A galaxy of scars

sirius "graft" khalilson . 36 . bisexual . envy agent . neurokinesis

[glossandglory]

Agent   Wildseer   panted   as   he   ran   a   towel   over   his   face.   He   has   been   in   the   training   room   for   awhile.   Trying   to   get   better   at   close   combat   was   proving   to   be   a   more   difficult   task   for   the   gluttony   agent   then   he   thought.   Close   combat   has   never   been   his   specialty,   but   his   and   Velvet's   little   run   in   with   Mirth   made   it   apparent   that   he   can't   always   avoid   it.   There   might   be   a   time   where   he   has   to   get   up   close   and   personal,   and   he   needs   to   be   able   to   handle   himself   effectively   during   those   times.   Not   just   for   himself,   but   for   anyone   who   might   be   partnered   with   him   as   well. 

Taking   another   swig   of   water   and   wiping   the   towel   across   his   sweaty   face   once   more,   Wildseer   prepared   himself   again.   He   definitely   could   feel   the   ache   in   his   muscles   and   his   joints   complaining.   Still,   Wildseer   reached   back   to   the   quiver   to   grab   a   arrow   and   notched   it   into   the   bow   just   as   he   heard   steps   near   him.   He   was   just   about   to   let   it   go,   when   he   noticed   that   the   area   wasn't   as   clear   as   it   was   a   second   before   hand. 

“Do   you   seek   death   so   quickly?   Or   just   a   painful   trip   to   the   medical   area?”   Wildseer   asked   as   he   put   the   arrow   back   into   the   quiver. 

[scarlineorbit]

The older agent stepped into view with that effortless quiet of someone who’d long since learned how to make himself a shadow. His arms were folded, lean frame half lit by the flickering training room overheads. "Relax your shoulders," He muttered flatly, tilting his chin toward the bow. "You're compensating. You do that in the field and you’ll miss more than your shot." He’d been watching longer than he should’ve. Long enough to see Wildseer’s form start to falter, long enough to see the frustration settle in behind every movement. The quiver. The staggered breath. The ache hiding in his shoulders. Head cocked slightly, those sharp eyes dragging over his stance, the strain in his shoulders, the slight tremble in his draw arm. “That arrow was gonna wobble off like a drunk moth,” he muttered, his voice flat and laconic. “You’re tired. Overextended. You’d get one shot off, maybe. Then what?”

Graft wasn't dressed for training. Black cargo pants, black tee-shirt with his sleeves shoved to the elbows, his skin lined faintly with residual neuroglow. Yet, he moved like someone who hadn’t come to observe. There was no malice in his approach. No, just that cold, dispassionate focus he always wore when dissecting a problem he didn’t like the look of. He folded his arms, weight shifting to one side. His gaze didn’t waver. He took a few unhurried steps closer, glancing down at the discarded towel and then back up, his expression unreadable. “And no, I’m not here to die. If I wanted that, I’d pick a prettier place.” He nodded once toward the quiver. “Still clinging to range. Smart in theory. Risky in practice.” His voice held no judgment, just an unsettling sort of knowing. “Close combat’s not about muscle. It’s about intent. You don’t have to enjoy it… but you do need to be willing.”

Pale eyes narrowed slightly, faintly amused. “You don’t get points for looking heroic if your partner ends up dragging your half-conscious body out of a bad situation. You want to keep people safe? Then stop fighting like you’re scared of yourself.” Then, quieter—almost a murmur: “Next time, let the arrow fly. I’d’ve caught it.” And with that, he pulled an arrow from the quiver and handed it to the other agent before stepping back. "Go ahead... shoot me."

[thetriumvirate]

Whatever he was expecting, this wasn’t it. Or maybe it was. He was unsure now. What did one expect from a highly secret group that injected their prospects with a serum that would grant them special powers and keep them away from others while training their abilities? Safety first. At least, that’s what he liked to believe. No need to release potential threats into the wild unless they were able to control themselves. But considering the state of disarray and destruction around him – maybe someone lost control before he got there? It almost felt like he was stepping into a horror movie and at some given point in time, something would come out of the shadows and attempt to eat his face.

And did he gasp when he heard someone talk? Maybe… Not that he would admit it, but he did. Ever so focused on what was going on around him that he failed to notice the other man on his path. Cute, really. And considering the speech pattern, the way he avoided eye contact and the words escaping his lips – definitely someone who probably wasn’t all that good on a social setting. Which he could relate. Sometimes, talking to people could be exhausting. But the other man was trying. Despite his awkwardness and pattern of speech – he was sort of explaining but not really what happened around the place. They weren’t under attack… NOW.

That was good to know.

”Neptune." Their real names were supposed to be secret. Keep their identities hidden and use only their callsigns when interacting with others. Who they were before Pandora did not matter. Only what they learned and what they knew did. “I can promise you I am not unwell.” It would make sense to consider that option with everything around them so obviously chaotic. Of all the times to get out of training, uh? “I’m just… a little lost.” A nervous laugh danced past his lips. Gentle, like waves caressing the shore of a beach. “This place is already too big and I’m assuming being half-destroyed doesn’t facilitate navigation.” Were the elevators operational? Did he have to go down the stairs to reach wherever he was supposed to go?

A smile slowly forms. It’s not completely genuine since he just met Graft, so he can’t really say if he trusts people or not within five seconds – but it's honest. He is truly glad that there’s someone out there willing to go out of their way to lend a hand to the new kid. “You’re doing just fine. Thank you.” He considers offering his hand to shake Graft’s as a way of greeting but first – he isn’t all that sure the other man would be comfortable with physical touch and second, there’s a quick flash in his mind where someone pretty much melts into nothing after touching his hand. No. No handshaking. Nope. Let’s… let’s not… do that.

”What happened here?” Why are the lights flickering? Why were things looking like a damn bomb exploded inside? “What happens when the lights go out? Please, don’t tell me that’s when the monsters come out to eat us.” He definitely played too many survival horror games and watched too many movies. “No one told me anything about monsters before…”

[scarlineorbit]

Graft had been leaning with one shoulder against the wall, fingers drumming absent-mindedly against his own thigh, but his gaze was anything but idle. Eyes like cracked glass took in the way Neptune moved, spoke—how he hesitated before the word “lost,” how the laughter that followed barely masked a deeply rooted anxiety. Graft recognized it all. Fear disguised as humor. Uncertainty dressed up in civility. He’d worn those too, once upon a time, before everything sharpened.

The younger man's question lingered before him. Eyes narrowing in thought as Graft finally pushed off the wall with the quiet stiffness of someone who didn’t fully trust his own limbs anymore. The invisible idle twitch of one nerve filament flexing at his wrist like a tail with a mind of its own. There was something charming in the awkwardness; something brittle in the way Neptune’s nerves scrambled to cover the gaps left by fear and instinct. He recognized it. Had lived in that skin for years.

“Well,” he began, tone mild, like he was answering something far more mundane than do monsters come out when the lights go out, “whatever you were expecting, this probably wasn’t it. But you’re not alone there. No one really knows what they’re walking into until Pandora’s already gotten their teeth in.” The corner of Graft’s mouth lifted slightly.

He stepped through a shallow puddle of water—or blood, maybe, it was hard to tell under the flickering fluorescents and cast a glance up at the barely functioning ceiling lights. “As for what happened here…” His voice trailed off, and then returned like a knife slipping between ribs, deceptively casual. “We had a few visitors. Uninvited. And they didn’t seem interested in leaving politely. You know how it is—spatial negotiations, bad manners, a little structural collapse. The usual.”

He didn’t smile at his own joke. He rarely did. Nor did he elaborate. Didn't need to. The shredded halls and flickering fluorescents said enough.

Then Neptune said monsters, and Graft’s head tilted, the nerves on his collarbone twitching like whiskers catching scent.

That sound that left him next was more air than mirth, clipped at the end like something cracked and dry. “Monsters?” he echoed. “We’ve got a broody werewolf with a complex. A vampire who thinks blood bags are a poor substitute for necks. A talking dog with rabies and unmedicated C-PTSD with a body count. And that’s not even scraping the surface. You’ll get used to it. Or you won’t. Either way, they stop calling you ‘new kid’ after the first scar.”

