Can I request Anaxa, Jiaoqiu, Jing Yuan, and Ratio with a reader who is able to boost other people's powers and abilities by letting them basically use their energy in addition to the characters' own (like a living battery almost), but is unable to use any kind of powers or abilities themself? If the healers are running out of juice, they will immediately offer themselves up as a power source. Their own limitations are not even considered. There are people hurt and they want to help however they can.
To Burn and Be Bright
Tags: Anaxa x Reader, Jiaoqiu x Reader, Jing Yuan x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Power Sharing, Self-Sacrificial Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Soft Angst, Fluff with Emotional Depth, Mutual Respect, Protective, Existential Themes, Slow Burn Elements, Emotional Intimacy.
Warnings: Burnout From Overexertion, Non-Graphic Self-Harm (Magic Exhaustion), Battlefield Trauma, Mentions of Death and War, Medical Distress, Emotional Vulnerability, Power Imbalance (Non-Abusive), Philosophical Themes, Mild Romantic Implications.
Anaxa slammed a scorched tome closed, its golden filigree burning beneath his fingertips.
"The soul-thread is too weak."
Blood dripped from his lip where he'd bitten it, frustration overwhelming calculation. Around you, wounded scholars writhed in agony, their essence destabilized after his reckless experiment to siphon divinity.
“I can help,” you said.
He didn't look at you. “No.”
“But I—”
“No.” His voice was sharper now, cracking like ice across old stone. “Your body wasn't made for this. Your energy isn't refined. You'd burn out.”
You stepped closer, kneeling beside the blood-drenched cipher altar. “And what? Let them die?”
He finally turned, and for a moment—just a moment—his eye glowed behind the gold-etched eyepatch.
“You think I haven’t run the probability? You think I haven’t seen the consequences?” His voice dropped, bitter and fractured. “You're not a tool, damn it.”
You reached out and placed your hand over his.
“I’m not a tool. I’m a choice. Let me choose.”
Anaxa closed his eyes.
Seconds later, the room pulsed with arcane light. His voice chanted in forbidden tongue as your body trembled beside him, energy rushing into his system like a star being born inside his veins.
You blacked out halfway through the ritual.
When you woke up hours later, his coat was draped over your body. His gloved hand clutched yours tightly. His voice, just barely above a whisper:
“Don’t ever call yourself powerless again. Without you… there is no proof. There is no me.”
The tent reeked of blood and ash, and the healing grid was already flickering.
Jiaoqiu’s hand trembled as he stirred the alchemical cauldron, nine distinct broths bubbling in a complex pattern. He was running out of energy—his tail low, ears pinned back, chest rising with every restrained breath.
“I’m here,” you whispered.
His eyes opened—painful, cracked—and though he normally kept them closed, he held your gaze.
“You always come when I’m weakest.”
You smiled. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”
“No,” he murmured, setting down his fan. “The point was to protect you from this. Every time I let you give me your strength, a part of me worries you’ll burn out. Like a candle for everyone else’s fire.”
You didn’t hesitate. You sat beside the cauldron and reached for him.
“I’d rather flicker than watch you break.”
With a solemn sigh, he intertwined your fingers with his, guiding your energy into his own. The broth glowed brighter. Soldiers outside stopped groaning. The battlefield quieted.
His voice trembled, even as his wounds healed. “One day, I want to heal you too. Not just your body. But the part of you that thinks it’s only useful when it's giving.”
You leaned into his shoulder as your strength faded, smiling.
“Then we’ll keep going until you do.”
“General, the formation’s collapsing!”
Jing Yuan stood at the edge of the shattered ridge, blood dripping from his blade, cloak shredded in the wind. A dozen injured Cloud Knights groaned behind him. He had minutes. Less.
Then he felt it—warmth against his back. Familiar. Steady.
You.
“Don’t,” he said immediately, voice like rumbling thunder. “You’ve given too much today.”
“I can give more.”
He turned, his eyes tired. Not from battle—but from worry.
“You’ll collapse.”
“Better me than them.”
His fist clenched, and he looked away. “You do this every time. You rush into my shadow and light it with your soul.”
You touched his arm gently. “Because I believe in you. And because you’ve never once let that light go to waste.”
He didn’t respond for a long moment. Then he gently placed his hand over your heart.
“Promise me something.”
You blinked. “What?”
