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𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞

pairing. albedo x fem!reader word count. 13.6k (i know. i'm sorry. idk how it happened but please read HAHA) genre/warnings. war!au, sci-fi!au, super soldier!reader, memory loss, mentions of blood/injury/unethical experimentation, angst and fluff, ambiguous ending summary.

They call you The Reaper—a super soldier born from a scientific breakthrough that had once been deemed impossible, at the cost of your memories. Faced with the daunting task of replicating your miracle, Albedo finds himself lost between duty and devotion, chasing the ghost of someone who once knew him.

a/n. this monster of a fic just kind of appeared in my drafts, and i took it upon myself to finish it. if you're a neuroscience major or if you're someone who knows a lot about war, sorry for any inconsistencies, it's just my little fanfic so please be gentle LOL. as always, reblogs/interaction are appreciated!

Dearie Albedo,

It's been so long since I heard from you! I'm happy you wrote me a letter back! I'm doing fine at home! Mom works a lot, so I'm usually by myself, but that's okay! I spend a lot of time making things, just like you! I hope one day I'll be as smart as you! Maybe when you come home, you can teach me a few things? Then we can make things together—

The metallic thud of the door sliding open abruptly tears Albedo from his thoughts, his reading progress grinding to a screeching halt. He glances up to see Sucrose standing at the threshold to his office, a pile of folders clutched white-knuckled in her hands.

Her glasses are askew, a sign that she'd run here. Truthfully, Albedo isn't sure why she'd gotten into the habit—he'd told her long ago that it was fine if she took her time with simple tasks like file transport, but she seems hellbent on maintaining maximum efficiency.

Then again, maximum efficiency seems to be the concept running his life lately.

Largely due to its proximity to the frontlines, there are few moments for respite on Base Alpha. When things move here, they move quickly—units are constantly being assigned and reassigned, and even when they aren't, there's trainings and meetings and debriefings to be held. Even for someone like Albedo, who doesn't tend to be involved in front-facing affairs, there's no end to the tasks that burden his regular work day. And today, it seems even his mandated lunch break is no exception to that rule.

He sighs, neatly folding up Klee's letter and setting it on the corner of his desk. Practical as he is, there isn't much on the wooden surface in the first place—some files, dataset printouts, a smattering of sticky notes, and a single frame with an old picture of his family. He'll make time to read the rest of the letter and write a reply later; hopefully, whatever assignment Sucrose has on hand won't take too long.

She skitters up to his desk nervously, nearly tripping over her own feet in her rush. Even when she reaches him, she merely stares at his expectant, outstretched hand for a moment.

"This one is, um, a little different from the others," she offers, holding the files to her chest with an air of hesitation.

Albedo raises a brow. Nervousness has always been natural for his assistant, but this level of anxiety is treading into the abnormal. He gestures impatiently.

"Just give me the files, Sucrose."

After a few moments of tense, calculated silence, she relinquishes the papers to him, muttering something about how she has other things to attend to. She's not usually so quick to leave, Albedo notes—usually, she'll stick around and ask how she can be of service. Whatever this project is must be especially unsettling.

Before he can get another word in, Sucrose slips through the door, and he finds himself alone again.

Upon first observation, the folders are relatively unassuming, if not plentiful in number—a sizable stack, each plainly labelled with dates and content summaries. His eye twitches in slight irritation; if he’s learned anything over the years, it’s that the size of the stack tends to correlate to the intensity of his headache later on. Still, there's no point in delaying the inevitable; there is no scientist of a higher caliber than his on Base Alpha.

Exhaling slowly out of his nose, he flips open the first folder labelled “Immediate Action Needed", but it's emptier than he expected. A single sheet of paper floats onto his desk, the clean white contrasted with black typewriter font.

The Reaper—

His breath hitches.

—has been reassigned to Base Alpha for the time being. As you know, it is in our best interests that we find a way to replicate her state as soon as possible—please make this your first priority and utilize whatever means necessary to do so. This will be our final attempt at this project; since the original documents detailing her augmentation were destroyed, we are imploring you to give this your best efforts. As you know, she is sturdy, so do not worry about experimentation effects. You are our greatest asset in this area of study, so please feel free to request additional resources as needed. We are willing to pour everything into this project.

The Reaper. It’s a title with which Albedo is horribly familiar, if not against his will. Hailed as the greatest scientific breakthrough that Mondstadt has ever produced, and also their greatest ethical failure. Anyone worth their salt in this war would have knowledge about the whole event.

If it were up to him, he'd never have to dip his hands into this kind of operation. Though he can appreciate the advancement of the science and the relative success of the biological augmentation, it had not come at no cost. Even he knows that there are limits to this kind of research—limits that would be impossible to maintain, should he continue to participate in this project.

He glances at Klee's letter again, noting the small apple sticker that she'd used to seal the paper. It was part of a set that he'd sent her for her birthday, he remembers—in lieu of his absence, he'd opted to send her a collection of gifts instead. She'd been so excited about it in the letters following that day; it had almost been enough to curb the guilt settling in his stomach.

It was practically unheard of to get a day off on Base Alpha, after all.

He sighs, brushing the bangs out of his eyes. His sister likely won't be getting a response from him anytime soon as long as this work is sitting on his to-do list. Mentally, he makes a note to buy her another gift.

Suddenly, the door creaks again, but doesn't open—Albedo's gaze flickers over to it, calculating, like he's waiting for something to happen. For a few moments, nothing moves.

"Sucrose," he finally calls out wearily.

A muted gasp of surprise is audible from the hallway, and then his assistant is cracking the door open again, a single amber eye peering through the crack. So she hadn’t had anything else to attend to, he thinks—she just didn’t want to be here to see his reaction to the assignment.

“Sorry, Mr. Albedo…” she murmurs, as if to explain herself. Albedo shakes his head.

“It's fine, it doesn’t matter now,” he says, already flipping the second folder open—an overview of the entire experimental history of the Reaper. This folder is practically overflowing compared to the last one, the stack of paper as thick as his pinky finger is long. “Bring me a coffee if you would, and get yourself one too. We have a lot of work to do.”

/

A week later, Albedo finds himself in the mess hall.

It's not somewhere that he would typically be found; he doesn't actually take his meals here, after all. It’s far too loud, with about a hundred different conversations occurring at once, and he certainly can’t get any work done in this type of environment. Eating in his office just makes sense, both for his peace of mind and for his workload. Still, Kaeya drags him out every now and then just to prove to everyone else on base that he is indeed still alive.

“Everyone’s saying there’s someone special on base today,” Kaeya murmurs, fork poking languidly at the food on his tray. It’s a dismal meal as always, not that it really matters—Albedo stopped being able to taste anything but bitter iron years ago.

Even as solitary as he is, Albedo knows that news travels quickly in Base Alpha. Even the layout of the room lends itself to that fact—long rows of tables outlined by benches of soldiers talking quietly, information shared over meals.

It's the effect of being so close to the frontlines, so close to death—The Edge, as Base Alpha is so lovingly dubbed by its inhabitants. Being stationed here means one of two things: either you're extremely important, so your presence is necessary, or you're extremely unimportant, so you're being sent to throw your body onto the battlefield for the sake of the war effort.

Though he considers himself as a member of the first camp, it doesn't make Albedo feel too much better about his role.

"If you're asking if the Reaper is here," he murmurs lowly in response to Kaeya's pointed statement, glancing up at the other man through his lashes, "then I would say I can neither confirm nor deny that."

Kaeya chuckles, a sound which Albedo finds to be rather joyful and unassuming considering their current situation.

"Good thing I didn't ask anything, then."

The Cavalry Captain is putting on a front, one which Albedo finds to be familiar considering how long they've known each other. Kaeya has probably long since heard and confirmed every rumor surrounding the Reaper's presence on the base; he's only mentioning it now to see if he can scrounge out any last bits from the Investigation Team's wealth of knowledge.

And really, Albedo has to wonder if the wildfire rumor spread was intentional, maybe by someone with a higher title than himself.

Because the Captains' reports don't lie, and it's a fact that both he and Kaeya know—that they’re losing the war, that the casualties are building, that the enlistment numbers are down. There seem to be fewer and fewer victories to report with each passing day.