His gaze returned to Neptune fully now, that fractured focus of his finally aligning, and there was something almost gentle beneath it. Not pity—he wouldn’t insult the man with that. But recognition, maybe. A welcome that was all sharp corners but still meant you’re not alone.

“Most of us aren’t here because we’re balanced,” Graft continued. “We’re here because there’s nowhere else to put us. They teach us how to stay contained, how not to break things when we get upset. But sometimes we still do. That’s when it starts to look like this.” He nodded toward the wreckage—wires dangling, scorch marks, deep clawed gouges in the floor.

When Neptune mentioned being unwell, lost, trying to navigate the chaos, Graft let a moment pass before answering. “This place is too big even when it’s not halfway to demolition. You’re not wrong... being new here is like being handed a map written in your own blood and told to start swimming.” He paused, voice softening a touch. “But you’re doing fine. You didn’t run. That’s already better than most.”

He studied Neptune for a second more, and then, as if sensing the aborted handshake. Even if it never came he shifted slightly closer and offered something else instead: presence. Wordless assurance. No contact, but no distance either. Close enough to show he wasn’t afraid of the kid. He was probably worse in terms of threat level.

“And when the lights go out?” he murmured at last, eyes narrowing as one of them above sparked with a faint electrical pop. “Sometimes, yeah. Sometimes things do come crawling out. But more often than not…” He leaned in just slightly, voice lowering like a confidante leaning too close to the fire. “They’ve already been here. Watching. Waiting. The lights just made you feel safe enough to ignore them.”

And then he straightened, the eerie warmth of his presence gone as quickly as it had arrived. “Either way,” he said, walking past the shattered elevator shaft and tapping the nearby stairwell door with the side of his hand, “elevators are shot. We take the stairs. Don’t trip.”

With one foot on the first step, he looked back over his shoulder and added, with that same dry deadpan:

“Welcome to Pandora.”

He didn’t ask if Neptune was coming. Just started walking.

[thetriumvirate]

Open to: anyone

”Hello? Such a weird thing to say on his first official day with Pandora – but there was not a living soul around. If anything, there was merely what he assumed to be the backlash of some scuffle going around, but no people. “Where is everyone?” Eyes looked around. Almost as if he was trying to assess the damage he was seeing, trying to put together pieces of a puzzle he didn’t really understand. Were they under attack just before he was released? Why weren’t they warned that they were under attack? Walter frowned at the thought, but he would not presume others’ actions nor judge them. He didn’t know how things worked around there. What he wanted to know was how to get to the residential area in order to find his room and maybe, after that, try to assist in any way he could…? Not that he had any idea how to help or what he could even do but… it was better than nothing?

”Hello…?” Again, no answer. As he walked past the debris of what he assumed to be a fight and the lights flickered over his head – he had to wonder – how safe were they? Did one of the other agents lost control and raged against things? Were they under attack? How safe were they… really? His jaw clenched at the concept of being unsafe. Something about that made his entire body tense for a moment – almost like he wasn’t really keen on the idea of being pushed into a corner. If needed be, he could fight. He knew how to fight, how to shoot a gun and how to…

The stench of decay… A silent plea before becoming nothing…

He shook his head. What the hell were those flashes? And that smell? He didn’t remember anything like that from his time before. Weird – maybe that was just stress and anxiety from not being able to find anyone or even learn where he was. “Hello?”

[scarlineorbit]

There was a shuffling sound behind some half-collapsed wall paneling—nothing threatening, just… uncertain. Hesitant. Graft stepped out like someone who wasn’t entirely sure if he was supposed to be there either. A Rubik’s Cube floated in the space between his hands, spinning gently, cradled by a mess of fine, pale nerve tendrils unfurled from the sleeves of his coat. Unseen by the naked eye they moved like thin vines underwater, twitchy and unsure, wrapping and re-wrapping the cube as it clicked softly in their grasp. Too fast. Too methodical. Like he needed it solved but couldn’t stand to finish it.

He looked like he’d been halfway through fixing something or maybe just standing still for too long, lost in a moment that didn’t belong to the present.

He didn’t look up when he spoke.

“…Hi.” A nod. Then a faint wince, like he hated how that sounded. “Sorry. That’s—uh. Not very… reassuring.” He scratched the side of his neck, where pale scar tissue webbed up toward his jaw. His voice was soft but strained, like he hadn’t used it in a while or wasn’t sure how much space he was allowed to take up.

“You’re new. Yeah. Thought so.” His hand dropped. “Most people don’t talk to the air unless they’re fresh or—well, unwell.” He cleared his throat, then looked at the debris like it might interrupt him. “This mess… it’s not always like this. I mean—sometimes it is. But not always. You’re not… under attack or anything.” He cleared his throat quietly. “Not right now, anyway.”

Another awkward glance up, then away. "That sounded... bad. Sorry. Um, I'm not going to attack you." He chuckled weakly.

“I’m Graft. I was supposed to be… checking power lines. Or something. Doesn’t matter. I can walk you to the residential wing. If you want.” A shuffle of feet. His gaze flicked toward Walter’s hands—subtle, but checking if they were shaking. “You okay? I mean—probably not. But… breathing’s a good start.” He nodded at nothing, then added under his breath: “God, I’m bad at this.”

Then louder: “Come on. You don’t wanna get stuck here when the lights go out.”

[desknned]

putting  a  safe  distance  between  them,  ezra  then  crouched  until  he  was  eye-level  with  graft,  hand  still  held  out  with  a  piece  of  cloth  dangling  between  his  fingers.  in  front  of  him  was  one  of  pandora's  prized  assassins,  with  the  ability  to  twist  pain  and  past  memories  into  deadly  weapons.  ezra  knew  about  it  all;  it  was  as  if  he  had  the  words  in  graft's  file  memorized  down  to  the  details.  how,  with  each  mission,  the  man  seemed  to  fracture  further  and  further.  the  jarring  contrast  between  the  man  graft  was  now  and  then,  before  pandora,  didn't  go  unnoticed.  after  all,  it  was  ezra  who  brought  him  into  pandora.  now,  a  hapless  crumble  on  the  floor  by  the  hangar  bay,  it  was  easy  to  overlook  the  danger  lurking  underneath  graft's  skin  and  mark  him  as  a  feeble,  frail  man,  bruised  physically  and  emotionally.

caution  had  long  since  made  way  for  pity  at  the  sorry  sight  in  front  of  him.  "right,"  ezra  murmured,  a  bitten  sigh  escaped  before  he  could  hold  it  back.  with  accelerated  healing,  it  was  truly  a  wonder  why  there  was  a  medical  bay  in  the  base  at  all.  "okay,  floor  time.  come  on,  humor  an  old  man."  his  knees  throbbed  from  holding  the  kneeling  position  for  a  prolonged  time.  another  sigh,  this  time  full  of  relief,  ezra  then  sat  back  on  the  floor  with  his  legs  crossed,  feeling  wetness  seep  into  his  pants  from  the  saltwater  that  managed  to  enter  the  building.  "you  should  take  it  slow."  his  voice  was  still  no  more  than  a  rumble.  "it  has  been...  a  long  month  for  everyone  involved.  i  don't  know  exactly  how  your  ability  works,  but  i  know  that  it  is  no  use  to  run  yourself  ragged  like  this."  there  was  a  time  when  discomfort  would  start  to  surface  as  such  heartfelt  words  escaped  his  mouth.  offering  comfort  through  words  was  never  ezra's  forte;  he'd  always  perceived  it  to  be  too  soft,  regardless  of  his  intention,  likening  it  to  baring  the  vulnerable  part  of  his  underbelly  to  other  people.  now,  years  of  experience  had  taught  ezra  to  keep  such  feelings  in  a  box  and  store  them  away.  if  earnest  encouragement  was  all  the  other  agent  needed,  then  ezra  would  say  such.  after  all,  it  was  a  way  to  assure  that  their  loyalty  would  always  lie  with  pandora.