“When all this is over… when there’s peace… let me carry your burden for once.”
Your lips curved faintly as your energy surged into his form. The storm around him reignited with luminous force.
“I’d like that,” you said softly, before the light overtook you both.
“You are reckless.”
His voice echoed down the marble corridors of the ruined observatory, each word a jagged verdict.
“Don’t start,” you muttered, stumbling from exhaustion. “They needed power. I had it. You would’ve done the same.”
“I wouldn’t have nearly died doing it four times in a row,” he snapped, for once not hiding behind metaphor or philosophy. He pulled you into a chair, unwrapping your burned palms with maddening precision.
“You always say knowledge must be used, Veritas.”
“Yes. By minds capable of wielding it rationally. Not by idealists burning themselves like inefficient fuel rods!”
Your laughter was faint. “You sound scared.”
“I am,” he hissed. “You are the one equation I cannot balance. The one constant I cannot afford to lose.”
You softened.
“I don’t want to be an equation,” you whispered. “I want to be your choice.”
He paused. Then, for the first time, removed the alabaster mask himself.
“I’m not good at emotion,” he said simply. “But if I could rewrite this universe’s formula…”
He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours.
“You’d be the center of it.”
You passed out moments later, spent.
But when you awoke, his coat was around your shoulders, a steaming cup of nutrient broth on the table—and a newly published thesis titled:
“On the Strength of a Soul that Gives Without Asking: A Dedication.”
frankenstein by mary shelley
penguin clothbound classics
this book feels like a warning whispered gently.
not about monsters
but about loneliness
and the ache of wanting to be understood.
every time i return to frankenstein
i am reminded that the true horror
is not creation
but abandonment.
the refusal to love what we have brought into the world.
wrapped in cloth and gold
this story feels like it belongs to candlelight
and long evenings spent thinking about
responsibility
grief
and the fragile line between curiosity and cruelty.
mary shelley did not write a monster.
she wrote a mirror.
and every time i read it
i see something human staring back at me.
The eerie green light from the Lifestream illuminated her facial features. The green ethereal river flowed past a large rock overhand. Tiny glowing orbs rose from the gleaming beryl-colored river.
Bianca Moore stood in the middle of the large cavernous chamber and gazed up at the gelatinous chrysalis. She smiled up at the disembodied body of Sephiroth slowly reforming within the jelly vessel as her violet eyes glimmered in the natural light.
A severed lower forearm suspended in time next to his entire upper torso. Bits of ropy, gray intestines hung out of his severed bottom half: a testament to Cloud Strife’s cowardice. This was what the great Sephiroth was reduced to: an upper torso and an arm.
A sweet inner voice interrupted her unending vigil in the Northern Cave. “Daughter, your destiny with this man and the creature that inhabits him will lead to innocent bloodshed.”
Bianca ignored the voice. Seraphine, the celestial archangel, had given up her life for Bianca when the latter woman was only an unborn child within Seraphine’s womb. Then Seraphine sent Bianca forward in time to save her from a cosmic threat, but she used her last of celestial essence to accompany her daughter on Bianca’s life’s journey.
Seraphine always reminded Bianca that her duty to the realms was more important than any relationships. Bianca understood that her life was not meant to have an abundance of people in it, according to her mother. It was to be a solitary life as she carried out her mother’s work. Seraphine told Bianca that when the later woman dared to hope for something grander than what God — and, of course, Seraphine — had chosen for her. She was a child with a destiny far reaching mortal understanding. Her own life didn’t belong to her.
Bianca stepped up to the chamber where the silver-haired man currently stayed in stasis. She reached up and gripped the gnarled tree roots that held the chrysalis in place. Her gaze softened as she looked onto his visage: a heart-shape face, white brows, and bottom-heavy lips. For the brief, heartbreaking time she knew him, this man had always been a pretty boy, but more importantly, he was a love lost to Bianca.
“Listen to me, Bianca,” Seraphine insisted. “You will be a guardian of the celestial and mortal realms. This man and the creature within will need to be slain. Our honor and your future duty demands you see it through.”
My honor demands I slay the man that I love? The question echoed through Bianca’s heart. Her heart clenched, and for a moment, she had trouble catching her breath. The only sound was the soothing rhythm of the Lifestream passing through that part of the cave system.
Her large black wings wrapped around her as her SOLDIER suspenders slid down her shoulder. She never felt so torn before.