And Albedo isn't really one to be involved in conversations regarding morale, because he himself doesn't think much about war effort either; most days, all he really cares about is the chunky envelope of cash that arrives in his mother’s hands every month, the same one that ensures his sister will get a proper meal every day. But losing the war is an entirely different story.

So, though he has no part in it, he can understand—news of the Reaper's arrival might be exactly the kind of inspiration that they need.

Her existence was a special kind of rumor. It seemed to grasp the delicate pendulum between misery and hope and thrust it in the other direction for once. An experimental soldier like that, one who could withstand damage that a regular soldier couldn’t, was someone capable of turning the tides of the war.

"Say, are those rumors about her true?" Kaeya asks after a pause, fork tines slipping between his lips. A gleam of curiosity shines in his blue eyes—it seems you already have his interest piqued, for one reason or another.

Albedo regards his fellow Captain with a calculated stare. Annoyingly, that act only seems to fuel Kaeya further—he smirks, leaning forward to rest his chin on his hands.

"Falling in love with me now?" Kaeya asks.

"Rather, I'm thinking of how I might be rid of your questioning," Albedo replies blandly. He struggles to swallow down another flavorless chunk of meat—it sits a little too thick in his throat. Still, he’d assured Klee that he would eat properly, and he doesn’t like to break his promises to her.

Kaeya shrugs, tilting his head. "Only way is to answer."

There's little point in arguing with the Cavalry Captain—he'll always find some way to get through to you. So Albedo sighs in resignation, trying to ignore the growing grin on Kaeya's face as he starts to explain.

"Her endurance, strength, and longevity have been incredibly augmented, at the cost of certain deficits that affect the hippocampus. It's the result of extensive experimentation related to normal neurological limitations and biological—"

“Not everyone here’s a scientist,” Kaeya interrupts, waving his fork around. “Level with me here.”

By now, peak hours for the mess hall are waning—the soldiers around them are rising to their feet and clearing off their dishes, ready to return to their posts. Albedo figures that he should do the same somewhat soon.

"She's extremely strong and durable, but overuse of those abilities leads to consistent memory loss."

Kaeya sets his utensils down, plucking a napkin from the dispenser sitting equidistantly between them. For once, his expression turns rather serious.

"Memory loss? As in, everything?"

Albedo thinks back to the files that he'd spent his entire night reading through, only a coffee and a dim, flickering lamp to carry him through the late hours. Sucrose had helped for a good chunk of time, but she ended up asleep on the chair in the corner as always.

"Not everything," he corrects. "Many of her older memories from when she had just been augmented are rather robust. But the building strain has made it difficult for her brain to store newer memories."

Kaeya nods slowly, letting the information sink in. "So the foundation is there, she just can't keep building on it. But how much time does she lose each time?"

Albedo shrugs. "It depends on the level of exertion. Based on her files, she's lost anywhere from weeks to months each time. The standard deviation is high, and it's too variable to even compose a predictive formula. There's a lot that we still don't know about her and her abilities."

His calm voice echoes over the wide-set walls and vaulted ceilings—the mess hall is practically empty by now. He stands at the same time Kaeya does, stainless steel dishware clanking together on his tray.

"Well, there's where you come in, right? You're gonna fix her right up."

Kaeya jabs a playful elbow into his side.

And Albedo knows that if he were a good person, that's what he would be doing—searching for a way to cure you of this memory loss, of this curse that the demands of war had placed upon you. He just doesn't have the heart to tell anyone that he's supposed to be making more soldiers like you instead, committing them to the same fate.

"Yeah," he murmurs absently, scraping the remnant shreds of his lunch into the trash can. He's lost his appetite completely. "I guess so."

/

The steady scratch of pen against clipboard is the only sound filling the thick air of Albedo's office. Though he'd wheeled a cot into the space for you, the cushion is still hard, and the fluorescent lighting that illuminates the ceiling is too clinical for your taste.

"Please state your current location."

"Base Alpha."

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

"Please state the last memory you have before today."

"Uh, the battlefield? I'm not sure where, though I think—"

A sharp throb splits through your skull before you can finish your sentence and you hiss in pain, both hands clutching at your skull. The ache burns red-hot in your brain, so agonizing that you can't even manage a single thought.

"Hello?" A calm voice cuts through the flare. "Can you hear me?"

Another wave of pain flows over you, then slowly subsides, retreating into some far recess of your mind. A shorter episode than usual, you think—you'd been lucky this time.

When your eyes flutter open, they meet a pool of pure, curious teal. There's concern there too, bubbling shallowly somewhere under the surface. Albedo's expression is still smooth and calm, almost calculated as he scans your face.

"Good, you're still alert." Though you don't mean to, you flinch hard when Albedo leans close. He doesn't seem offended by the action—instead, he nods apologetically. "I apologize, that was rude of me. Is it okay if I touch you for a moment? I just want to assess any physical symptoms."

Wordlessly, you tip your head forward slightly, offering it to him. He places one hand on your chin, tilting it up slightly while the other comes to rest on your nape. You find his grip surprisingly gentle—most others haven't been.

"No noted redness in the eyes," he says aloud, directing his statement to his assistant who stands in the corner of the room, furiously taking notes. Truthfully, you'd practically forgotten that she was there—she's been quiet as a mouse since you got here. "No pupil dilation either."

He takes his time inspecting your face, talking about things like atrophies and sensory deficits. You find yourself staring at the white fluorescent lights again, seeing how long you can gaze into them before your eyes start to sting.

"How often would you say that type of pain occurs?" Albedo suddenly questions. On instinct, you only manage to meet his stare for a moment before the awkwardness forces you to look away.

"Anywhere from zero to ten times a day." He grimaces slightly at your response, practically the first movement you've seen on his face all day. For some reason, it makes you feel guilty. "But you don't have to worry about it. It's happened for as long as I can remember. I'm used to it by now."

He nods solemnly, still too close for comfort. "Yes, as you likely already know, it’s a side effect of your condition and the resulting strain on your cortex. I hope that over the course of our time together, I can develop a treatment to lessen the pain.”

His assistant—Sucrose, you remember her name to be—squirms in the corner, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, like she's dissected something unpleasant in his words. Albedo's attention flickers over to her movement for a moment, and he pointedly clears his throat.

"Sucrose, could you get her some water? It might help."

She flinches in surprise when she’s addressed, but nods hurriedly, seemingly appreciative of the opportunity to escape the quiet room. She scampers out without another word, leaving the two of you alone.

You watch Albedo as this happens—his lips are pressed into a thin line, a sense of tension in his posture as he stands over you. When Sucrose leaves and the door falls shut, that rigidity seems to dissolve, his shoulders loosening beneath his white coat.

"That's not your job, is it?" you guess. He doesn't seem surprised at your line of questioning—instead, he makes his way to his desk, rifling through the stack of folders sitting neatly at the center. "You don't have to worry about my comfort. You're just supposed to clone my condition, right? That's what they told me."

"And I will," he assures. The edges of his words carry a certain sharpness, a warning that this is a touchy subject for discussion. "I can do both."

His declaration gives you pause. Most experimentation that you've experienced did not come easily. It's rarely, if ever, comfortable and painless, and you're sure that it wouldn't be safe for a regular person. But you're acutely aware of your own abilities, and that includes your limitations.

You sit up on your elbows. "It won't be nearly as fast though, right? I know that any attempt to clone my augmentation has failed so far, so it's okay if you pull out all the stops—"

The folder slams shut with a small force that echoes in the space, the shock sending the rest of your sentence tumbling back down your throat. Albedo sucks in a breath—there's a lightning flash of conflict in his expression that's gone as soon as it came.

"There's no need," he replies after a pause, composed. "I'm very good at what I do."

You find that he's much different than previous scientists that you've encountered—the ones that would poke and prod at you at odd hours of the night, needles sinking into your skin and pills being shoved over your tongue. Even the cot you're laying on is an atypical luxury; usually, they just pull up any old lab table and have you lie down on it.

"Okay," you mumble in agreement. It doesn't seem like he's keen on changing his stance anytime soon. "I'll trust your judgment then."

