resist the endless cycle of torment. Her vision narrowed, blackened, tunneled. The edges of the room dissolved into formless shadows, and the faces of her tormentors blurred into specters. She was losing her grip on reality, her mind retreating to some dark recess where the pain might not find her.
Then he appeared.
A man loomed in her fading vision, crouching close, his pale face framed by the sterile white of a lab coat. His gloved hands hovered over her wounds, precise and impersonal, like a butcher inspecting meat. His mouth moved, forming words she couldn’t hear over the rush of blood in her ears and the crackling of fire.
Her vision tunneled, the edges of the room blurring into nothingness. The faces of her tormentors dissolved into formless shadows, their voices a cacophony of jeers and orders she could no longer decipher. Pain consumed everything, swallowing her whole. Then a new figure emerged from the dark—a man.
He moved with purpose, his steps deliberate and unhurried. The sterile white of his lab coat seemed out of place against the grime of the room, but the way he carried himself—aloof, detached, and maddeningly calm—made it clear he belonged here.
Mystery’s head lolled to the side as her vision flickered. His face came into view, blurred but unmistakably sharp. He crouched beside her, gloved hands hovering over her wounds, and spoke in a low, measured tone.
“You’re holding up better than most,” he said, his voice clinical yet threaded with an almost lazy curiosity. He tilted his head, as if studying her like a specimen under glass. “Though I suppose that’s not saying much, is it?”
His words were muffled, her blood-filled ears drowning out most of the sound, but she caught enough. Better than most. Not saying much.
Her lips parted, the words scraping against her raw throat. “Who…”
He didn’t answer, at least not directly. Instead, he leaned closer, his sharp eyes scanning her wounds with detached precision. “I’ve seen worse,” he muttered, half to himself. “Much worse. And yet…” He paused, as if considering something that only made sense in his own head, before adding with a faint, sardonic smile, “You don’t know when to quit, do you?”
His gloved fingers pressed lightly against a burn on her arm, sending a jolt of agony through her already broken nerves. Mystery jerked, a strangled cry escaping her lips. He didn’t flinch.
“Pain’s a good sign,” he continued, his tone almost conversational, as though they weren’t in a room of fire and torment. “It means you’re still alive. And if you’re alive, you’re useful.”
Useful. Not human. Not a person. Just a tool. Her teeth ground together as anger flared somewhere deep within her, burning hotter than the fire around her.
“No…”
The word escaped her lips in a broken whisper, her head lolling against the cold surface. Her vision swam, the edges of the man’s face darkening. Still, something in her fought through every burning ache running through the sinews of her muscle, like venom to the heart. Her trembling hand reached out, catching his wrist, nails digging deep. A golden gleam burned beneath her melted flesh, giving the man pause. For but a moment, her gaze met his, eyes full of defiance.
“You won’t…”
The man's expression remained frozen, unreadable, though the way her torturers' eyes snapped wide, paired with a single instinctive, flinching step back, painted a picture worth more than a thousand words. The doctor let out a hum and then, as though amused by her defiance, he chuckled—a low, humorless sound that felt more like a knife against her skin.
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “But don’t worry. I’m not here to break you. Not entirely, at least.”
The last thing she saw before the darkness claimed her was his hand reaching for a syringe, the needle glinting under the flickering fluorescent light.
“You’ll understand,” he murmured, his voice the last tether to reality.
Case Number: 1524983
Date of Birth: 07/22/XXXX
Age: 18
Gender: Female
Presenting Concerns:
Subject exhibits profound emotional conflict regarding her identity and legacy, particularly tied to societal labels and her perceived role in Babylon’s systemic rebellion. Displays signs of repressed fear, internalized trauma, and a marked struggle with self-worth. Persistent nightmares, visions linked to bio-gods, and difficulty forming trust-based relationships exacerbate her psychological burden.
Diagnosis:
DSM-5:
F43.10 Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) with dissociative symptoms.
F41.1 Generalized Anxiety Disorder with recurrent episodes of panic.
F34.1 Persistent Depressive Disorder (Dysthymia) exacerbated by situational stressors.
Notable Symptoms/Behaviors:
Identity Conflict: Subject struggles with the imposed title of “The Whore of Babylon,” initially viewing it as dehumanizing but later reframing it as a symbol of rebellion and defiance.
Repressed Fear: Manifests through stoicism and defiance outwardly but results in emotional breakdowns and debilitating anxiety when suppressed fear resurfaces.