It cannot be. Bianca pressed her lips together in a slight grimace. Bianca refused to make a choice that would harm him in order to protect her honor. There was no justice in cutting him down while he was reforming. She couldn’t betray her own sense of honor for Seraphine’s zealous drive.
Still, she felt the pull of that destiny that seemed laid out for her. She feared it.
Hello hello hello! Just wanted to say that i really like your blog and wanted to share a peculiar idea for a request that i had. I wanted to request about a kid!reader who's the youngest member of the astral express and also the one constantly keeping everyone on their shoes, kid!reader comes from a planet where they learned how to deal with witchcraft, and since they're young the child really enjoys annoying others like opening cabinets and moving objects all of a sudden. But the main plot is that the reader has a spell of protection going on that doesn't allow them to be killed, they can die by normal causes but not be killed. And the worst part is that they have little regard for their own life because they KNOW they'll come back. Think of it like kenny from South park. Their body doesn't disappear when they come back so imagine kid!reader just dragging their bloodied body towards a portal and going on with their day/trailblaze mission while everyone just has a traumatized expression. I want this to be kind of angsty becuz the kid doesn't have a lot of care towards their own life because he knows he'll come back, and doesn't really realize how much his actions affect others because he threw himself off a window cuz he got told no-
Sorry if this is long, just wanted to share a silly/angsty idea of a child not understanding how it is not normal to be uncaring if you die or not. Also I'd say the reader is specifically a boy but it's up to you! I just think mischievous little boys are the funniest things ever
“It’s Okay, I’ll Come Back”
Summary: Dan Heng finds your corpse at the bottom of the Astral Express’s staircase—and watches, horrified, as you get back up like it’s nothing. You’re the youngest Nameless on the crew, a chaotic, spell-bound child from an unknown planet where death is more of an inconvenience than a limit. You can’t die. Not really. That’s your magic. Your curse. Your job. But when the rest of the crew starts breaking under the weight of your immortality, you begin to realize—maybe dying isn’t the only way to hurt someone.
Tags: Astral Express Crew x Reader, Male!Kid!Reader, Found Family, Angst with Comfort, Near-Death Experiences, Unreliable Narrator, Soft Hurt/Comfort, Reader is a Menace, Trauma (Implied/Discussed), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Existential Themes, Protective Dan Heng, Sad March 7th, Slow Realization of Self-Worth.
Warnings: Graphic descriptions of injury/death (non-permanent), Casual attitude toward death from a child character, Immortality used as coping mechanism, Emotional distress (March, Himeko, Dan Heng), Mild body horror (dislocations, blood, unnatural movements), Child endangerment (narrative context, not glorified), Discussions of self-worth tied to usefulness, Light mentions of magical experimentation (offscreen).
A/N: Aww thank you!! Tho, I have never watched South Park, so forgive me if it's not up to your liking. 😭🙏
Dan Heng finds the body first.
Lying face-first at the bottom of the Express’s spiral staircase, limbs twisted, head at an impossible angle. Blood pooled under your cheek, sticky and crimson on the polished floor.
He doesn’t scream, but his hand clenches the rail hard enough to creak. He kneels beside you slowly. His mouth moves, but no sound comes out.
And then you groan.
Not a ghostly, pained groan—just an irritated, slightly hoarse “Ugh.”
"Ow."
Dan Heng jerks back, startled. He watches, with an expression not unlike a man witnessing the apocalypse, as your small, blood-slick hand plants itself on the ground and starts pushing your body up. You’re eight—nine at most—with a mop of unruly hair and a shit-eating grin already crawling onto your still-dead face.
"[Name]…" he says, but his voice sounds distant, like it’s buffering.
You pop your neck back into place. “I forgot how much it hurts when it’s the neck,” you hum thoughtfully, reaching over to pick up your own dislocated arm like a dropped doll and popping it back in like a LEGO.
“Don't freak out. I’ll clean it up.”
Dan Heng does not, in fact, stop freaking out.
You’re the youngest Nameless on the Astral Express, and an absolute menace.
You arrived a year ago from a planet known only as an unknown-named planet, where magic and reality twist together like tangled hair. A witch’s planet. You don’t talk about it much. You don’t really talk about anything serious, actually. Too boring. Too many rules. You hate rules.