A certain discomfort clings to the air as you lapse back into silence. You don't know why Albedo's caution feels so wrong. It doesn't matter, you convince yourself. In a few days, you'll probably forget this exchange entirely. This meeting, this conversation—all of it will fade into obscurity.

Neither of you speak again until Sucrose returns, a cup of water in hand. She hands it to you with an uneasy smile.

You're used to that kind of perturbation around you. Most seem to be on edge in your presence, as if they're expecting you to blow up at any moment. You can't blame them for thinking that way, not really—no one seems to understand the science behind your augmentation, or how it had even succeeded in the first place. And people will always fear what they don't understand.

You take a cautious sip from the cup, testing for the telltale bitterness of medicine mixed in the water. It's cold and refreshing, absent of any lingering aftertaste. Clean and fresh.

Albedo drops the folder he was reading onto his desk, and it thuds against the wood with a tone of finality. "Well, we'll move onto the physical testing portion next, so we'll need to go outside to the training field. And like I mentioned earlier, Sucrose and I will be in charge of your care. So if there's anything you need while you remain on base, please feel free to come to us."

Anything you need? It's not often that someone asks you about your wants and needs—you're not even sure what you would ask for, given the option. Still, you nod vaguely, sitting up.

"When's your next deployment?" Sucrose pipes up from the corner, twiddling with her fingers. "If you don't mind me asking."

It's hard for you to think about dates and times and calendars. Because of your condition, everything tends to jumble together, and that's if you can even remember it in the first place. The Commander at this base—Jane, you think her name was, or maybe June?—had debriefed you this morning, but it's still difficult to recall.

"Tomorrow, I think," you say, tilting your head thoughtfully. Then, with a mirthless chuckle, you add, "So I probably won't remember any of this."

You don't mean for it to sound as pitiful as it does, but Sucrose's face drops in turn. Years ago, you might have felt the same way; now, though, it's simply normalcy.

As he steps toward you again, you find that Albedo's eyes are disarmingly kind.

"It's no issue," he says, each word feather-soft. "We'll meet again."

/

Albedo is half-asleep at his desk when someone knocks at his door.

He startles at the sound, then settles—there's only one person on this entire base who would bother to knock in the first place. A glance at the clock confirms that it's about half past 3 in the morning; he should've been finished with this paperwork hours ago.

"Come in," he calls blearily.

It's Jean who cracks the door open, nodding politely as she enters. There's no real greeting necessary, and Albedo doesn't even have the energy to entertain one at this time.

He's always thought that Jean would do better as a queen than a Commander—she carries herself with an air of royalty, grace, and authority that seems to fill the room. It's rare to see her around since she's usually tucked away in her office, but she's a constant presence nonetheless. Albedo would likely consider her one of the people he respects the most on this base.

Her gaze flickers over the stray paperwork that sits in front of him. If she holds any judgment about his accidental nap, she doesn't show it. Instead, she wordlessly settles into the plush chair across from him, an expectant look in her eyes. Albedo gathers the folders scattered across his desktop, carefully arranging them in a pile and filing them away—he'll have to see to it that the paperwork is completed at a later time.

His desk drawer falls shut, and three beats of complete silence pass.

"So you've met the Reaper," she starts, one hand resting on the saber at her hip. It's phrased somewhere between a question and a statement.

Albedo can only nod in response. "So I have."

He'd expected that the Commander would make an appearance here at some point (though perhaps not in the early hours of the morning). After all, the pressure of the higher-ups must have been immense to result in the Reaper being stationed here under his care. Only the most critical projects are sent to him so directly.

"And what do you think?"

Noting the dark bags ringing her eyes, Albedo offers Jean a half-smile.

"Nothing that I can't do, given time. I hope they haven't been hounding you too much about it."

The brief twitch at the corner of Jean's lip confirms that the higher-ups had indeed been hounding her about it, probably far more than necessary. But she merely sighs, throwing her hands up in resignation.

"You know how they are. Always talking about results and outcomes. I've been telling them you'll get it done, but good things take time. But I trust that you'll be able to take care of it."

Jean's confidence only makes Albedo feel worse about the entire operation—he'd like nothing more than to be completely uninvolved. But that type of disobedience wouldn't only affect him, but everyone who is counting on him.

Jean, Klee, his mother, even Kaeya. And you as well.

"Well, I haven't been able to see her in about a week anyway," Albedo says, stifling a yawn. "She's been deployed all this time, and I haven't received any update yet."

It's ridiculous, when he thinks about it—the higher-ups want him to replicate your augmentation, but still insist on sending you away for days or weeks at a time. It's completely hypocritical to demand efficiency on his part and then request your continued combat.

Jean nods. "That's part of why I came here to see you. We just received word that she's fallen in battle. She's being transported back to Base Alpha as we speak."

She produces a single printout and slides it to him over his desk, letting him glance over it.

Four platoons singlehandedly defeated… eventual defeat by high-armor tank… reset confirmed.

Reset confirmed.

Albedo sucks in a breath. "So her memory is gone. Do we know how much yet?"

Jean shakes her head. "Not yet. Once she's cleared to be released, I'm sure they'll send her to you for an examination. Unfortunately, it looks like re-introductions might be necessary."

It must be terrifying, Albedo thinks—to wake up, fresh from the battlefield, not knowing where you are and how you'd gotten there. It's a miracle that you've maintained your sanity after all this time, neurological burdens aside.

"I see," he murmurs, still looking over the details of your last deployment. "I'll prepare to receive her then. Rest assured, she'll be in good hands."

Jean smiles appreciatively. "I'm sure she will."

And though Albedo doesn't consider himself the most socially adept person in the world, he's sure that this is the point where most people would get up and leave. It's unimaginably late after all—or early, more accurately—and chitchatting doesn't seem to be a priority for the moment. But Jean remains motionless in her seat, still fixing him with a deliberate stare.

"Is something the matter?" he tries. "If there's nothing else, then I have some paperwork to finish. I'll have it ready for you by sunrise, if that's your concern."

Jean's mouth opens, stalls, then shuts, like she'd swallowed down the words. Clearing her throat, she rises to her feet, clearly restless.

"No, it's nothing. Thank you for your hard work as always, Albedo. I'll be seeing you soon."

When she leaves, the air seems to leave the room alongside her. Albedo leans back in his chair as soon as the door shuts, throwing an arm over his eyes to block out the dim light. It seems he has work cut out for him when it comes to you.

Klee's letter is still folded at the corner of his desk. He looks over it once, then twice, then decides against it—it'll have to wait. Instead, he yanks his desk drawer open, plucks out the necessary files, and gets back to work.

/

"Please state your current location."

"Base Alpha."

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

"Please state the last memory you have before today."

"Um, two days ago, I think. Right before I deployed, I met the Cavalry Captain. But I can't quite remember his name—"

"Kaeya."

"Right, Kaeya."

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

"Any pain today?"

You bite your lip, stretching your neck testingly. "Headaches. But nothing abnormal."

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

The Investigation Team's Captain had introduced himself as Albedo when you first arrived back on base after a short stint in the infirmary. It's pretty typical of your schedule, from what you can remember—battlefield, infirmary, back to base, and repeat.

Based on the way his gaze keeps flickering over you, you'd guess that the two of you have met before; he looks over you knowingly, like he's trying to assess whether you're showing any signs of remembering him.

Unfortunately, despite how much you wade through the memories flooding your brain, you find nothing that points to the blond man in front of you. It always feels that way in your head—an endless, cavernous ocean that leaves you constantly drowning. Full, yet empty at the same time, so much left inaccessible.

As far as you know, this man is in charge of replicating your augmentation. You'd practically laughed when you'd first been told—he must be the fifth or sixth scientist to try. For reasons you can't explain, they'd all failed spectacularly, and you can't expect that this will be any different.

"As I'm sure you can tell, your memory has lapsed since we last met," Albedo notes with a frown. "If it's okay with you, I'd like to proceed with a physical exam. Nothing invasive, but observing the rate of your healing will help in my research."

Hesitantly, you sit up, head tilting at his words. "You're asking me?"

He looks back at you as if you've grown two heads, pen stalling against his clipboard. "Asking you for permission is only customary and ethical."