Hyper-Responsibility: Tends to shoulder excessive blame for failures, feeling responsible for the hopes and survival of others.
Visions and Hallucinations: Linked to the bio-gods’ fragmented consciousness; these experiences blur reality and cause emotional distress.
Hypervigilance: Subject demonstrates heightened awareness and a preference for enclosed, shadowed spaces, indicative of trauma-linked survival instincts.
Coping Mechanisms and Strengths:
Coping strategy: Tends to small plants and creatures, finding solace in nurturing fragile life as a symbolic act of defiance against Babylon’s destruction. Uses this as an emotional anchor.
Strengths/Positive traits: Idealistic, resourceful, and a natural leader with a talent for inspiring hope. Displays remarkable resilience in the face of systemic oppression.
Hobbies/Activities: Observes and interacts with small, living things; collects fragments of beauty, such as poetry or natural artifacts, to remind herself of the potential for a better world.
Risk Assessment Level: Moderate
Harm to others: Low; subject’s moral compass is strong, but her influence over others could unintentionally lead to harm if rebellion tactics escalate.
Harm to self: Moderate; subject’s repressed fear and guilt may lead to reckless or self-sacrificial behavior under duress.
Current Support System:
Subject is central to a rebellion group, though interpersonal relationships within the group are marked by tension and mistrust. Displays a complex bond with (0374829), (0915274), and (0486213), each serving as a foil for her internal struggles.
Progress and Prognosis:
Subject’s ability to channel her title and identity into a unifying symbol for rebellion demonstrates resilience and adaptability. Long-term progress hinges on her capacity to balance her idealism with pragmatism, to address her fear without suppressing it, and to navigate the emotional weight of leadership. Continued focus on self-compassion and groundedness will be essential.
Case Number: 0486213
Date of Birth: 06/15/XXXX
Age: 27
Gender: Androgynous
Presenting Concerns:Subject exhibits obsessive-compulsive tendencies, particularly in the context of their work, which blends bio-engineering with artistic expression. Displays signs of moral detachment and philosophical rationalization of ethically questionable behavior. Subject is prone to obsessive fixation on specific individuals or concepts, as exemplified by their intense interest in (1524983). Reports tendencies toward grandiosity, often framing themselves as a savior or visionary.
Diagnosis:DSM-5:
F60.81 Narcissistic Personality Disorder with obsessive-compulsive traits.
F44.89 Other Specified Dissociative Disorder (detachment from conventional morality).
Z55.9 Problems Related to Artistic or Intellectual Obsessions.
Notable Symptoms/Behaviors:
Fixation on Perfection: Highly detailed and methodical, with an obsessive focus on achieving what they perceive as artistic and biological perfection.
Moral Detachment: Rationalizes exploitation and harm as necessary for their art, often reframing cruelty as a form of salvation.
Philosophical Rhetoric: Engages in philosophical debates, often aloud, as a means of self-justification.
Manipulative Charm: Employs charisma and eloquence to disarm critics or sway individuals to their perspective.
Obsessive Focus: Intense, singular focus on (1524983) as both an ideal canvas and a symbol of their artistic vision.
Fear of Mortality: Subconscious anxiety about their legacy drives their work and exacerbates obsessive tendencies.
Coping Mechanisms and Strengths:
Coping strategy: Ritualistic behavior in crafting their bio-organic "masterpieces" serves as a means of channeling their anxieties. Singing to creations acts as a self-soothing mechanism.
Strengths/Positive traits: Exceptional intellect, creativity, and mastery of bio-engineering; offers unique contributions to survival and strategy in the rebellion.
Hobbies/Activities: Collects and integrates organic motifs into designs; creates haunting melodies as part of their creative process.
Risk Assessment Level: High
Harm to others: Significant risk due to disregard for consent and willingness to inflict harm in the name of art.
Harm to self: Moderate; obsession with perfection and legacy may lead to self-destructive behaviors if their vision fails to materialize.
Current Support System:
Minimal. Subject relies on their creations for emotional support, viewing them as extensions of themselves. Displays fixation on (1524983), who represents a unique blend of artistic inspiration and personal obsession. Subject’s relationship with the rebellion is strained due to moral and philosophical differences, but their skills make them indispensable.
Progress and Prognosis:
Subject’s progress is contingent on their ability to recognize and address their moral detachment and obsessive tendencies. Long-term improvement is unlikely without a fundamental shift in their worldview, though small strides may be achieved through ethical reframing of their creative pursuits. Their fixation on (1524983) may either catalyze growth or deepen their delusions, depending on the nature of their interactions.