"you  don't  need  to  apologize."  ezra  kept  a  close  eye  on  graft's  facial  expression,  the  haunted  look  in  his  eyes,  the  still  dripping  blood  down  his  mouth  and  chin.  it  was  shocking  that  a  man  nearly  a  decade  younger  than  ezra  looked  older  than  himself.  perhaps  it  was  the  price  to  pay  for  pushing  the  limit  of  being  human.  "the  whole  thing  had  just  begun,"  he  added  in  an  apologetic  tone,  "and  we  need  everyone  to  be  at  their  peak.  couldn't  be  at  your  prime  when  you're  all  exhausted  like  this,  yeah?"  you  would  be  of  no  use  to  us  like  this,  ezra  didn't  say,  but  he  knew  a  man  as  smart  as  graft  could  read  between  the  lines.  he  softened  the  blow  with  a  small,  gentle  smile  that  felt  stiff  on  his  face.  “so,  floor  time  for  now  and  then  i'll  direct  you  to  the  nearest  unit  in  need  of  assistance.”

ezra  barked  out  a  laughter  out  of  surprise.  he'd  always  known  that  behind  that  stern  slant  of  jaw  lay  a  wry  sense  of  humor.  "no  fucking  offense,  but  every  single  agent  in  this  base  terrify  me,  even  the  normal  human  ones."  another  laughter,  this  time  tinged  with  slight  amusement.  "it's  nothing  personal."  he  remembered  a  time  where  he  struggled  with  the  serum  and  everything  that  happened  during  containment  and  the  sheer  anger  when  he  realized  he  had  failed.  part  of  the  fear  he  felt  stemmed  from  jealousy,  ezra  had  come  to  realize  later  on,  that  someone  else  could  have  what  he  could  not.  the  jealousy  had  died  down  over  the  decade  and  he'd  come  to  appreciate  his  role  in  pandora,  but  the  fear  still  hadn't  let  down.  "you  know  what?  everything  about  this  is  fucked  up,"  ezra  said  with  a  gesture  toward  his  surrounding,  "though  some  more  than  other.  that's  why  we're  all  here,  because  there  is  no  place  for  a  group  of  people  who  willingly  inject  a  foreign  matter  into  their  bodies.  so  that  you  don't  have  to  be  fucked  up  alone."

[scarlineorbit]

Graft’s head tilted, just barely, as he looked to his shoulder—where muscle parted like overworked fabric, where the nerves writhed. Ezra couldn’t see them, not really. Not the way he could. Fine tendrils of glistening wet nerve endings slipped through the split muscle, lashing out with unnatural grace. They wrapped around the Rubik’s cube like skeletal fingers, twitching it to life. They shimmered beneath the skin, thin strands of white fire weaving through flesh, twitching with silent urgency. It was less a performance, more… demonstration. Quiet, eerie proof. The nerves were already reaching before Graft even raised the cube. They stretched, seized the cube with thin, spidery limbs. And then—click. click. click. The colors began to turn. Click. Click. Click. Red to green, white to blue. Controlled chaos. Lighting up like tiny lightning veins, raw and pulsing, like they were always hungry. He didn’t look at Ezra yet. Just watched the cube shift in his hand like it had a mind of its own. “Can’t make them stop,” he murmured, voice distant. “Not when there’s an object near. Not when I’m bleeding. They think everything’s a puzzle.”

He finally looked up, eyes slow to focus, face paler than usual. He watched Ezra with eyes too tired for a man still bleeding. The corner of his mouth ticked at the sight of Ezra crouched awkwardly at his level, cloth dangling like an old peace flag between strangers. It wasn’t pity in Ezra’s face, not quite. It was worse—remembrance. The kind of look only someone who knew him before this could manage. The image burned into Graft’s memory. Ezra, kneeling. Ezra, trying. It was wrong and kind and familiar all at once. “You’re not built for the floor,” Graft said, voice low. He didn’t move. Not out of fear. Out of mercy. “Your knees are screaming…” He kept space between them, instinctively. A silent barrier of respect, maybe fear, maybe shame. Maybe all three.

Graft blinked once, then slowly lowered himself to the floor, a quiet hiss escaping between his teeth as he settled into the wet concrete across from Ezra. He didn’t sit close—he never sat close—but he sat. That alone was the concession. "Floor time," he echoed, tone dry, a flicker of something faintly sardonic curling at the edge of his mouth. Graft let out a sound like a breath and a laugh had collapsed into each other. “Haven’t heard that since they used to tape paper to the tiles and make us draw what happiness looked like.” He rested his back against the wall, one arm limp in his lap, blood from the shoulder wound slowly soaking through the fabric. His expression twitched at Ezra’s words—"you don't need to apologize"—like he was about to argue. But he didn’t. Not yet. Instead, he looked away.

“They move when I’m not looking,” he murmured, eyes still on the puzzle. “Sometimes I think they’re smarter than me.” he muttered, voice hoarse. He held up the cloth cube again. His nerves twitched it in place. “You ever wonder what it’s like to feel someone’s death before they do?” His gaze cut sharply toward Ezra, not accusing—just tired. Hollow. “Or to walk into a room and know who’s hurting the worst without them saying a word? It's all noise. All pain. I don’t even know if it’s mine anymore.”

His jaw clenched briefly at Ezra’s reassurance. So that you don't have to be fucked up alone. Graft gave a hollow laugh. No breath in it. Just a dry exhale and the twitch of an old, aching muscle behind the eye. “That sounds like the tagline on the Pandora recruitment poster. Join us—die slower together.” But the edge in his voice gave way to silence, and for a moment, he looked at Ezra as something flickered behind his eyes. Recognition. History. Regret, maybe. Or just the simple weight of a decade wasted in service to something that could never be loved.

His eyes lingered on Ezra with a strange weight. Something unreadable flickering beneath the surface, like a memory he'd nearly swallowed but hadn’t quite choked down. Then, slowly, his gaze dropped to his hands. One still trembled faintly. Phantom static curled at the edges of his fingers, nerves overfiring, dying back down. That used to scare him. Now it just meant he was getting closer to empty. “I don’t run myself ragged,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching—wry, not amused. “I just… forget what pacing feels like.” He tilted his head, watching Ezra with tired, clinical curiosity. There was no irritation, no defense in his tone. Just that soft rasp of exhaustion and something rawer beneath it. “You’re not wrong. It’s been long. Worse than that... it’s been loud.” His voice hollowed out for a second, like he could still hear all of it. Screams, synaptic feedback, the pain of others bleeding into his skull.

“The kind of month that stains.” He looked back at Ezra—really looked at him this time, taking in the awkward tenderness behind his words, the rough discomfort masked as command. It almost made Graft laugh. Not in mockery, just in recognition. He was still, shoulders tense beneath the fabric of his shirt, one hand flexing subtly like he was testing if the nerves would fire cleanly this time. They didn’t. The twinge ran up his forearm, and he exhaled through his nose, quiet but sharp. His hand drifted to the side of his neck, rubbing where the muscle still spasmed from his last pull. “You’re not wrong,” he muttered, voice rough around the edges, hollow in that way it got when he was holding himself together with sheer friction. “I’m no good to anyone like this. But I’m not sure I ever was.”

His gaze lifted to Ezra—tired, black-ringed, but sharp. Still present. Still too aware. “And I get it. I know what you’re really saying.” A faint grin flickered, tired, but not unkind. “I’m too smart for my own good, remember?” His eyes rolled upward for a second, toward some invisible ceiling—or maybe just away from the pressure, the weight, the goddamn noise of trying to matter.

The silence stretched, and when Graft spoke again, his voice was quieter. More honest.

“You’re right about it all, Ezra. About the fear. About how we got here.” He traced a finger through the dried blood on his palm. “None of us came to Pandora whole. We came because we broke somewhere no one else could see. And they promised us a purpose that wouldn’t make us feel like monsters. But... we are monsters.”

He tilted his head toward Ezra, studying him with something that wasn’t quite pity and wasn’t quite kinship. Something tired and deeper than both. “I’m not jealous you didn’t get it. I’m glad. You still look like someone who remembers how to smile without checking for blood first.” The cube clicked once more, perfectly solved now. His nerves dropped it to the floor with a clatter. “But yeah. You’re still fucked up. Just… higher functioning.” Another ghost of a smirk, bitter with truth. “Don’t worry. I won’t make you be soft again.”