"What would you do if I said no, then?"

"Then I wouldn't do it."

He says it like it's all so obvious. To you, it's an interesting concept. You're the only soldier of your kind; in the event that you rejected his examination, you're sure that he would have no hope of replicating your augmentation. It's a rather odd approach to the research, though you wouldn't call yourself a scientist either way.

Sighing, you lie back down. "Just do whatever you need to do."

He lingers over you for a moment as if he means to say more, but seems to decide against it. Wordlessly, he yanks a pair of gloves from a box in the drawer of his desk. The familiar sound of latex snapping has you flinching on instinct—you force yourself to relax against the cot beneath you, trying to focus your attention elsewhere.

"This is a nice office for just one guy," you observe, looking around the room. "Usually, they have tons of assistants and interns sniffing and crawling all over the place."

"I usually have an assistant," he corrects, seeming slightly amused by your description, "but she's out on an unrelated assignment today. Either way, we don't have any heavy testing planned, so it's fine if it's just me."

"Did I meet her before?" you ask.

He nods. "You did, if only briefly. We conducted an initial examination when you first arrived on Base Alpha."

Base Alpha. You figure it's a miracle that this is the first time you've been assigned here. The reports said that the generals had been hesitant to place you on the frontlines too soon, hoping to thin out the defenses in other areas before gathering your power in one place. You don't have any particular preference with regards to location—the battlefield looks the same no matter where you are.

Then again, you don't remember the other bases much anyway.

As you ponder that fact, Albedo looks over your injuries—the swell of the bruise under your eye, the long cut running from your cheek to your chin, the raised scars that line your entire body. In a way, you're grateful for them. They're the only evidence you have of battles long fought and forgotten.

"The dressing on this wound is horrible," Albedo observes, his expression reflecting disgust as he eyes the gauze wrapped over your arm. The white bandages are fully saturated with blood, and the cloth sticks to you even as he gently peels it away from your skin.

You wince through a shrug, the wound stinging as it's exposed to the open air. "They didn't seem too bothered with patching me up. They know it won't kill me."

In the infirmary, you were of the least concern amongst all the patients. Most seemed to know about your sturdiness, and thus they tended to leave you to your own devices. It makes sense, at least to you—as long as you're not dead, the condition of your physical body isn't a priority.

"The infirmary here did this to you?"

"If I had to guess, it's probably the same everywhere. Doesn't really matter."

A quiet rage flickers in Albedo's eyes as he regards the soaked bandage. "Your wounds can still be infected. Proper care is still necessary in your case."

You're not really sure what "proper care" entails, but you figure that's not what he wants to hear right now.

"When it gets infected, I just let it scar over."

"Infections are painful."

You smile, a touch of bitterness in the stretch of your lips. "Lots of things are. You get used to it."

You expect him to brush it off; most other scientists that you've worked with would. They know that your true value lies on the battlefield—as long as you're still fighting, not much else matters. Even if it results in your pain.

Exhaling through his nose, Albedo strips off his gloves, tossing them into the trash along with the soiled bandage. He replaces them over his hands just as quickly, retrieving a roll of gauze from his drawer.

"That's unacceptable. Even if the efficiency of your healing outpaces others, there is no reason to be careless with your treatment. I'll be having a word with my Commander to remedy this."

You get lost in the precision of his fingers as he gently eases the gauze to the right length and tears it. When he presses it to your wound, the warmth of his skin, even through the gloves, seems to burn against you—you can't tell if it's pleasant or painful.

Your breath sticks in your lungs as he secures the bandage. "You don't have to do that—"

"And you shouldn't be treated with negligence. We owe a lot of our victories to you, they would do well to remember that before showing inattentiveness with your care."

It catches you off-guard. You're aware that you haven't been treated very kindly in your life. You've also been keenly aware of your duties as long as you remember, and they tended to take precedence over everything else. It's odd to think that anything but your pure performance could matter in the grand scheme of things.

Though you're devoid of most memories, there are fragments that linger—feelings that can't be forgotten, emotions that are written into your very DNA, instincts that your mind forgets but your body remembers. So perhaps you have a certain stigma against scientists, researchers, and the like because of those hidden recollections.

But Albedo finishes wrapping your wound, and when he steps away, you notice the disappearance of his warmth instantly—a lonely chill layers itself where he once was.

"I'm sure you're exhausted after everything," he says, completely unaware of your dazed look. "We're finished for today, so you can return to your quarters and rest. If there's anything else you need, you can always feel free to come to me. Usually, I would include Sucrose in that, but since you haven't met her yet, you can rely on me."

You sit up hesitantly, stretching out your limbs. "Are you sure? I can keep going."

With his back turned, you can't make out Albedo's expression, but he replies with the same measured cadence as always. "There's no need to strain yourself on my behalf. The examination we performed today has already given me plenty of data to analyze, I assure you."

Something in your chest stirs. All you've ever known how to do is stretch yourself past your limits, both body and brain. You feel an overwhelming need to be useful to him, to everyone, however possible.

Albedo isn't the type to waste time, already busying himself with something else—some sort of icy liquid in a beaker, light glittering through the crystalline glass. He's measuring it with a seamless level of precision that appears as natural as breathing, frosty light reflected on his pale skin. Something about it is indescribably gentle.

And you don't know why you're suddenly curious, but still you ask, "How many times have we met before, Albedo?"

He pauses, uncharacteristically caught off-guard by your question. "Just once. The first time you came here."

It doesn't feel like just once, and you don't know why. Then again, you don't really know anything. So you chalk it up to a false sense of deja vu, tucking the burdensome nostalgia away. It won't matter in a few days anyway, when your new deployment starts. By the time you end up back in this room, he'll be no one but a stranger to you.

"Does it bother you that next time we meet, I probably won't recognize you?"

The question hangs in the air for a moment before Albedo blinks.

"Not at all. I'll simply introduce myself again."

"Again?"

He pours the beaker with almost inhuman accuracy, not a single tremor present in his hands. It's the first time that you've ever thought that science was beautiful.

"As many times as it takes," he answers without deviating from his task. "That's what it means to be a scientist."

/

[RESET]

"Good morning. My name is Albedo, and I'm the Captain of the Investigation Team on Base Alpha. For the duration of your stay, you'll be under my care—"

[RESET]

"—ful. Don't move too much, and tell me if it hurts. If the pain becomes unbearable, raise your hand or grab at my coat."

"Relax, I can handle it, Albedo. I've taken a needle or two in my life, that you can trust—"

[RESET]

"—worthy. I promise that he's not truly as foolish as he acts. I wouldn't bring anyone here that would be a danger to your progress. If he is a detriment in any way, I will send him out."

"Thank you for that glowing introduction, Albedo. It's great to finally meet you again, Reaper. My name is Kaeya, the Cavalry Captain here at Base Alpha."

"Likewise. Just a bit of sparring today then, yeah?"

"That's correct. I'm assessing whether there have been any changes in your augmentation since we began experimenting."

"In that case, I'll try to make a good impression. Good luck—"

[RESET]

"—ily, you didn't lose too much memory this time. It seems that you remember portions of our last meeting a few days ago."

"Seems to be that way. It's good to be back in one piece for once."

"…It's good to see you back."

"I might not be so lucky next time, though."

"That's fine. I've grown rather efficient in my introductions. Call it experience."

"If you're as good as you say you are, maybe I won't have to lose any memory next time. Or, at least, I can hope—"

[RESET]

"—fully I didn't get any on your coat. Sorry about that."

"Don't worry, it must have been my error. Nausea is quite common when testing medicines like this. And my coat is a non-issue. Are you in any pain?"

"No. Just embarrassed that I threw up on your shoes, mostly."

"Any other symptomatic changes?"

"Hm, not that I can tell. I don't feel any different—"

[RESET]

"—ly back at Base Charlie. Last time I was there, they had way better food. Chicken katsu and rice."

"No way. It's a shame I don't remember it."

"Yup. Maybe if you end up back there you can send us a care package. Right, Albedo?"

"I didn't ask you here to talk about food, Kaeya. Please proceed with the experiment, if you'd be so kind—"

[RESET]

"—ness. That's one thing that I think makes you a lot different than other scientists I've met. Not that I can remember most of the details."