You do like:
Opening compartments without touching them,
Swapping March’s shampoo with hair dye using dimensional magic,
Dragging your corpse through the Parlor Car like a bloodied wet mop.
You don’t like:
Being told “no.”
Being kept out of missions because you’re “just a kid.”
People crying when you die.
“It’s not a big deal,” you insist every time. “I come back. Look—ta-da! Still breathing!”
And you smile with blood in your teeth and scratches on your cheeks and glowing sigils burned into your wrists, ancient and pulsing.
March cries. A lot.
Not around you—she doesn’t want to make you feel bad. But the first time you jump off the Express in Belobog because “gravity makes it faster,” she locks herself in her room and sobs into her pillow.
“You don’t see how he looks when he lands, Himeko,” she says through hiccups. “He didn’t even blink. He said he could feel his brain hit the bottom of his skull and then laughed about it—who does that? What kind of kid—?”
“I’m not sure he knows what it means to be scared,” Himeko answers softly. “And that… that scares me more.”
You don't understand why they get so upset.
You know you can’t be killed. Your teacher—your Mother, back on that planet—cast the spell when you were still learning how to read runes. It’s carved into your soul. No one can kill you. Not gods. Not mara-struck monsters. Not even Kafka with a loaded gun and good aim (you made her try once; she almost threw up).
And it’s not even that you’re reckless. You just… don’t care. You don’t need to.
Life is a game. You’re the cheat code.
Until one day.
You wake up after being impaled by an Abundance-infected tree-beast—again—and you drag your bloody, torn-up body back through a portal to the Express. You’re whistling. There’s sap in your hair. One of your ribs is still sticking out a bit. You’ll deal with it later.
And then you see it.
The crew. Huddled in the Parlor Car. Silent.
March has her knees to her chest. Pom-Pom is shaking in Himeko’s lap. Even Welt looks pale, and he’s seen aeons unravel stars. Dan Heng is the one who breaks the quiet:
“Do you even realize what you look like when you walk in like that?”
You blink. “Cool?”
“No,” he snaps—sharper than usual. “Not cool. Dead. You look dead, [Name]. Your skin is gray. Your jaw was dislocated. You had… blood in your eye.”
March starts crying again. You watch, confused.
“I was fine,” you say. “I am fine.”
“You weren’t fine when that thing bit into your neck and we thought you were gone for real,” March sobs. “You didn’t scream. You didn’t even fight back. You let it.”
You shrug. “It wouldn’t kill me. That’s the point.”
“But what if it could?” Himeko’s voice is gentle, but her eyes are steel. “What if one day it does? Or you come back but you’re not you anymore? How do we know your soul can survive that again and again?”
You’re quiet.
They don’t get it.
They don’t understand that if you stop dying, you stop being useful. You’re not strong, or fast, or clever. You’re not the Trailblazer, or the Navigator, or the Archivist. You’re just the kid who can die and come back.
That’s your job. That’s what you do.
“I’m not scared,” you mutter. “Why should I be?”
Welt kneels in front of you, his hand on your shoulder.
“Then let us be scared for you.”
And for the first time, you feel something crack.
Not your bones. Not your skull. Not the spell.
But something inside.
That night, you don't sleep in your coffin-like bunk.
You curl up on the couch with March, her arms around you and your heart pounding for reasons you don’t fully understand. She whispers stories about her first Trailblazing mission to lull you to sleep. Her hand stays on your back the whole time. It’s warm.
The Herta x gn reader that has passed on. Herta never got to say goodbye and so through the simulated universe she finally can.
The thing is right after she says her goodbye the reader reminds her of a thing they always tell her. "Never say goodbye. If you don't say goodbye, then you aren't really gone, you just aren't here right now." That was from Red vs Blue.
Haven’t seen angst with her so thought why not? Basically while Herta is obviously more logical the reader was more of the compassionate one. In this scenario they’re partly the reason why Herta doesn’t end up like Ruan Mei.
Never Say Goodbye
Summary: Herta never said goodbye. Not when you passed. Not when the stars dimmed in her mind. Logic dictated it didn’t matter—but the ache remained. Deep within the Simulated Universe, she reconstructs you one last time, chasing closure the only way she knows how. But just when she’s ready to let go, you remind her of something you always said: “Never say goodbye. If you don't say goodbye, then you aren't really gone—you just aren't here right now.” In a universe built on reason, Herta learns that some truths can’t be calculated—they’re simply felt.