Then, almost like a confession:

“But thanks for doing it this time.”

Graft’s eyes flicked to Ezra's face, then dropped—unbidden, instinctive—to the man’s knees. The slight shift in weight. The tension just behind the skin. That dull throb, invisible to most, but not to him. He could feel the ache, the tired inflammation like a hum in the air between them. He knew he shouldn’t. It wasn’t his. But his nerves were already shifting. Reaching. Thin, near-translucent tendrils, slick with blood and something half-electric, slipped from the wound in his shoulder and crawled toward Ezra’s knees like curious fingers. They moved slow, almost reverent, brushing just beneath the fabric of Ezra’s pants. He didn't even need direct contact. Just closeness. Connection.

And then—siphon.

The ache slid into him like warm static. Brief, sharp, and familiar in a way that was almost comforting. He’d taken worse. Much worse. His breath hitched faintly as his body digested the borrowed pain, filed it into whatever hollow cavity was still left untouched inside him. The nerves retracted just as quickly, snapping back into his shoulder with surgical precision. He didn’t flinch. He said nothing. Pretending he didn't just do what he did. He knew what it meant to take without asking, even if it was with good intentions. But something in him needed it. To do something useful. Even if all he had to offer was relief soaked in blood. "Sorry." He reached down, slowly, picked up the Rubik’s cube again. His fingers curled around it, trembling. He pushed it toward Ezra, like it meant something. Like it was a piece of himself he could give. “It's a peace offering... for your knees.”

[seraphiivms]

Ziggy was for the lack of a better word, fucking annoyed. Annoyed that his room had been destroyed and now he was forced to meander and find a better place to sleep. No matter what corner he found there was always some idle chatter or clean up happening. "I'm going to blow up," he said after not being able to find a place to sleep that was private as he wished it to be. "All I managed to salvage of my own was this shit," he said as he held up his pillow. "I also have a fucking headache from lack of sleep, so if I can use your room or something for the meantime I'd appreciate, and don't ask about my eye being swollen shut or all my bruises, the guys who did this are being vacuumed up now."

[scarlineorbit]

Graft stood in the doorway, one arm braced high against the frame like he needed it to hold him up. The hallway light cut a sharp line across his face, catching the bruise darkening under one cheekbone and the shallow cut above his brow he hadn’t bothered to clean. His other hand held a tool he clearly wasn’t using anymore—a torque wrench smeared with something that looked like ash and dried blood.

He blinked at Ziggy, once, slow. Then looked him over. The pillow. The bruises. The swollen eye. The fact that Ziggy hadn’t exploded yet, despite claiming he was about to. “You look like shit,” he said flatly, voice low and hoarse from disuse or smoke. “But you already knew that.” He stepped aside without fanfare, gesturing with a slight tilt of his head. “Use the bed. Door locks. There’s a noise generator in the bedside drawer—green button, fourth setting blocks out voices. It won’t fix the headache, but it’ll dull the need to... punch something.”

A pause lingered like static.

“I won’t ask about your face,” Graft added, his gaze dragging over Ziggy’s swollen eye again. “But if you're lying about them being vacuumed up, and one of them crawls out of a vent while you’re asleep in my sheets, I will be annoyed.” He scratched the side of his jaw, then finally muttered, “…Don’t bleed on the pillow. It’s the only one I kept.”

"Sorry about your place... ours is... a work in progress."

[desknned]

despite  his  long  years  as  an  agent  of  pandora,  ezra  had  never  witnessed  this  level  of  destruction  on  atlantis  before.  as  he  made  his  way  through  the  base,  the  sight  that  greeted  him  in  several  parts  of  the  building  made  him  pause  and  frown.  it  was  true  that  ezra  had  grown  attached  to  the  underwater  base,  he  couldn't  not:  he  spent  nearly  two  decades  under  a  name,  a  codename,  he  grew  into,  doing  deeds  for  humanity,  as  he'd  often  recall  in  a  mocking  manner.  regardless  of  his  failure  in  bypassing  his  human  traits,  ezra  still  held  good  sentiment  towards  pandora  and  it  was  somehow...  worrying,  that  the  impenetrable  base  he'd  long  known  was  not  so  invincible  after  all.  it  made  him  feel  small  in  the  grand  scheme  of  things  and  ezra  did  not  deal  well  with  such  feelings.

before,  he  wouldn't  have  known  that  death  possessed  such  a  distinctive  stench.  it  was  fairly  nauseating.  the  coppery  tang  ezra  had  come  to  recognize  as  blood  followed  his  every  step,  clinging  like  an  oppressive  blanket  around  his  surroundings.  he  took  his  time  to  help  with  the  clean-up,  offering  a  hand  to  anyone  in  need  because,  the  faster  they  rose,  the  more  time  they  could  spend  strategizing  for  pandora.  for  humanity.  the  more  he  repeated  that  phrase,  the  more  he  felt  inclined  to  believe  that  he  truly  did  something  good.  now,  that  was  unsettling;  ezra  valentine  did  not  do  good  things.

all  thoughts  evaporated  when  he  came  near  the  hangar.  his  gaze  immediately  zeroed  in  on  a  hunched  figure  by  the  hallway,  surrounded  by  a  strong  stench  of  blood.  ezra  paused  in  his  steps,  still  keeping  a  healthy  distance  away  from  the  other  agent,  his  face  drawn  into  a  frown  of  concentration.  as  someone  who  recruited  some  of  the  personnel,  it  was  easy  to  match  a  codename  to  a  face.  graft,  graft.  a  truly  wonderful  case  of  a  superhuman.  ezra  remembered  the  sheer  awe  and  envy  when  he  first  heard  of  what  the  other  agent  could  do.  it  was,  in  the  most  plain  sense,  terrifying.  the  thoughts  of  what  graft  could  do  always  got  ezra  grimacing.

but  now,  in  the  face  of  such  distress,  ezra  pushed  it  all  aside.  it  would  not  do  pandora  good  if  they  lose  another  agent  with  such  powers.  he  approached  the  other  agent  with  cautious  steps,  careful  not  to  let  his  boots  thump  loudly  against  the  floor,  before  he  rummaged  into  his  pocket  to  withdraw  a  fairly  clean  napkin  and  offered  the  piece  of  cloth  to  graft.  "here,"  ezra  said,  pitching  his  voice  low  in  a  soothing  rumble,  "put  this  on  your  nose.  you're  bleeding."  the  other  agent  didn't  look  so  hot.  ezra  was  no  faith  agent  but  he  could  see  that  graft  had  sustained  several  damages  from  the  attack.  "we  should  get  you  to  the  medical.  come  on,  i'll  take  you  there."  with  other  agent,  ezra  wouldn't  have  hesitated  to  put  his  arm  on  them.  but  he  remained  still,  watching  graft  with  a  gaze  shaded  with  both  wariness  and  concern,  as  to  not  spook  the  other  agent  into  doing...  something  unwanted.  "or  would  you  rather  rest  in  your  room?"

[scarlineorbit]

Graft was slow to respond, the words not coming easily. Truth be told: they never did. His fractured mind trying to take in what he had witnessed. He was crouched low beside a crumpled section of the corridor wall, hands trembling against the floor slick with blood and saltwater residue. His breath came shallow, not out of physical strain, but as if every inhale had to fight against the weight of memory. Something ancient behind his eyes, glassy and half-vacant, tried to surface and swallow him whole.

It took Sight speaking again—that voice, low and deliberate like someone coaxing a stray dog from under a wrecked car—for Graft’s head to jerk slightly. The sound reoriented him. His nose twitched, registering Sight’s scent first: familiar, chemical-clean, tinged faintly with coffee and gunpowder. He smelt different than the Faith Agents. Graft always noted that.

Slowly, he looked up.

"…Not my blood," he rasped, though the evidence smeared under his nose suggested otherwise. His voice was thin, cracked around the edges, like his throat had been rubbed with sandpaper.