"…I wouldn't call it kindness. That's just part of being an ethical researcher."

"Well, I think you're kind, Albedo. You've put up with me for this long."

"You say that like it's a burden."

"Isn't it?"

"I've never thought of it as such, no."

/

"Please state your current location."

"Base Alpha."

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

"Please state the last memory you have before today."

"A flash of light, probably some sort of artillery. Felt like my skull was being crushed in. A lot of screaming."

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

"So, the battlefield then. Nothing before those events?"

Albedo doesn't know why his whole body tenses as he awaits your answer—he feels the tension in his shoulders first, every inch of him acutely on edge. A thin sweat builds below his collar. Your eyes flutter shut, searching, before you shake your head.

"No, not that I can remember."

A sharp disappointment settles in his chest. It's not a logical emotion, not at all—this should not come to a surprise to him. The reset of your memories is a simple fact of your existence, an undeniable fact. The science does not lie, and neither does the blank look with which you meet his stare.

Faking a cough, Albedo clears his throat. "Right. Well, that kind of memory and subsequent injury aligns with the last deployment that you undertook since we last met."

Your eyes brighten in interest, if only slightly. "So we've met before?"

He laughs humorlessly. "Yes, we have."

Albedo knows that the world exists in facts, in proven truths, in indestructible, evidence-based science. But none of that accounts for the subdued sadness that starts to unravel in his soul at that moment. He'd severely underestimated the weight of this project.

Because while your curse is the loss of everything you once were, Albedo is left knowing everything that you can no longer recall.

"No pain? Any headaches?"

"Today? One or two, maybe."

"Good. That means the treatment is working."

He forces himself through the motions of a physical exam. There's a notable tremor in his fingers when he feels for your pulse—he attributes it to all the caffeine he's been consuming lately.

Demands from the higher-ups had grown more and more frequent. Notes with varying degrees of vicious threats, promises of wealth, and desperate begging seem to arrive on his desk daily. Sucrose delivers them with a pitying smile, watching as Albedo tosses them into the garbage, one after the other.

Science takes time, he tells himself. That's the only reason that the project yet remains incomplete. There is still more data to be taken, more tests to be run—he won't stop until he's sure every avenue has been explored. His notes have grown so numerous that they no longer fit in his desk—he'd had to order a separate filing cabinet entirely. Six months worth of data is no easy task to organize, after all.

Six months of meeting you, then unmeeting you. Six months of watching you go, then watching you return, broken and bruised. Six months of knowing you, and not having that recognition returned.

"Sorry if it's frustrating." The quiet lull of your voice has Albedo's heart stirring. He doesn't expect you to break the silence, but you do, so he pauses his ministrations to meet your gaze. "Working with me, I mean. Having to introduce yourself over and over. I'm sure you're sick of it."

You're looking at him with something akin to pity, like you had easily read his silence as something amiss. He wonders how such a thing could be possible if you don't truly remember him in the first place.

Sick of it. He's never thought of it that way. It's not regret that thrums beneath his skin—it's longing. For the versions of you who knew him, maybe. For the ones that fought so eagerly, endlessly duty-bound. For the versions of you that you will never come to know again.

"Not at all," he replies, forcing composure. His voice comes out tighter than he'd like. "It's merely my duty as a researcher."

"Am I the same? Every time?"

You're chattier today. Typically, after a reset, you delve into a shy silence for a time, still unsettled by the idea of being alone in a room with him. He can't blame you—to you, he is effectively a stranger.

Still, he considers your question for a moment, head tilted.

"No," he answers honestly. "At your roots, similar. Things like your favorite color being red, the way that you speak. They're integral parts of who you are, after all. While you might lose your memory, you aren't losing yourself completely. But there are still minor differences each time."

At his response, you smile vaguely, staring down at your feet. It's all completely odd; Albedo gets a sense that while you aren't lying about not remembering him, something in your brain is struggling—struggling, grasping, hoping to connect with the memories that you had lost.

The current working theory for your condition is that the demand that your augmentation places upon your brain requires that certain neural pathways be pruned—to make room for your enhanced abilities, so to speak. And thus far, it has worked relatively well; you don't seem too obsessed with recovering your lost memories, so your mental load is lessened.

But any attempt by you to recover those past recollections could prove disastrous, Albedo is sure. Your cortex simply would not be able to handle such strain.

(And yet, he hopes that you might remember a piece of him. Just one, if it could be allowed.)

"It's weird, though," you suddenly say, gaze lifting to his. He swallows. "My favorite color, I don't think it's red. I'm not particularly fond of it."

Albedo's brows knit together. Across every single reset that you've experienced, that was one variable that never changed. A relatively innocuous one, sure, but it was still evidence that you were maintaining some foundational level of self. And for something as arbitrary as your favorite color to change—

"What is it, then? I can update the charts if that makes you feel more comfortable."

You ponder that for a moment, humming thoughtfully.

"Teal," you finally decide. Albedo's breath hitches. "A bright teal, like the ocean."

/

—deployment frequency will be increased to maintain frontline strength. Since her stays on Base Alpha will be more limited, feel free to make full use of her time. She has been granted an exception to the mandated break time, as well as a shortened scheduled sleep period, so utilize this time as well. We eagerly await your results—

"They're working her to the bone, huh?"

The lazy drawl of Kaeya's voice draws Albedo's attention away from the mess of paperwork and documentation spread over his desktop, the mahogany wood disappearing beneath a sea of white paper. He'd been so focused that he hadn't even noticed the office door sliding open.

"Ah, Kaeya," Albedo greets, trying not to outwardly sigh. "Timely as ever."

The Cavalry Captain smirks as he enters, swiftly crossing the room and slumping into the chair in front of Albedo's desk. "Aren't I? I figured that you might need the company considering that she hasn't been around."

Albedo wants to say that Kaeya is wrong, but he can't truthfully say so—things are much quieter when you're away on deployment. It gives him more time to think and analyze your augmentation, but it's also much more isolating. He worries about you often, too; the details surrounding your condition are murky, and it's possible that one day, you'll simply forget everything completely.

Including yourself.

Though he'd never been particularly interested in battle reports before, he reads them thoroughly now, poring over every reference to you and your experience.

Gesturing to the stacks of files piled over his desk like daunting mountains, Albedo shakes his head. "On the contrary, I have plenty of work to keep me company. And I have a feeling that you do too."

The war effort has ramped up significantly lately, leaving every single person on Base Alpha working around the clock. He hasn't seen Jean in weeks, and he'd been forced to ask Sucrose to take care of some other projects independently just to keep up with his own workload. Three of Klee's letters now sit at the corner of his desk, still unread and without response.

He feels guilty about his silence, of course, but he simply has too much on his plate at the moment.

Kaeya shrugs flippantly. "What can I say? I have my own ways of staying on schedule. But it seems like you have your work cut out for you with the Reaper situation."

He's referring to the fact that your augmentation still hasn't been replicated, Albedo knows. No one had expected it to take this long, after all. Without the original scientist available to ask for guidance, the process has been painstakingly long, and yet the only official submitted progress that he has to show is in his management of your pain symptoms.

Albedo scrawls his signature over another file, setting it aside. "Looks to be that way. It's a more difficult project than I anticipated, but I'm still confident that it can be done—"

"You already know how to do it, don't you?"

Every cell of Albedo's body freezes—his nerves twist with ice, blood mixing with rime. His previous response dissolves like bitter acid on his tongue.

"What?"

Suddenly, as his gaze lifts, Albedo feels as though he is looking at a completely different person. Kaeya leans forward, slow, a predator to its prey, face completely devoid of humor.

"I know you, Albedo. I've seen you make complete miracles happen, and you like having all the answers. If you truly couldn't figure out how to do it, you'd be losing sleep, studying, running a million tests—hell, you wouldn't even be bothering with this paperwork right now. But you are, because you do know you can create another Reaper. You just don't want to. The only thing I can't figure out is why."