Case Number: 0374829
Date of Birth: 11/15/XXXX
Age: 18
Gender: Male
Presenting Concerns:
Subject exhibits severe dissociative tendencies, memory fragmentation, and identity confusion resulting from psychological and physical conditioning by the Bastion. Reports intermittent flashes of suppressed memories, particularly tied to past relationships and personal values. The subject oscillates between stoic compliance with his Enforcer programming and moments of emotional conflict. Episodes of hypervigilance, insomnia, and self-recrimination are prevalent.
Diagnosis:
DSM-5:
F44.89 Other Specified Dissociative Disorder
F43.12 Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder with Dissociative Symptoms
F60.89 Personality Change Due to a General Medical Condition (secondary to conditioning implants)
F31.31 Bipolar I Disorder, Current Episode Depressed
Notable Symptoms/Behaviors:
Memory Fragmentation: Vivid but unreliable recollections of his pre-conditioning life, often warped by the Bastion’s neural tampering. These memories frequently cause emotional distress.
Conditioning Reflexes: Hypervigilance, repetitive behavior (e.g., weapon-checking, pacing), and automatic adherence to authority.
Identity Crisis: Frequent self-reflective questioning about his humanity and purpose, accompanied by guilt over past actions as an Enforcer.
Emotional Detachment: Stoic demeanor punctuated by brief, involuntary expressions of vulnerability, particularly in response to triggers tied to his past e.g., references to his grandfather or (1524983).
Hypervigilance: Constant scanning of the environment for threats, heightened startle response, and difficulty relaxing even in safe settings.
Coping Mechanisms and Strengths:
Coping strategy: Repetitive mantras (e.g., "These hands can build"), weapon maintenance, and physical training serve as outlets for his internal turmoil.
Strengths/Positive traits: Deeply protective instincts and latent empathy toward those he perceives as vulnerable. His tactical acumen and resourcefulness in combat settings are exceptional.
Hobbies/Activities: Quietly collects and preserves fragments of literature, symbols, and phrases tied to his lost identity.
Risk Assessment Level: Medium to High
Harm to self: Moderate risk due to guilt and identity crisis; subject exhibits tendencies to overexert or neglect personal health.
Harm to others: Elevated risk in high-stress situations due to conditioning and combat training. However, emerging empathy serves as a mitigating factor.
Current Support System:
Minimal. Subject expresses faint but significant emotional ties to (1524983), whose presence and persistence appear to serve as an anchor for his emerging sense of humanity. Lacks broader social support due to isolation and mistrust.
Progress and Prognosis:
Initial progress depends on the subject’s ability to accept and confront fragmented memories without succumbing to guilt or despair. Long-term prognosis hinges on reconciling his conditioned identity with his pre-conditioning self. The presence of a trusted figure, e.g., (1524983), could catalyze recovery, though emotional volatility remains a persistent challenge.
Case Number: 0421987
Date of Birth: 05/12/XXXX
Age: 25
Gender: Male
Presenting Concerns:
Subject exhibits traits of intellectual obsession and moral rebellion, alongside persistent self-doubt and fear of irrelevance. His behavior suggests a preoccupation with challenging societal norms through radical experimentation, particularly regarding the emotional and psychological states of hope and despair. He displays an ambivalent relationship with authority figures and structures, oscillating between disdain for their rigidity and a need for their recognition. Self-reflection is a prominent feature, often articulated in rhetorical questioning.
Diagnosis:
DSM-5:
F60.3 Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder
F31.81 Persistent Depressive Disorder with High Functioning (Dysthymia)
F22 Delusional Disorder, Grandiose Type
Notable Symptoms/Behaviors:
Obsessive Inquiry: Persistent focus on bio-organic research, with an almost religious fervor for finding solutions that challenge Babylon's reliance on despair.
Intellectual Superiority Complex: Subtle but pervasive use of language to assert dominance and critique the intellectual limitations of others.
Eloquent Self-Doubt: Engages in rhetorical questioning about the moral implications of his work and his place within Babylon’s oppressive framework.
Philosophical Idealism: Frames his research as a quest for redemption and societal reform, despite awareness of its potential futility.
Attachment to Legacy: Displays fixation on proving the worth of his experiments to justify his personal sacrifices and redeem his family’s name.
Coping Mechanisms and Strengths:
Coping strategy: Maintains stoicism and emotional distance as a defense against his internal conflicts and societal rejection.