He didn’t take the napkin right away. His eyes scanned it, then flicked to Sight’s hand—assessing not the offer, but the risk behind it. The instinct was still there, buried under the rubble: protect, survive, isolate. Don’t let them touch you. He winced, but not from pain—more like the recoil of someone caught crying in a warzone.

“I was trying to put someone back together,” he finally said, voice still faint. “Didn’t work. Not enough left to… tether.”

A thin trail of blood curved from his nostril. He didn't wipe it.

Somewhere beneath the surface, he’d already started running diagnostics. That was the only good thing about this horrifying ability—his nerves were traitorous, yes, but also efficient. Hyper-accurate. Every damaged cell screamed its status to his cortex, cataloguing the severity like a list written in pain. Minor fractures along the clavicle. Lacerations through soft tissue—no infection risk. A strain in his left orbital socket, blood vessels ruptured under stress. Nothing life-threatening. Nothing new. It was all repairable.

That just made it worse.

Ezra’s suggestion of medical pulled a small laugh from Graft. Or something like it. Hollow, humorless, a sound made of tired teeth and static. “I'm... fine. Don't need medical. Damage is minor.”

He drew in a breath, shaky but stabilizing, bracing one hand on the wall to begin pushing himself upright.

“I can still help,” he muttered, more to himself than the older agent. “I have to. There are bodies that haven’t been found yet. Nerves still firing. Traces I can pull from. I can hear them, Sight. They're still screaming. They're... stuck.”

His fingers flexed unconsciously, as if reaching through the air for something unseen. He looked up again, expression stark—haunted, yes, but alive with an unshakable urgency.

“I’m not going back to my room. Not yet.”

But then, a pause.

“…I'm sorry, but... I can't.”

He didn’t look at Sight when he spoke. Just stared at the blood pooled at the cracked tile seam, as if it might rearrange itself into a name he could save. His hand hovered over the napkin now—still undecided. Still human enough to want the help.

Then, with hesitant precision, he extended a hand.

Tentatively he took the napkin from Sight, every movement deliberate to avoid contact. His fingers brushed just the edge of the cloth, and he brought it to his nose, holding it there in silence for a moment. No words. Just the faint tremble of effort, or restraint. Or both. "You don't... have to be scared of me." He paused, a knowing look in his eyes. He knew that was a weak attempt at assurance. "I understand why you... and everyone else are though. I'm like... one of those deadly jellyfish or something. I don't mean to harm people... it just... happens because I exist. Kind of fucked up... isn't it?"

[glossandglory]

Lifeweaver   was   trying   his   best.   Trying   his   best   to   keep   people   alive.   It   didn't   always   happen.   Sometimes,   someone   wasn't   meant   to   live.   He   can   heal   them,   but   that   doesn't   mean   they   won't   walk   right   into   another   bullet   or   another   sword.   And   this   time,   Lifeweaver   might   be   tapped   out   of   life   energy   until   he   can   siphon   more.   Lifeweaver   wished   there   was   plants   around.   They're   so   much   easier   to   siphon   life   out   of.   But,   alas,   he   has   to   make   do   with   what   he   has.   And   right   now?   He   can   only   siphon   the   life   out   of   enemies.

Lifeweaver   was   pretty   confident   the   battle   was   winding   down.   The   numbers   were   beginning   to   wind   down   it   felt   like.   Granted,   Lifeweaver   wasn't   sure   if   everyone   in   the   other   levels   of   Pandora   was   making   it   through   alright.   Still,   Lifeweaver   was   going   to   focus   on   the   here   and   now.   The   people   in   front   of   him?   These   people   he   can   protect   and   help. 

He   was   battling   with   someone   nearby   when   he   saw   another   agent.   The   man   attempted   to   grab   Lifeweaver,   which   was   a   bad   move.   Lifeweaver   let   him,   and   then   his   own   hand   grabbed   the   man's   face.   The   man's   muffled   screams   were   loud,   and   his   nails   scraping   at   Lifeweaver's   arms   stung   like   a   bitch   as   he   drained   the   life   from   the   other   man.   The   rush   of   power   going   through   him   as   he   tossed   the   man's   body   aside. 

It   was   hard   to   tell   that   just   a   week   or   so   ago   that   he   had   been   kidnapped   and   tortured   and   almost   killed   with   how   effortless   it   seemed   that   he   was   in   getting   back   into   the   game. 

Lifeweaver   made   his   way   towards   the   other   man   and   shook   his   head.   “Sorry,   man,   but   I   don't   have   volume   control   powers.”   He   reached   down   and   pressed   his   hand   to   the   man's   chest.   The   life   energy   he   just   drained   from   that   other   guy   being   pressed   into   Graft   as   he   did   so.   The   euphoric   feeling   of   life   being   given,   and   not   taken,   was   one   that   could   be   almost   addicting.   And   sometimes   it   was   to   Niko. 

“Now   up   on   your   feet.” 

[scarlineorbit]

Graft didn’t flinch at the touch. just winced, breath catching like a skip in a damaged record. That rush of energy being pressed into him didn’t come gentle. It lanced through the mess of nerve endings and frayed synapses like a current through bare wire. His spine arched with the surge before slumping back against the wall he’d half-collapsed against.

“Fuck,” he hissed. Not pain exactly. Not pleasure either. Something in between. Something he hated needing. His fingers twitched once. Then again. His pupils dilated with the jolt of life shoved through him, like a second-hand resurrection. The air tasted sweet and wrong. His fingers twitched once, involuntary. The kind of twitch that betrayed how close his body was to giving out.

Then, without lifting his head, he reached up and brushed Lifeweaver’s hand away. Not with force. Just… a quiet recoil. Like the touch was too loud. Too much. He looked up at Lifeweaver, sharp and too clear-eyed now, cheeks wet with blood—not his. His voice was rough, raw around the edges. "I was content down there." He pushed off the ground with a grimace, swaying a moment before his spine remembered how to hold his weight. The blood had stopped trickling from his nose. Good. That was good.

Graft's eyes flicked toward the corpse Lifeweaver had drained. Empty. Like a punctured skin sack. “You keep pulling from the rot like that,” He said, voice quieter now, “Soon you’ll forget what it feels like to grow something.” He smirked. No judgment in his tone—just fact. Then a breath that was almost a laugh. “Still,” he added, glancing at him sidelong, then, a soft smirk—faint, but real. “You’ve got terrible bedside manner.” His tone wasn’t cruel—just hollow. Bone-deep honesty dressed in resignation. He turned his head slightly, voice quieter: “You ever start keeping count?”

Then, blinking, he shoved it all back behind his usual mask, like zipping a body bag over something too raw.

“…Thanks for the jolt. I’ll limp prettier now.”

[scarlineorbit]

Graft knelt beside a dying agent. Fingers, bare and trembling, traced the back of the neck—just below the occipital ridge, where the nerves choked into the spinal stem. He didn’t whisper comfort. He didn’t lie. He just deadened the screaming nerves. It was the least he could do.

Two fingers slipped into the cleft between vertebrae.

A shiver. A breath. Then the flood came.

Not just images. Not just sounds. Sensation. The scream he couldn't finish poured into his brain like boiling tar. Pelvic fracture. Shattered molars. Chest compression. The grip of panic, childhood terror, heat-seared memory of a fire that wasn’t even this one. Graft's back arched. His jaw locked. His eyes rolled white as the imprint burned across his spine.

He ripped the pain free like a butcher tearing sinew from bone.

The other agent went still. His face slackened into peace. Not dead— yet. Just emptied.

At peace. He could give him that.

Sirius exhaled a strangled breath. Blood leaked from his nose. A voice crackled over comms: “Graft, status—do you need evac?” Did he need evac? He stared hard at the lifeless bodies around him. The blood... spattered brain matter... a few teeth laying in a puddle...

Eyes slowly dragged over bodies. Some he recognized. Others were... beyond recognition... pulpy... shot and blown to hell... bloodied. Dead. Very dead.

A memory stirred:

Graft hadn’t even drawn his weapon yet. The mission had been labeled routine—low risk, high control. Containment only. He remembered the hum of the lights, the sterile reek of bleach failing to mask something worse. Something alive.