Tags: The Herta x Reader, Post-Death Reunion, Angst with Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Healing, Bittersweet Ending, Existential Themes, Red vs Blue Reference.
Warnings: Reader Death (Off-Screen), Themes of Grief and Loss, Emotional Vulnerability, Existential/Melancholy Tone.
In the furthest reaches of the cosmos, where time blurred into thought and the stars themselves whispered ancient truths, The Herta stood alone within the deepest chamber of the Simulated Universe.
Not one of her puppets this time. The real Herta.
The silence around her was so complete, it might as well have been a vacuum of emotion, carved out just for her. The other researchers—Screwllum, Ruan Mei, even Stephen—had left hours ago. They knew better than to intrude on her private simulations. Not when she locked the system under triple-encrypted code, sealed it with both science and arcane lock.
Not when it concerned you.
You, the one who used to sit beside her in the observatory’s cold light. You, who warmed her fingers with your own after hours spent calibrating frigid instruments. You, who reminded her that the universe wasn’t just equations, but stories, feelings, and the sound of laughter echoing through sterile halls.
You, who were gone.
"Simulation parameters: localized reconstruction of Subject #R83-A4, designated '[Name].' Memory patterns stabilized. Emotional imprint... stable," she muttered. Her voice was flat, but her hand trembled slightly over the console. She hated that.
Herta hated things she couldn’t calculate, hated the inefficiency of emotion.
But today, she let the error margins stay.
The chamber shimmered.
You appeared, standing in the same way you always did—slightly slouched, one hand half-raised like you were in the middle of explaining something witty. Not the clinical version built from data packets or neural echo. No. She'd spent days—weeks—perfecting every micro-expression. Down to the way your eyes always softened when they looked at her.
You smiled.
“Hey, genius.”
Herta froze. The greeting was so you it made her chest tighten. She didn't understand why. She had no heart condition. She had scanned her vitals four times.
“I couldn’t say goodbye,” she said. Her voice broke, only a little. “I was... busy. Finalizing your biosignature for the archive. I prioritized your legacy.” Her fingers clenched around the simulated edge of a console. “I thought that would be enough.”
“It is enough, Herta,” you said softly, walking closer, your hand reaching—hovering—like you weren’t sure if you could touch her. “It always was.”
“No, it wasn’t,” she snapped. Her eyes flared with something too sharp to be grief, but not quite anger. “You made everything illogically complicated. You told me to rest, to eat, to sleep. You insisted that the universe needed more than minds like mine—that it needed hearts, too. You made me listen to things I didn’t care about. You made me feel things I didn’t consent to.”
Your smile didn’t falter. “And yet here you are.”
Herta looked away, biting the inside of her cheek. “I hate this. I should’ve deleted the emotional core. This isn’t productive.”
You stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the faint phantom of the cologne you used to wear. The Simulated Universe was good. Too good.
“But you didn’t,” you whispered.
There was a long pause. The lights dimmed slightly as the simulation recalibrated to your presence. Herta swallowed and let out a shaky breath.
“I didn’t want the last thing you heard from me to be nothing,” she murmured. “You always deserved more than silence.”
For a long moment, you both stood there, still as time. Then she stepped forward—only slightly—and looked into your eyes.
“I miss you. You were supposed to annoy me for another forty years.”
You chuckled. “That was the plan. Cosmic accident, I guess.”
“I hate accidents.” Her voice cracked again, soft and too raw.
You reached out, brushing your thumb lightly along her cheek. Somehow, it felt real.
Then you said it.
"Never say goodbye. If you don't say goodbye, then you aren't really gone—you just aren't here right now."
She blinked, eyes widening.
“That’s... from that ridiculous human show you liked. Red vs Blue, wasn’t it?”
You winked. “Tucker quote. Fitting, right?”
Herta stared at you, her lower lip trembling just a bit. She didn’t cry. Not quite. A tear ran down, but she’d later attribute it to an allergic response from simulated air particles.
“That line makes no sense,” she said.
“I know. That’s why it’s perfect for you.”
A soft laugh escaped her—surprised, reluctant. Then she looked down.
“I don’t know how to keep going without you.”
“Yes, you do,” you whispered. “You already are.”