Strengths/Positive traits: Highly intelligent and methodical, with a nuanced understanding of human psychology and bio-organic systems. Shows moments of genuine empathy beneath his clinical detachment.
Hobbies/Activities: Plays the violin to process emotions and reflect on his isolation; uses music as a meditative tool to maintain composure.
Risk Assessment Level: Moderate Risk
Harm to self: Minimal immediate risk, though subject’s obsessive tendencies and guilt may lead to self-isolation or burnout.
Harm to others: Moderate risk; while not explicitly violent, his experiments and philosophical extremism could unintentionally cause harm if unchecked.
Current Support System:
Minimal. Subject is socially isolated due to professional disgrace and philosophical divergence from Babylon’s norms. Displays a growing attachment to (1524983), whom he views as both a symbol of hope and a valuable subject for his research. His complex relationship with (0758241) indicates mutual intrigue but lacks trust.
Progress and Prognosis:
Progress is hindered by the subject’s deep-seated mistrust of authority and his intellectualized coping mechanisms. However, his capacity for empathy and his attachment to ideals suggest potential for growth if provided with structured therapeutic engagement. Prognosis remains guarded due to environmental factors and the potential volatility of his experimental work.
Case Number: 0758241
Date of Birth: 03/22/XXXX
Age: 22
Gender: Male
Presenting Concerns:
Subject exhibits severe dissociation, auditory hallucinations, and a fragmented sense of self. He claims direct communication with a bio-god ("Zazel"), which he believes has overwritten parts of his consciousness. The subject oscillates between grandiosity, guilt, and paranoia, with episodes of compulsive, ritualistic behavior—specifically the obsessive drawing of architectural sketches. Persistent delusions revolve around his supposed role as the creator of Babylon’s bio-organic systems, which he attributes to memories implanted by Zazel.
Diagnosis:
DSM-5:
F44.81 Dissociative Identity Disorder (provisional, pending further evaluation)
F20.0 Schizophrenia, Paranoid Type
F31.13 Bipolar I Disorder, Current Episode Mixed
F43.12 Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Notable Symptoms/Behaviors:
Auditory Hallucinations: Subject reports hearing the voice of "Zazel," which he experiences as intrusive thoughts or commands.
Delusional Beliefs: Claims to have architected Babylon’s foundational systems and to share a "fractured mind" with Zazel.
Compulsive Sketching: Repeatedly carves or draws intricate blueprints of a pre-collapse Babylonian design, often using his own blood as ink.
Guilt and Grandiosity: Alternates between self-loathing for his perceived role in Babylon’s decay and a delusional sense of importance as its "architect."
Paranoia: Displays distrust toward figures of authority and perceived threats, particularly those attempting to study or help him e.g., (0421987).
Coping Mechanisms and Strengths:
Coping strategy: Engages in repetitive drawing and speaking in riddles, which may serve as an outlet for internal conflict and hallucinations.
Strengths/Positive traits: Displays exceptional intelligence, particularly in architecture and bio-organic systems. Possesses deep insights into Babylon’s structural weaknesses, which could prove valuable if guided.
Hobbies/Activities: Finds solace in reimagining Babylon’s design, a process he views as an attempt to correct past "sins."
Risk Assessment Level: High Risk
Harm to self: High due to self-inflicted injuries (e.g., using his own blood for sketches) and episodes of extreme guilt.
Harm to others: Moderate; while currently nonviolent, his delusions and paranoia may escalate if triggered, particularly toward perceived threats like (0421987).
Current Support System:
Minimal. Subject lacks familial or social connections and is largely isolated within Cocytus. Displays an ambivalent relationship with (1524983), whom he views as both a potential savior and a risk to his fractured sense of self.
Progress and Prognosis:
Progress is heavily dependent on stabilizing the subject’s symptoms through medication and building trust within a therapeutic relationship. Prognosis is guarded due to the severity of psychosis and environmental factors exacerbating his condition. However, his attachment to (1524983) and his intellectual capabilities could serve as entry points for recovery if nurtured.
Case Number: 0915274
Date of Birth: 08/15/XXXX
Age: 21
Gender: Male
Presenting Concerns:
Subject exhibits a fragmented psyche with prominent signs of fatalism, antisocial tendencies, and suppressed grief. Displays a persistent aversion to hope or optimism, accompanied by self-directed anger and mockery of perceived naivete in others. History of violent outbursts and defiant behavior toward authority figures, particularly within the authoritarian structure of Babylon. Subject demonstrates a deep-seated distrust of interpersonal relationships, though recent observations suggest an ambivalent protective attachment to another individual (1524983).