Vulture was ahead, cracking jokes under his breath. Always was. Graft had started to smirk when the wall to their left split open.

Not a wall. A thing.

It moved faster than instinct. One moment, Vulture was standing. The next—he was on the floor, twitching, mouth opening and closing without sound. His torso cleaved open like wet paper.

Blood hit Graft's face. Warm. Human.

He didn’t shoot. Couldn’t. Someone else did.

Later, they called it “exposure.” Standard loss. First of many.

But Graft never forgot the way Vulture reached for him, fingers slick with his own life, as if he could still be pulled back.

It all whispered back at him. Or maybe it was the comm he didn't answer. He stared down at his hands. They weren’t bleeding, but they shook like they wanted to. His reflection in a blood-slick floor tile looked hollow. Something was screaming behind his eyes—something not him. Feral. He laid down amongst the wreckage and mess, letting the stillness enveloped him.

He breathed a shuddering breath. Life was fucked. Sirius... Graft... whoever... whatever he was... was fucked.

“…No,” he answered, to himself. “I need quiet.”

"I'm not dead... just... floor..."

@pandorasagents

[scarlineorbit]

The hangar doors had barely sealed behind him when the weight of everything hit. Graft stumbled down the hallways mindlessly, the flickering lights overhead stuttering like broken memories. Every step felt wrong—like his legs were moving on borrowed rhythm, too slow to be real, too fast to stop. His coat hung in tatters, crusted with soot and someone else’s blood. His own pain was indistinct now, drowned beneath the agony he’d siphoned off others like poison from a wound. His boots dragged more than stepped, the soles slick with either blood, oil, or maybe both—he couldn’t tell anymore. If it was blood. Maybe it had been his, at some point.

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Each tremor sent sharp, electric pulses through nerves stretched too thin. His palms twitched with the threat of movement, of something else waking up beneath the surface of his skin. The tendrils—those cursed, hungry things—itched to crawl out, to latch on, to anchor. 'Not here. Not now. Keep it together.' His hands curled in on themselves like he could will the tremors to stop. He couldn’t. Pain throbbed through every line of his body, radiating from frayed nerves that weren’t his to begin with. Hours of transference. Screams he'd absorbed still rang in the marrow of his bones.

A trickle of blood slid down from his nose. He sniffed, and blinked rapidly to clear the static swarming his vision. That’s when he noticed the agent. Standing just ahead. Watching. He wiped the blood from under his nose with the back of his wrist, the copper scent sharp and humiliating. When he looked up, an agent was standing at the end of the corridor, half-lit by the strobes. Graft’s gaze locked unintentionally.

“…Sorry.” The word left him in a rasp, barely audible.

He flinched as he said it, like even the sound of his own voice was too much. Arms wrapped tightly around his chest, bracing himself—not against another attack, but against himself. The twitch in his back, that flutter beneath the skin… he could feel the tendrils coil, eager, instinctual. Predatory.

Stop.

The fear sparked sharp in his throat. “I—I’m good,” he added quickly, a lie smeared across a raw and bleeding mouth. “Just—needed a sec.” The other agent didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Maybe they didn’t believe him. Graft’s shoulders hunched. His voice sank lower. His skin still hummed with the agony of fifteen other people—and ghosts he couldn’t name. "All... good... yeah..."

[scarlineorbit]

ONE SHOT //: “THE HUNGER”

The lights stuttered—half-dead fluorescents pulsing like a migraine overhead. Gunfire echoed somewhere above, sharp and uneven, like someone was sawing through steel with teeth. But Graft didn’t look up. He was crouched beside a body in the hangar—an operative from the logistics wing, throat intact, spine intact, but eyes blown wide from pain.

Not dead. Not yet.

Graft’s fingers hovered just behind the man’s neck, just below the base of the skull, where the spinal column thickened like a river bottlenecking into memory. His touch was surgical. Two fingers, middle and ring, pressed gently into the cleft between vertebrae.

The map opened.

Not to the eyes. Not even the mind. It bloomed like intuition. A raw, illuminated architecture of nerves and pathways burned in his senses—trembling with signals of pain, muscle seizure, bladder failure, a final silent scream still caught in the body like a spasm.

There it is. The locus. The exact thread that had screamed I’m dying. He pulled.

The “page” came loose with a twitch of resistance, like tearing parchment from an old binding. The man’s body spasmed, then went still. His face slackened. Not dead— yet. Just emptied. total brain death. The pain was gone. Stripped clean.

Graft stood, fingers twitching like a violinist between sets. In his nervous system, the echo still rang. Not his pain—but close enough to flinch from it. He didn’t.

Footsteps pounded from behind—he turned. One of the enemy squads, dark armor and hive-mind movement, synthetic overlays across their joints.

“Bio-sign confirmed,” one of them chirped. Not a voice. An audio construct.

Graft blinked. "Good. Try feeling this."

He stepped in close, palm open, fingers flaring with the glowing after-image of the extracted pain-map. The moment he made contact—bare skin to carbon fiber composite—he forced the echo into its circuitry.

The soldier convulsed.

No wound. No blood. Just raw, invasive nerve-pain written into a system that didn’t know how to feel it. It screamed anyway—digitally, physically, a noise like a shredded modem. It fell, twitching, weapon clattering beside it. The others hesitated. Graft looked at them with cold, dull eyes. “I can do this all day and night.” He muttered, his fingers flex at his side.

The hanger was pure chaos. Graft moved forward, stepping over the synthetic. Another echo bleeding through his spine, flaring behind his eyes. Someone else's pain, still warm. He didn't flinch. Behind him, the mechanical body jerked once more before going silent. Graft didn’t turn around. The remaining hostiles recalibrated. You could see it—head ticks, micro-gestures, the stutter in their footwork. Machines trying to make sense of fear.

“Primary anomaly exhibits neurokinetic interface—”

“Gods you're slow,” Graft muttered. He darted forward, too fast for their half-second sync lag to catch. One grabbed for a weapon—Graft caught the wrist with both hands and dug in, thumb against the soft junction of artificial tendon and synthetic nerve.

The contact sent a flash—not just pain. Something worse. The sense of dying with regrets still unspoken. The fear of a mother’s face forgotten. A pet you never went back for. The prognosis of a fast progressing disease with no cure. Graft had pulled that from someone in Jakarta, months ago. It was still lodged in his bones.

He poured it in.

The enemy screamed—not vocal cords, but a choked static that burst from their vocalizer in a waveform so sharp it cracked a nearby light panel. It collapsed, convulsing like a puppet trying to remember it had strings.

Two more flanked him. Graft spun low, scalpel slicing upward across a knee joint. The hiss of fluid. A burst of feedback. He caught the fall with his shoulder and touched—no hesitation, just skin to armor plating, like plugging his nervous system into a live wire. He didn’t even need to extract. The proximity let the pain bleed in—a man from years ago, bleeding out from war, too proud to scream. Graft took it in, then gave it back tenfold.

The enemy dropped.

The third one turned to him.

Graft just watched, breathing slow, like the fight had barely warmed him. His fingers twitched again, jittering with static and aftershock. Blood smeared across the side of his neck—his own or someone else’s, it didn’t matter anymore.

The third one took aim.

Graft just watched, breathing slow, like the fight had barely warmed him. He flexed his fingers, feeling his nerves crackle. One round clipped his shoulder. Another grazed his forearm. He barely noticed. Pain was too common. Too crowded. He was full of it. He consumed it. He surged forward, a blur of bone and tendon, palm pressed to the base of the skull.

This time, he fed in everything.

All of it.

The child who cried out from a scraped knee. The mother who buried her husband after a long battle with a terminal illness. The soldier who bled out alone in the dark, whispering for someone who never came. Every dying breath in this goddamn hanger. Years of screams—catalogued, locked, and now unleashed.

The body detonated. Not in fire—but in violent spasm. Neural systems melted trying to contain what the brain couldn’t name.

It jerked, flailed, went still.

Silence.

Just the stuttering lights. Just the scent of metal and piss and cooked nerve-tissue.