Time seems to stop. Kaeya has always been perceptive, but not this perceptive—Albedo is sure that he had been submitting progress reports in line with what any typical scientist would be able to do. It was a project that had been deemed near impossible in the first place, even for someone of his caliber. Nothing should have looked suspicious from the outside.

But Albedo can feel everything unraveling before him.

"You have to understand, Kaeya, it's not right," he starts, each word like a tiptoe. On the precipice of something disastrous. "You've seen the way that they treat her, the way that she lives—they treat her as a weapon and nothing more. Her memory loss is getting worse and worse. Even if it's for the sake of the war, I won't commit anyone else to that life."

At his words, Kaeya laughs, brows knitting together like he can't quite fathom the ridiculousness of the situation.

"It's not right? So what's right then? Letting all of us die? There's a reason that we're all here, Albedo. If the frontline falls, it's over—for all of us. Not just for you and me, but for everyone relying on us. We need her, and we need more of her if we want to have any chance of winning."

Albedo sets his pen down carefully. "We're talking about augmentation here. It's not something that should be taken lightly. This isn't just about the war, it's about being sworn to a lifetime of living and forgetting, of fighting and breaking—"

Kaeya slams a fist onto the desk, sending the picture frame at the corner careening to the floor. It fractures with an ugly cracking sound, broken shards of glass scattering. Albedo winces, making a move to gather the pieces, but Kaeya's hand yanks at his wrist first, forcing their eyes to meet.

"Then that's their choice to make. You read her file—you've probably read it ten more times than I have. So you know that she volunteered to be augmented back then. Maybe she doesn't remember, but it's all right there, loud and clear. So if she was the one who chose this, let me ask you, are you doing this for her or for you?"

The rare burn of anger starts to flare in Albedo's chest as he tears out of Kaeya's grip.

"I don't need a lecture from you about her, you've barely even met her. She didn't know about the symptoms back then. No one did. We don't know what she would've chosen if she had, but I know for a fact that she wants her memories back. Even now, her brain wants to remember everything it's lost. You accuse me of being selfish in my actions, but why are you even involving yourself in this?"

Kaeya's chest is heaving, each breath loud and heavy, his expression a mix of confusion and fury.

"Some of us have stakes in this war, Albedo. It must be nice to have your family sitting safe at home, but my family is already fighting on the frontlines. So while you sit here dragging your feet and writing think-pieces on ethics, they're risking their lives buying time for you to figure this all out."

Kaeya's brother, Diluc—Albedo vaguely remembers seeing his name on some files regarding frontline battles. He's a formidable soldier in his own right, even rejecting offers to become a Captain in favor of staying in the field.

And Kaeya isn't necessarily wrong—this type of advancement could be the single defining factor in winning this war.

"They're destroying her."

"Oh, come on. You've seen her. Even an artillery shot isn't enough to kill—"

"I mean her," Albedo asserts, desperation lacing his words. "One day, she's going to reset, and it won't be just a few days—it'll be everything."

He sees it sometimes, when you’re curled up against that brick wall that lines the training field, chin tucked to your knees. He’ll mention something about the battle, and it’ll happen: your eyes turn hard, cold, like all your training is catching up to you. You’d been programmed to be a soldier first and foremost, and as each part of you slips away, that might be all that remains eventually.

He’s afraid of that day.

Kaeya's expression flickers with pity. "Then maybe that's what needs to happen."

It stings more than he thought it would. For a moment, Albedo says nothing, merely meeting Kaeya's sharp glare with his own. Then, he collapses back into his chair, exhausted.

"Please, Kaeya. It was never my intention to halt the research indefinitely. I just need some time—I just need to figure out how to suppress the memory loss somehow. Once I'm finished, I swear to you that I will do everything in my power to make the augmentations widely available." He stares down at his hands, flexing his fingers. "I just can't watch her live like that anymore."

The snarl on Kaeya's face softens, if only slightly. He still looks betrayed, in disbelief that his longtime friend would even attempt such a risk with the higher-ups breathing down his neck.

"How long?"

Albedo looks up. "What?"

"How long do you need?"

Each of Kaeya's words is honed, spoken through gritted teeth and punctuated with anger. One hand braced against the desk, he appears as though he's barely holding himself together.

"One more month," Albedo requests softly. "I know it's a big ask, but I only need a little longer. Please, Kaeya. I swear to you that I can do this."

A thin thread seems to stretch between them, on the very brink of snapping. Besides the sound of Kaeya's heavy breathing, the room is near-silent, watching and waiting.

"One month," Kaeya finally agrees, though he doesn't sound ecstatic about it in the slightest. "You get one month. And if it's not done by then, you're finished."

Albedo releases a breath that he didn't realize he'd been holding. "One month, I promise. Thank you, Kaeya."

The Cavalry Captain scoffs. "Don't thank me yet. Talk to me again when you've done your job."

As the tension slowly dissipates, Albedo starts to clean up the shards of his picture frame. Kaeya joins in the effort after a moment, delicately plucking the displayed photograph off the floor.

"Sorry," he mumbles apologetically, "I'll get you a new one—"

His breath hitches when he catches a glimpse of the back of the glossy paper, tally marks scrawled there in dark ink.

Fifty-three tally marks, to be exact.

"Fifty-three. Fifty-three resets. You've been keeping track like this?"

Albedo's expression betrays nothing—he simply continues carefully sweeping up the fragments, depositing them in the trash. But when Kaeya looks closer, he notices the tremor in his fingers.

"You…about her, you—"

Albedo simply shakes his head. And Kaeya understands. They clean up the rest of the glass together, and they both retire to bed.

There are no words that could explain this, no niceties that could make this okay.

Because even after fifty-three resets, fifty-three attempts to restore the lost versions of you, Albedo is still left chasing someone who no longer exists.

/

The man who calls himself Albedo is in charge of your care.

He tells you that it's been two weeks since your last deployment, and that you'd been returned to Base Alpha after an overuse of your abilities, resulting in your exit from the battlefield. You find that to be interesting, considering you don't remember anything past two days ago.

Something about him is intimately familiar.

As a result of being augmented for so many years, you're no stranger to this feeling—the notion that you should know something, but you're lacking the necessary context to make the right connections. Sometimes your intuition is wrong, but sometimes it isn't; it's frustrating to rely on others to supply you with the right answers.

Albedo is thumbing over your pulse when you ask, "Have we met before?"

He presses down a tad too hard—you wince at the feeling, and the pressure disappears as quickly as it came.

"Sorry," he rushes out, immediately releasing your wrist. He flinches when he meets your eyes, like he's just seen a ghost. "But, to answer your question, no. We have not."

Lips pursed, you nod shallowly. "I see."

The man who calls himself Albedo is lying.

You're not sure how exactly you know. Honestly, you're not sure if you're even sure that you know. But your instincts don't lie, and something deep in your chest tells you that you know the man standing before you. Brows furrowed, you ruminate on his presence, trying to pick out any details that you might be able to recollect.

A sharp pain pierces at your temples—you let out a broken gasp, fingers twisting into your hair. Tears spring to the corners of your eyes, and your stomach churns with the urge to vomit. The ache is far worse than usual, throbbing like an alarm, a warning, like you'd tried to access something that you shouldn't have.

"Can you hear me? Are you okay?"

The soft voice filters into your mind, and it relaxes you despite everything—you feel safe in its presence. Clinging to it as your guide, you ride it out, waiting for the pain to subside like it always does.

By the time you gather yourself, you become keenly aware of the sweat gathering at your forehead. The first ray of light that enters your eyes is already overstimulating, stinging as it goes. The next thing you notice is that you're panting, and your lungs squeeze with the need for oxygen.

That, and a pool of clear, bright teal stares back at you.

The sight sobers you momentarily. The swell of your heart doesn't make sense, not if you've never even met Albedo before. Nothing could explain why you feel this way.

"Your eyes," you murmur in a daze, grip curling into the fabric of his coat. It's soft under your touch, not how you expected.

Albedo flinches, stunned. "What about them?"

A lazy smile drags at the corners of your lips.

"They're teal," you say, your tongue seeming to form the words before your brain can catch up. Familiar, again. "That's my favorite color."

/

"Mr. Albedo…"

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

"Ahem, Mr. Albedo?"

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

"Mr. Albedo!"