Diagnosis:
DSM-5:
F60.2 Antisocial Personality Disorder
F31.31 Bipolar II Disorder, Current Episode Depressed (provisional, pending further observation)
F43.12 Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Notable Symptoms/Behaviors:
Persistent fatalistic worldview with overt disdain for hope or positivity.
Mockery as a defense mechanism; frequent use of coarse language and sarcasm to deflect emotional intimacy.
Heightened irritability and rapid speech patterns indicative of underlying anxiety or unresolved trauma.
Protective instincts, paradoxically coupled with efforts to push others away to avoid attachment.
Unresolved grief related to the loss of a younger sibling, manifesting in both guilt and emotional numbing.
Coping Mechanisms and Strengths:
Coping strategy: Employs sarcasm and mockery to create psychological distance from others and prevent vulnerability.
Strengths/Positive traits: Displays surprising resilience in the face of adversity; able to endure harsh conditions with ingenuity and resourcefulness.
Hobbies/Activities: Music serves as an unspoken emotional outlet; the subject demonstrates skill in crafting crude instruments and playing haunting melodies.
Risk Assessment Level: Medium Risk
Harm to self: No explicit self-harm ideation, but displays passive fatalism and disregard for personal safety.
Harm to others: Moderate risk due to aggressive tendencies and history of violent outbursts, particularly toward authority figures.
Current Support System:Minimal. Subject lacks familial or communal support due to the deaths of all known relatives and estrangement from broader social networks. Displays ambivalent attachment to (1524983), who may serve as a stabilizing influence, though the relationship is fraught with tension.
Progress and Prognosis:Progress is limited due to the subject’s resistance to vulnerability and deeply ingrained mistrust of authority figures, including therapeutic ones. However, the recent formation of a tentative attachment to (1524983) suggests potential for emotional growth if approached cautiously. Prognosis remains guarded; while significant improvement is possible with sustained intervention, the subject's environment is likely to exacerbate underlying issues.
Case Number: 5168294
Date of Birth: 11/27/XXXX
Age: 20
Gender: Male
Presenting Concerns:
Subject demonstrates a combination of fatalism and unrelenting optimism, likely stemming from prolonged imprisonment and torture within Cocytus. Despite physical and emotional scars, he displays a fearless and reckless demeanor, using humor and bravado to cope with the trauma of his situation.
Diagnosis:
DSM-5:
F43.10 Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (chronic, with dissociative and resilience-oriented coping mechanisms)
F41.0 Panic Disorder (manifesting during periods of heightened danger or confrontation)
F60.7 Dependent Personality Traits (focused on his attachment to his sister and those he views as family)
Notable Symptoms/Behaviors:
Reckless Behavior: Engages in high-risk activities without consideration for personal safety, often as a means of defiance or self-assertion.
Hyperbolic Optimism: Employs humor, exaggeration, and bravado to maintain morale among himself and others, even in dire situations.
Trauma-Bonded Resilience: Anchors his sense of purpose and survival to his sister’s well-being, using her survival as a justification for his actions and continued defiance.
Coping Mechanisms and Strengths:
Coping Strategy: Leverages humor, storytelling, and physical movement (e.g., daring acts or escape attempts) to channel his anxiety into action.
Strengths/Positive Traits: Displays unwavering loyalty, quick thinking under pressure, and a natural ability to inspire hope and courage in others.
Hobbies/Activities: Finds joy in storytelling, particularly tales of rebellion or impossible odds, which he uses to boost morale in Cocytus.
Risk Assessment: Moderate Risk
Harm to Self: Moderate; his recklessness and fatalistic attitude increase the likelihood of harm during high-stress scenarios.
Harm to Others: Low; while combative and defiant, (5168294)’s loyalty and empathy prevent him from intentionally endangering others.
Current Support System:
Minimal. (5168294)’s primary support is his attachment to the memory of his sister, which motivates his actions and provides him with a sense of purpose. In Cocytus, he gravitates toward forming bonds with fellow prisoners, particularly those who share his desire for rebellion.
Progress and Prognosis:
(5168294)’s resilience and ability to inspire others make him a strong candidate for psychological recovery if removed from Cocytus. However, his tendency toward recklessness and impulsivity may jeopardize his progress without proper guidance. Prognosis is cautiously optimistic, contingent on his ability to channel his energy into constructive and survivable actions.