Graft stood among the corpses—organic and synthetic alike. His breath came in shallow clicks. His fingers twitched, still hungry, still reaching. His face was blank. Dead eyes. No satisfaction.

Behind a toppled crate, a lab worker cowered. Mid-forties. Blood at the temple.

Graft’s eyes met his.

“Did you feel them die?” the man whispered. Face pale. Half-horrified. Half-enamored.

Graft tilted his head. “No.”

His eyes flatly flicking to the bodies he had just put down.

“I made them wish they could.”

He walked away, spine rigid, hands trembling. Not from pain.

From what he left behind.

[crewman-penelope]

The Amateur - by James Hawes

Rami Malek as Charlie Heller, a brilliant CIA decoder, searching for justice.

[scarlineorbit]

🔐 PANDORA – ENVY DIVISION DOSSIER

SUBJECT: KHALILSON, SIRIUS Call Sign: Graft Clearance Level: ██/███ (Tier-9 Envy Access Only) Dossier ID: PND-ENVY/Δ-HXN14-633

BIOLOGICAL OVERVIEW

Field Entry: Full Name: Sirius Khalilson Date of Birth: 12 May 1989 Height: 5’7” Weight: 154 lbs Place of Birth: Alexandria, Egypt Nationality: Dual – Egyptian / Classified (Naturalized ██████) Species: Human (Genetically Modified) Affiliation: Pandora Initiative – Envy Division Former Affiliation: REDACTED CIA – Covert Operations Division Status: Active / Monitored

INTERNAL EVALUATION REPORT

SECTION I: GRAFT ABILITY OVERVIEW

Classification: Tier-IV Neurokinesis Baseline Genome: Homo sapiens (genetically modified)

A. Neural Manipulation Capabilities

"Neurocartography"—the ability to perceive, manipulate, and extract the neurological "maps" of sensation, memory, and pain encoded within the nervous system, particularly along the spinal column. The “pages” appear in his perception like glowing neural tattoos hovering in space. The longer a "page" is held outside a host, the more unstable it becomes—like a fraying nerve, it degrades and corrupts. Victims may convulse or experience involuntary muscle spasms during extraction.

To Graft, a person's spine is not just a bundle of nerves—it's a living archive. Every trauma, every learned reflex, every scar of experience is encoded in the body's electrical language. He can reach into that system and tear out pieces of it like pages from a book.

Neuro-Spinal Grafting: Subject can extract and imprint pain-response pathways from others via physical contact, particularly along the spinal column.

Pain Transference: Subject can reroute nociceptive signals—emotional or physical pain—from one being into another, or internalize them.

Synaptic Mapping: Capable of creating temporary neuro-empathic links, allowing for the perception and extraction of deeply embedded emotional trauma.

Pain Extraction: Graft can isolate and rip the neural mapping of specific pain memories or trauma, leaving the target numb, confused, or emotionally hollow. Victims often feel a phantom absence, as if something fundamental is missing from their nervous system.

Sensory Hijack: By dragging or splicing these maps, he can transplant pain pathways from one person into another—making one person suffer another’s wounds or guilt.

Neural Silencing: He can temporarily (or permanently) sever connections between the brain and the body—cutting off pain, emotion, or even motor control with precision. This is often used mid-combat to disable or interrogate.

Echo Mapping: When he extracts a pain-map, Graft gains brief psychic "echoes" of the target’s trauma—flashes of memory, fear, or sensation. These moments are invasive, sometimes overwhelming, and often addictive.

"Spinal Bookmarking": He can mark a specific nerve thread and return to it later—revisiting a memory or reactivating pain as a threat or reminder.

B. Structural Integrity & Recovery

Accelerated Tissue Regeneration: Healing factor calibrated to 5.1× human baseline; minor wounds self-seal within minutes.

Adaptive Neurological Compensation: Nervous system dynamically adapts to new grafted data, granting temporary access to pain tolerances, reflexes, or biological instincts from others.

Neuroempathic Binding: When emotionally tethered to another subject, can redirect trauma responses to stabilize or destabilize neural equilibrium.

SECTION II: SENSORIAL AND PHYSICAL ENHANCEMENTS

A. Sensory Expansion

Olfactory Resolution: 45× human range. Utilized for emotional trace detection and trauma scent decoding.

Auditory Range: Detects ultrasonic emissions up to ~64 kHz.

Empathically responsive to distress tones.

Emotive Field Perception: Subconscious detection of fear, grief, and intent via biochemical cues.

B. Physical Conditioning

Subject exhibits enhanced muscular strength and endurance, with peak output estimated at nearly three times that of an average human.

Strength levels dynamically fluctuate based on the current neurokinetic load and graft-induced physiological adaptations.

Reflexes and agility are markedly improved, allowing for sudden bursts of rapid, unpredictable movement in combat or escape scenarios.

Subject demonstrates limited organic mimicry, temporarily altering dermal texture and muscle tone to blend with environmental or emotional cues, aiding stealth and resilience.

SECTION III: COGNITIVE PROFILE & BEHAVIORAL PERFORMANCE

A. Tactical Intelligence

Capable of real-time strategic recalibration under high duress.

Uses empathic-neural input to anticipate opponent behavior.

Avoids direct command hierarchies; prefers independent execution or small-unit autonomy.

B. Emotional Regulation

Subject exhibits alexithymia.

Emotional recognition in others is strong; emotional articulation for self is deficient.

Displays guarded affect but is highly reactive to distress signals.

SECTION IV: TECHNICAL EQUIPMENT INTERFACE

Primary Weapon: Custom-modified compact assault rifle (caliber classified)

Secondary Weapon: Silenced semi-automatic pistol

Melee Weapon: Surgical-grade scalpel set (various sizes, titanium alloy blades)

Additional Tools: Covert tactical knife (ceramic blade), field med-kit for emergency wound treatment

SECTION V: OPERATIONAL SPECIALIZATIONS

Neural Mapping & Emotional Residue Analysis

Memory Bleed Resistance (compartmentalized trauma locks)

Pain Redistribution (neurokinetic absorption and redirection)

Hostage Emotional Stabilization & Triage

Infiltration via Empathic and Neural Linkage

Environmental Tracking through Neural Echoes

SECTION VI: LIMITATIONS AND RISK FACTORS

Identity Disruption: Recurrent neuro-spinal grafting causes dissociative episodes and emotional boundary collapse.

Neural Feedback Syndrome: May suffer from seizures or paralysis due to overloaded neurokinetic transfer.

Emotional Saturation: High-emotion zones can short-circuit empathic buffers, leading to neurological shutdown.

Delayed Communication: In high-intensity neurokinetic states, subject struggles with coherent speech or response.

Biological Overload: Absorbing multiple trauma signatures simultaneously risks permanent nerve damage.

Exploitation Risk: Vulnerable to psychic or AI-driven psychological subversion through emotional resonance traps.

Solitude Dependency: Requires recovery periods of isolation to recalibrate neural thresholds and emotional alignment.

Tactical Rigidity: Functions best in small-cell environments; exhibits resistance to hierarchical structure.

Sensory Overload: Extreme auditory/visual stimuli can disorient or incapacitate subject temporarily.

Evaluation Summary:

LIMITATIONS

Graft demonstrates extraordinary capabilities rooted in neurokinesis—particularly neural pain transference and emotional extraction. However, the invasive and intimate nature of his ability imposes dangerous consequences on his cognition, physiology, and operational coherence.

Cognitive Displacement: Subject risks permanent identity fragmentation through repeated grafting cycles.

Partial amnesia and persona contamination have been observed.

Neuropathic Burnout: Subject has exhibited blackouts and cardiac distress following prolonged neural absorption.

Residual Trauma Retention: Psychological echoes from previous grafts remain embedded. These fragments interfere with present emotional processing.

Pathological Transmission: Subject can absorb and unwittingly internalize mental disorders or psychosomatic triggers.

Autonomy Override: Attachment to emotionally charged subjects often overrides extraction protocol.

Technological Ineptitude: Lacks intuitive engagement with electronic systems under pressure. Delegates all tech-interaction in field.