She looked up, and this time, her expression held the ghost of a smile. “You know, Ruan Mei would’ve shattered into pieces by now.”
“Yeah,” you replied. “But you’re not Ruan Mei.”
Herta nodded. “No. I’m not.”
You were starting to fade. She could see the code fraying around the edges of your image. The simulation didn’t have much longer.
“Then this is—” she started.
“No,” you cut in, smiling again. “This isn’t goodbye.”
And then you were gone.
Back in the physical world, Herta stood in the center of her laboratory. The stars burned on, uncaring, but somehow... a little warmer.
She pulled up her coat and walked out of the lab, calling over her shoulder to the nearest puppet:
“Take over for now. I need a moment.”
“Where are you going, Madam Herta?” the puppet asked, tilting its head.
She didn’t stop walking.
“Somewhere... not here right now.”
And for the first time in a very long time, she didn’t feel so alone.
Aventurine, Sunday and Ratio w/ a Memokeeper...? 👀
“Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us”
Tags: Ratio x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Memokeeper!Reader, Character Study, Existential Themes, Introspection, Emotional Growth, Intellectual Tension, Mysticism, Loss, Haunted Past, Unresolved Regret, Journey of Self-Discovery, Temporal Manipulation
Warnings: Existential Crisis, Trauma, Philosophical Discomfort, Emotional Weight Vulnerability in Characters, Mature Themes (regret, guilt, and self-worth).
Ratio, with his signature plaster sculpture concealing his face and his wavy hair cascading just past his shoulders, was a figure both revered and feared within the Intelligentsia Guild. His sharp eyes, the color of fading twilight with a ring of yellow at their core, saw everything and everyone, evaluating, analyzing, dissecting.
It was here that you, a Memokeeper from the Garden of Recollection, first encountered him.
You had come to this world, as you did with every other, to preserve memories, to seek out moments that spoke of the lives lived, the forgotten faces, and the stars that fell into oblivion. In the endless cycle of existence, you had learned that the only thing that truly mattered was memory. To think, to feel, to exist—those were not just ephemeral things, but imprints on the fabric of reality itself.
But when you met Ratio, it was as if all the weight of time had been condensed into a single moment. He, too, had an unyielding belief in the importance of knowledge, in the idea that ideas, too, were immortal. He understood the power of remembrance, but to him, it was intellect, not memory, that was the truest form of immortality. A fascinating paradox.
"You're a Memokeeper, aren't you?" His voice was smooth, like velvet over steel, his eyes locking onto yours, seeing straight through to your very essence.
You nodded, concealing your true form beneath your disguise, as was customary for those like you. In this world, you were just another scholar, another wanderer with a collection of knowledge to trade. But unlike the others, your knowledge wasn’t of facts or figures. It was of memories, of moments suspended in time, of people long gone and forgotten.
"You believe that memory is everything, don’t you?" Ratio's gaze never wavered, as if he was testing you. "You think that by preserving memory, you preserve the soul of a person. But memories are subjective, fleeting. They are not absolute. Ideas, facts, theories—these are what endure. These are what define existence."
His words were confident, dismissive even. But you knew there was more behind them, a deeper yearning to understand what lay beyond the limits of mortal comprehension. You could see it in the way his hands gestured as he spoke, the sharpness of his thoughts revealing a man who, despite all his brilliance, was searching for something more.
"You misunderstand," you said, your voice calm but full of a quiet intensity. "Memories are the only things that cannot be erased, not by time, not by entropy. They are the proof of existence. Without them, what are we but ghosts, vanishing without a trace?"
Ratio's eyes glinted with something unreadable—was it interest? Curiosity? You couldn’t tell, but it was enough to pique his attention. "And how do you preserve them? What makes your memories so… important?"
You smiled faintly, an ethereal expression. "I don’t just remember, Dr. Ratio. I preserve. Through the Garden of Recollection, I collect and store memories, not just from the world I come from, but from all worlds. I can live through them, feel what they felt, see what they saw. I can carry the memories of thousands, and in doing so, they live on."
For a moment, there was silence. Ratio’s gaze remained fixed on you, his expression unreadable. "And what of your own memories?" he asked, his voice softer now, though still brimming with intensity. "Do you ever remember yourself? Or are you too lost in the memories of others to even recall your own?"