Even her yell is relatively subdued, but Albedo finally notices Sucrose's presence in the doorway of his office nonetheless. His eyes throb in protest as his gaze lifts, dots of darkness swarming at the edges of his vision.

It's been about a week since he left his desk at all. He's taken all his meals here and slept here when the pull of exhaustion grew too strong to ignore. Calculations, formulas, research papers—they're all he can manage to think about, all that he dreams of when his eyes flutter shut.

He'd glanced at himself briefly in the bathroom mirror earlier. He's aware that he looks haggard, dark circles ringing his eyes and his hair messily tied back at his nape. His assistant has definitely noticed as well, based on the hesitant concern in her expression.

"I'm fine, Sucrose," he assures her, reaching out one hand and continuing his calculations with the other. "Just leave the files here with me and I'll take a look at them."

Sucrose approaches slowly, a single envelope gathered at her chest. "It's not files. It's another letter from Klee."

Klee.

His stare flits to the three envelopes on the edge of his desk, cast even further aside in favor of the paperwork before him. He hadn't gotten a chance to reply to the first letter, nor to read the second and the third. It's been over half a year since he's exchanged any correspondence with her at all. Albedo swallows down the lump that forms quickly in his throat.

He should read and reply to the one in Sucrose's hands—if he were a good brother, he would do it at this very moment.

But he isn't one. He isn't certain whether or not he's even a good person or not at this point, and that's all he can ponder as he stacks the letter with the others on the corner of his desk.

"What about her?"

Sucrose doesn't have to ask who he's referring to. The progress of the Reaper project is practically the only thing that Albedo seems to care about nowadays. Every single assignment that the Investigation Team has been assigned has been placed on hiatus in favor of this work. Even now, as she pulls the latest brain scans out of her folder, Albedo's eyes widen, hands twitching impatiently with the need to study.

"Everything indicates that her memory loss is being exacerbated by her attempts to access the neural synapses that her cortex is trying to prune," Sucrose notes softly. "I think we have to reassess our care plan—"

"Let me see her latest scans."

"Mr. Albedo—"

"Just give me the damn scans!"

Sucrose flinches hard, but the sting of regret isn't enough to make Albedo retract his words. He exhales a long breath between his gritted teeth. It's misdirected anger, he knows, but he has no one left to blame but himself. Kaeya's deadline looms, and before he knew it, he had one week left to achieve the impossible.

His hands are shaking. The pen skips, turning his signature into an ugly scribble. Even as Sucrose slides the documents over to him, it takes a few seconds before he can calm himself enough to pick them up.

A glance over the scans reveals that your condition has worsened far quicker than he anticipated.

Since you'd previously been assigned and reassigned so often, there wasn't much for your mind to cling to. After all, you'd been treated with little care and tossed aside so often that it might have been advantageous for those memories to be forgotten for the sake of your mental health. But since having been introduced to something—or someone—that your brain hopes to recall, the strain has increased exponentially.

He's running out of time in more ways than one.

"If her cortex overloads," Sucrose starts, then trails off. Albedo doesn't need to hear the rest anyway—he already knows.

If your cortex overloads to that extent, you'd lose everything. Your memories, your sense of self, perhaps even your life.

His hand clenches to a fist around his pen; he can feel the plastic bending under his grip. The entire world seems to warp at the revelation, the darkness encroaching further at the boundaries of his vision.

"Prepare the lab," he demands, already rifling through his files, trying to find the right notes. Paperwork be damned, he needs to make progress on your condition now. "We have work to do. Get yourself a coffee if you need it. We'll work through the night if we have to."

Sucrose nods. "Right away, Mr. Albedo."

As his assistant turns away, only then does Albedo realize just how different she looks. Dark bags hang under her eyes, a mirror of the ones under his own, and her clothes hang off her bones a little more than they used to. The slouch of her shoulders, the curve of her spine—somehow, it all looks overwhelmingly sad.

He clears his throat. "Sucrose?"

A pause at the door, one hand on the knob. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry."

And he means it. For tonight, for this project, for everything.

She smiles, though the sentiment doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I know. I am too."

/

There is a crumpled photograph sticking out of the pocket of the scientist's lab coat.

You notice it first when he's leaning over you, one hand gently thumbing under your eye to pull at the thin skin of your lower eyelid. He's looking for redness, he tells you, or any other symptoms related to your vision. You tell him that your vision is fine, but he checks anyway.

The photograph looks to be years-old, based on the way the edges are faded and the corners are dog-eared, but it's still visible enough. You recognize a younger version of the man before you, along with two others—an older woman, and a young girl. His family, you suppose.

It's an interesting thing to keep in his lab coat. Most other scientists you've met only kept pens and needles and pipettes in theirs. It's a sweet gesture, really. It must be nice to have family waiting for you back home, to have a purpose in your hard work.

You're not entirely sure what your purpose is.

You remember being augmented. You don't remember why. You don't remember who did this to you. All you remember are the screams, agonizing pain like skin tears from bone, the white fluorescent lighting overhead. Even now, the distinct scent of chemicals seems to cling to your skin wherever you go.

You'll never escape that part of yourself. And even if you could, you're not sure that you would.

You've been told that you're an essential piece in this war—the only one of your kind. That's why this man is trying to replicate your condition. It makes you useful. You find that you like that feeling, even if it's all that you have.

The scientist tells you that your memories have grown increasingly faint recently. You're forced to believe him, because you can't remember it ever being different. Before today, had you been able to remember the soldiers who fought alongside you? Before today, had you been able to remember yourself?

You ask him for his name. He blinks once at the question, almost in slow-motion, like the slow drip of honey.

"It's better if you don't know," he replies. An odd answer, you think.

Even the worst of the worst scientists that you've encountered always wanted you to know their names. It was an ego thing, or so you assume—these types tended to want their name on everything, so obsessed with their ability to change the world under their personal vision.

But the man before you simply shrugs before telling you you're free to go for today.

He doesn't wait to watch you leave. Instead, he makes a beeline for the three filing cabinets in the corner of the room, pulling drawers open and yanking out random sheets of paper. You don't recognize the symbols on them too well—chemical formulas, biological diagrams, and the like.

In his hurry, the photograph slips out of his pocket. He doesn't notice the motion, but you do. You watch the thin sheet flutter to the ground a few inches away from you, a flake to the first snow.

When you lean down to pick it up, you notice the dark scrawl over the back. It's a series of tally marks, messily scattered about with seemingly no rhyme or reason. You count them.

Sixty.

The number has no meaning to you, and you're not sure why you thought it would. Obviously, it's some sort of personal counter for the scientist before you—perhaps the days that he's been away from his family. That would make sense, you think, especially during a war time.

"Sixty days is a lot," you offer, trying to catch his attention to return the photo. The man stops, a stack of files still clutched in one hand. He looks paralyzed, caught in the passage of time.

"Pardon me?"

"You dropped your photo," you explain. Seeing that he clearly has his hands full, you opt to place it back on his desk. "You have a lovely family. I hope you get to see them again soon."

The man turns to face you. His eyes are half-lidded, and something about his expression reminds you of something delicate—the edges of glass, or the first petal of spring.

"Yes, thank you," he says softly. "We'll meet again."

You smile at the notion, and when he returns your stare, you vaguely think that his eyes are beautiful.

Something in the back of your head stings.

" I probably won't remember any of this."

"It's no issue. We'll meet again."

Your face contorts with confusion and bewilderment.

"As many times as it takes. That's what it means to be a scientist."

The room feels like it's spinning. Everything about this situation feels so acutely familiar, but you can't quite place a finger on it. The sting grows more insistent, more impatient.

"Well, I think you're kind, Albedo. You've put up with me for this long."

"You say that like it's a burden."

"Isn't it?"

"I've never thought of it as such, no."

"Albedo," you breathe faintly.

The man in front of you is named Albedo.

At the sound of his name, an acute horror spreads over his expression. You've only seen such genuine terror from other soldiers on the battlefield. He slams the drawer shut.

"No, no, no. Stop, you don't know what you're doing."

You take a step closer. "You're Albedo, aren't you?"

"No. I'm not. Stop it, now."