Summary Judgment: Graft is indispensable in high-emotion, trauma-sensitive environments but poses a systemic threat to mission cohesion if overexposed. Recommends emotional containment handler assignment on all future ops.

SECTION VII: INCIDENT LOG EXCERPTS

Incident #041 – Neural Feedback Loop Date: 22 May 2023 Outcome: Feedback from linked operative caused neurokinetic seizure. Subject unconscious for 17 hours post extraction.

Incident #087 – Hostage Stabilization (Cairo Market Siege) Date: 18 Oct 2024 Outcome: Siphoned panic signals and trauma loops from five civilian children. Subject suffered severe nosebleed and memory distortion.

Incident #104 – Deep-Graft Fugue Date: 19 Feb 2025 Outcome: Located 12 km off-grid in fugue state. Subject displayed partial memory from linked civilian with no debrief record.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE [CONFIDENTIAL – REDACTED]

Diagnosed with Controlled Empathic Dissociation Disorder Compulsion: Logs emotional trauma in encrypted neural diary Attachment Schema: High affective enmeshment; prefers solitude Trust Rating: Moderate – highly situational Loyalty Tier: ██ (Anchor Dependent) Obedience Level: Autonomous

Watchlist Tag: "If overwhelmed, do not touch. Withdraw."

Behavioral Note (per Division Psych Lead): “Graft exhibits a paradox of hyper-attunement and emotional detachment. While his neurokinetic abilities grant him intimate access to others’ trauma, he remains emotionally non-integrated with his own experiences. He responds to suffering with precision, not empathy—intervening like a surgeon, not a savior. Isolation is his default coping strategy, yet he’s magnetically drawn to pain in others. Recommends close monitoring for emerging compulsions tied to unresolved emotional grafts.”

CLASSIFIED — AUTHORIZED MEDICAL PERSONNEL ONLY

Subject: Medical and Enhancement History Report Operative Call Sign: Graft Date: May 20, 2025 Prepared by: Division Medical and Biotechnical Services

MEDICAL AND ENHANCEMENT HISTORY REPORT

Initial Integration: March 7, 2019 – Cairo Site-09 Procedure: Tier-IV Neurokinetic Grafting Implant Outcome: 93% synaptic retention rate. Subject stabilized after 72-hour sensory fragmentation.

Phase II Enhancements (August 2020 – Berlin Cell):

Neural relay mesh implanted for signal redirection

Pain conduit routing adjusted for enhanced durability

Neurofeedback buffer to reduce overload risk

Complications:

Graft Episode #12 (March 2021): Involuntary bond with rioter led to loss of self-identity for 36 hours. Memories distorted.

Phase III Enhancements (October 2023 – Site-12):

Pain transference refinement module installed

Reflex acceleration node integrated into basal ganglia

Known Medical Flags:

Mild arrhythmia post-graft

Spiking neurochemical levels in zones of extreme grief

Elevated oxytocin retention linked to prolonged emotional tethering

Monitoring Notes:

Subject's neurokinetic field reacts unpredictably to certain biotypes. Continues to refuse emotional suppressants.

Ongoing Precautions:

Mandate psych recovery window post-op (3–5 hours)

Enforce handler presence near trauma-site survivors

Revoke solo deployment in extreme emotional zones exceeding 48 hours

SPECIALIZATIONS

Neurokinetic Pain Transference

Tactical Infiltration

Emotional Field Mapping

Nerve Network Hijacking

Environmental Adaptation

Emotional Signal Disruption

Empathic Covert Reconnaissance

Close Quarters Threat Neutralization

Behavioral Surveillance

LIMITATIONS

Identity Dissolution

Neural Fatigue

Communication Lag

Trauma Residue Retention

Manipulation Vulnerability

SKILLS

Proficient:

Stealth & Infiltration

Close Combat Mastery

Insight

Intimidation

Pain Tolerance

Expertise:

Tactical Foresight

Substandard:

Athletics

Vehicular Operation

KNOWN ANOMALIES

Subject retains sensory and memory data from past contact

Neural echo recall includes sight, sound, and emotional profile

Encrypted trauma logs updated subconsciously

🗂️ MISSION LOGS – CLASSIFIED ENVY OPS

🔻 END OF FILE

"He carries the dead inside him—so no one else has to." – Pandora Internal Memo

[scarlineorbit]

Sirius Khalilson was born in Alexandria, Egypt, into a quiet, intellectual family. His father was a neurologist deeply committed to research, and his mother was a librarian who instilled in him a love for knowledge and calm reflection. Sirius’s childhood was sheltered, stable, and pale by comparison to what lay ahead. When he was ten, his family moved to Uppsala, Sweden, so his father could continue his work. The transition was smooth, and Sirius adapted well to the peaceful university town, excelling in school and showing an early fascination with human psychology. His upbringing was one of comfort, curiosity, and safety—an existence marked by books, thoughtful conversations, and familial warmth, untouched by violence or hardship.

After completing his bachelor's degree in Psychology and a master’s in Criminal Psychology and Behavioral Analysis, Sirius sought to put his knowledge into practice. He joined the CIA as an interrogator, stepping into a world that was brutal, shadowed, and emotionally corrosive. This was his first true exposure to human suffering on a mass scale. Unlike the calm, protected environment of his youth, the CIA demanded ruthlessness, detachment, and an ability to weaponize empathy. His work involved extracting vital information from detainees through psychological manipulation, stress induction, and careful exploitation of fear and trauma.

In the harsh confines of interrogation rooms, Sirius learned to suppress his empathy and emotions to survive. He became adept at reading microexpressions, controlling his voice and body language, and using silence as a tool of psychological pressure. Every session left invisible scars—he carried the residual pain and terror of those he questioned, burying it beneath a veneer of cold professionalism. Over time, the relentless exposure to trauma fractured his psyche, blurring the lines between himself and those he interrogated. The emotional toll was immense, leaving Sirius emotionally distant, hollowed, and quietly haunted. Despite this, he remained entirely human, with no supernatural enhancements, grappling with the weight of what he’d witnessed and caused.

At 27, disillusioned with traditional methods and driven by a desire to overcome his human limitations, Sirius volunteered for the classified P.A.N.D.O.R.A. Project. This top-secret program promised to create operatives who could manipulate trauma and emotion on a neurogenic level, turning psychological warfare into a tangible weapon. The decision was as much an escape as it was a commitment—a desperate attempt to find purpose and control over the pain he had long carried.

The induction process was a crucible of agony and transformation. Subjected to invasive genetic modification, neural rewiring, and psychic conditioning, Sirius’s mind and body were pushed to their absolute limits. The program forced him to confront not only external suffering but the trauma buried within himself, fusing it into a new form of power. Emerging from this ordeal, Sirius was reborn as “Graft”—a codename reflecting his role as a living graft of empathic pain, capable of absorbing, storing, and redirecting trauma.

Graft’s abilities are both a gift and a curse. He can take on others’ emotional and psychic pain, containing it within himself to shield vulnerable targets. He can then transfer or project this pain back onto enemies, weaponizing trauma itself. Additionally, he can manipulate memories by imprinting or erasing emotional content, destabilizing foes on a profound psychological level. These powers come with a staggering psychological price—dissociation, alexithymia, emotional numbness, and recurring PTSD-like episodes plague him. His psyche is a fractured landscape, held together only by an iron will forged in the fires of his past.

Over the past nine years, Graft has operated in the field as a specialist in neuro-affective extraction and emotional warfare. His missions take him to places rife with psychic disturbance and human suffering, where conventional tactics fail. Often working alone or alongside operatives similarly fractured by trauma, Graft functions as both a living container for pain and a devastating empathic weapon. Physically lean and emotionally guarded, he balances a razor-sharp intellect with the crushing burden of carrying the pain of countless others within himself.

Despite the formidable power he wields, Graft is haunted by the chasm between his past and present. The pale, peaceful childhood of Cairo and Uppsala feels like a distant memory, a fragile innocence lost forever beneath layers of trauma and transformation. The man he was is almost unrecognizable compared to the weapon he has become—an existence where pain is no longer just endured but harvested, wielded, and borne as both burden and shield.