The sting escalates even further, and suddenly, your entire brain begins to throb with a hot, flaring ache. There' s a high-pitched ringing that echoes in your skull, and you wince as it pricks at your ears.

Albedo is in front of you now, both hands cradling your face. He looks like he's already succumbing to despair, unable to vocalize anything more than single words.

"Please. Stop. Don't."

A wave crashes hard in your brain, sending your thoughts scattering. The sensation is overwhelming—you can't seem to focus on any single thing, but everything is there. So much forgotten, so much lost, now in the palm of your hand.

Every time that Albedo has introduced himself to you. Every time that he called out your name, every time that he gingerly dressed your wounds, every time that he watched you go, every time that he smiled, every time that he laughed, every time, every time, every time—

Every time you loved him.

The whirlpool in your mind still rages on, but that is the one fact that remains indispensably, undeniably true. You had been in love with Albedo—you are in love with Albedo. You're not sure if he ever felt the same, but you find that it doesn't really matter. You're satisfied just knowing that he had been the one to know you all this time.

Because Albedo isn't like you. He doesn't forget—he's carried all these versions of you, cared for each of them with the same love and care.

His eyes are a clear, bright teal, and they're filled with tears.

"Albedo," you repeat, grasping at his coat, trying to find something to steady yourself. He nods shallowly. "It was you."

The wave drowns you, devouring every part of you whole, and everything goes black.

/

"—at happened?"

"Neural overload…. pushed her over... the lab immediately."

"—okay. Here… carry her… grab whatever you need… meet you there."

You feel like you're floating.

"Too late…lose everything… full reset…"

"—everything? …dangerous."

"…can't handle it… going to die."

"Mr. Albedo—"

"—do it…"

"Please—"

"I'm sorry… Albedo."

Something bright is flashing. White, fluorescent. It hurts.

"…love you… sorry… I'm sorry… sorry… love you… sorry…"

"…too late."

/

The gates outside of Base Alpha are made of white brick.

Albedo can't remember the last time that he had seen them. Ever since he was stationed here, he's practically lived his life in four walls and under artificial lighting. Looking up, he shades his eyes from the blooming sun above.

He wonders if Klee is looking at the same sky. When he gets home, he should take her out on a picnic. It won't be enough to apologize for everything he's done, but it's a start.

"Alright, you damn hoarder. This is the last of it."

Kaeya lumbers up, a stack of boxes nestled in his arms—the last remnants of Albedo's office. A cloud of dust swirls up when he drops them to the ground. It's nostalgic, almost—it reminds him of the first day he ever came to Base Alpha.

And now, after today, he'll never return here again.

"We'll miss you around here," Kaeya says hesitantly. Things had been awkward between them since the project, but time had a way of mending parts that words could not.

Albedo chuckles. "You're in good hands. Sucrose is more than capable of taking over my position."

She'd cried when he told her he was leaving. Her hug had been bone-crushingly tight, tears staining the front of his coat. All he could do was pat her head, assuring her that she had learned all that she could from him—it was her turn now to carve her own path.

"You got a plan after this?" Kaeya asks.

Albedo hums to himself. Truthfully, his resignation had been a spur of the moment decision. After you'd been fully reset, he couldn't bring himself to continue his work. Not after knowing what he'd done, not without you.

"Not sure. I'll go home. Find something new to do."

"It's weird to imagine you doing anything except mad scientist stuff. Gonna take up crocheting?"

Albedo smiles. "Painting, maybe. It'll be a nice change of pace."

It had been hard to convince the higher-ups to let him go in the first place, but the deal had been too damning to refuse. His release in exchange for detailed information and instruction in the process of your augmentation—with those files in hand, the military would be capable of creating thousands of augmented soldiers.

He'd added his own corrections, of course. An enhancement drug that would improve the memory losses until they would only be temporary. Not a perfect solution, but as close as he could get. Time hadn't been on his side, after all.

There was one more caveat to his exchange as well. In fact, it had been the first thing he had demanded, even before his own resignation.

Your official discharge from the military.

After your neurological overload, he'd been forced to reset your memories completely. You'd awoken with absolutely no recollection of who you were, where you were, or what you were. The Reaper, as a whole, had ceased to exist.

And so, any connection he had to you had dissipated as well.

He hasn't seen you since then—not even a glimpse since you'd woken up. He couldn't bring himself to visit you during your infirmary stay, or even afterward. It felt like he'd simply done too much damage to deserve your forgiveness.

"She's supposed to leave today too," Kaeya informs. He approaches each word with uncertainty, still aware of how raw the hopelessness sits in Albedo's chest. "If you still want to see her—"

"Albedo!"

It's Jean who comes running up to them, waving, with you at her side. Albedo sucks in a breath.

You look exactly as beautiful as he remembers you—happier, too. Not weighed down by memories of war and experimentation. It's exactly what he wanted for you, despite the sheer agony of watching you forget.

You introduce yourself by name. Not as the Reaper, but by your name. The words sound so unfamiliar leaving your lips, but the change is welcome, somehow. Kaeya has to shove an elbow into Albedo's ribs to remind him to return the greeting.

The way that you look at him feels weighted, like you're revealing parts of him that he hasn't yet shown to the world. Albedo isn't sure if he's imagining it or not.

"She's being discharged today too, so I figured you both could wait for the shuttle together," Jean supplies helpfully. She exchanges a pointed look with Kaeya, and Albedo feels like they'd both planned something rather nefarious against him.

"If it's okay with you, I'd be glad to wait with you. It's nicer than standing around alone," you laugh.

Albedo nods, trying not to let his doubt show on his face. "Yes, of course."

Jean and Kaeya help you gather your things into a neat pile on the side of the road, right next to Albedo's array of cardboard boxes. It feels like the end of an era, in a way.

As he wipes the sweat from his forehead, Kaeya asks, "How do you feel? Now that you're not getting locked up on Base, I mean."

Jean smacks the back of his head at his callous questioning, though he snickers behind his hand. Luckily, you don't seem affected by his wording.

"It's scary, but also a little exciting," you answer, rocking back and forth on your heels. "It's like I can just go and do anything. That kind of freedom is nice."

Freedom. Albedo's heart warms. Even if nothing else had gone right in the end, this is enough for him.

"Yes, that is nice," he adds genuinely. "I hope you find whatever it is you'd like to do."

Jean and Kaeya bid their goodbyes. They promise to see each other again, but Albedo knows that that reunion is unlikely—at least until the war is over. But they've been his allies for years and years now, and though they might have had their differences, he's grateful for their guidance and presence in his life nonetheless.

As he watches them disappear back into the building, it feels as though something in his chest leaves with them.

And then, it's just the two of you.

You wait in silence, listening to the birds chirp nearby. The presence of nature is so calming, Albedo thinks—it's been so long since he'd experienced it for himself. There are so many little parts of the outside world that he's forgotten about since he moved here.

"Sorry if this is awkward," you finally press, turning away shyly, unable to even meet his eyes. It seems as though you've been psyching yourself up to speak for several minutes now. "Just—I mean, you're basically one of the only people I know, right? And you just seem very easy to talk to, which is nice, and I'm—sorry, I'm just rambling. Just, would it be okay if we exchanged contact info?"

And though his heart skips a beat as he nods, Albedo tells himself that it doesn't mean anything. You're still recovering from your memory loss, after all, so it only makes sense that you would seek out familiar individuals. He isn't anyone particularly special to you. Even when your fingertips brush over his as you hand him your phone, he ignores the blush that rises to his cheeks.

It's just the sun, nothing more.

You're all smiles when he finally returns the phone to you, his contact added to your list.

"Thank you," you gush, hugging the device to your chest. It's infuriatingly cute of you. "And one more thing, if it's alright."

"Yes?"

"I've been thinking this since I met you, but you have beautiful eyes."

Albedo can barely compose himself—a thick lump builds in his throat at your words. It feels like every rotten regret is coming back to him, dragging him back into the guilt that devours him night by night.

After a moment, he chokes out, "You think so?"

You nod. And somehow, he feels like he can see all of you in your eyes—every version, every reset, every single person that he loved.

"Yeah, they're a pretty teal. It's my favorite color."