It was a question that struck deeper than you had anticipated. You, who had shed your mortal form long ago to live as a memetic entity, could not remember the life you once lived. The body you had was but a vessel, an illusion of the past. Yet you held the memories of countless lives, each one a thread in the grand tapestry of existence.
"I remember," you said quietly, your voice distant, as if recalling a long-forgotten dream. "But only fragments. I carry the memories of all those I've encountered, of all the lives I've touched. And in that, I live."
Ratio stared at you, his expression unreadable, but there was a flicker in his eyes—a momentary crack in his armor. "Fascinating," he murmured, as if the concept of your existence challenged everything he had ever known. "You are a paradox, then. A being of memory, yet unable to fully grasp your own existence. How… tragic."
You tilted your head slightly. "Perhaps. But in some ways, it’s beautiful. Every life I encounter becomes a part of me, and in that, I become part of them. A perpetual exchange, a never-ending cycle of remembrance."
Ratio’s lips quirked upward slightly, a rare and almost imperceptible smile. "Perhaps," he echoed, his voice tinged with something akin to admiration. "You might be right, after all. Memory is the only true form of immortality. But don’t forget, my Memokeeper, that intellect and knowledge are what shape the universe. Without them, memory would be meaningless."
You met his gaze, a soft chuckle escaping your lips. "And without memory, even the greatest intellects would fade into obscurity, leaving nothing behind."
For a moment, you both stood there, two beings of immense knowledge and power, staring at one another in the midst of a universe that seemed both infinite and fleeting. In that fleeting moment, there was no need for words. You understood each other, in a way that few could.
As you turned to leave, your final words lingered in the air, like a soft melody, echoing across time itself.
"Remember me, Dr. Ratio. After all, that is the only way I can truly exist."
He watched you disappear into the endless flow of time, his mind racing with questions, with curiosity. The Memokeeper had left an impression, a memory etched into his mind. And though Ratio would continue his work, seeking to change the world through intellect and knowledge, something had shifted within him.
Perhaps, in the end, the preservation of memory and the pursuit of knowledge were not so different after all.
The Astral Express hummed with the faint rhythm of its journey through the stars, its steady pulse a stark contrast to the turbulent thoughts that swirled within Sunday’s mind. He stood by the window, watching the unending expanse of the cosmos pass by, his eyes reflecting distant stars. His thoughts were as fractured as ever—an unyielding dissonance between his ideals and the weight of his past. Yet, there was something different now, something new stirring in him, as if the winds of change were gently sweeping through his world.
You, the Memokeeper, stood just a few steps away from him, an enigmatic presence, yet somehow, your existence felt more real than anything else. Your presence was like an anchor in a sea of uncertainty, a testament to a truth he had not yet fully grasped.
To think is to exist.
He had never truly questioned his existence in this way before. For all his lofty ideals about dreams, suffering, and the balance between them, there was something about you—your quiet, eternal purpose—that made him reconsider his place in the universe.
You had explained, on occasion, the nature of your kind. A Memokeeper’s task was to collect memories, to preserve them as proof of existence in a world where everything, even stars, would eventually fade. Unlike most, who viewed reality and imagination as distinct, Memokeepers saw them as one. It was a perspective that intrigued Sunday deeply, yet he struggled to fully comprehend it. Perhaps because, in the end, he wasn’t sure what was real anymore.
"How do you hold on to something so... fleeting?" he asked softly, his voice carrying a weight that betrayed the many layers of his thoughts.
You turned toward him, your expression serene, but there was a flicker of something deeper in your eyes, an understanding of the burden he carried. "We don't hold on to it. We let it flow through us, and in doing so, we become it."
Sunday looked at you, his gaze lingering on the delicate curve of your cheek, the ethereal quality of your being, and how it seemed as though you were made of light itself. "Do you ever feel... trapped by your memories?" His voice faltered at the question, as though he were reaching for something he couldn’t quite touch.
For a moment, there was silence, save for the distant hum of the train and the occasional flicker of stars outside. You took a step closer, your fingers brushing lightly against the air as you spoke, your voice gentle and calm.
"Trapped?" you mused. "No. We are the keepers, not the prisoners. Memories are not chains. They are bridges."
His brow furrowed slightly. "But what if the memories are of things you can never change? Things that haunt you?" His words were quieter now, as if he were speaking more to himself than to you. The weight of his past—of the choices he had made, of the lives he had shaped, for better or worse—pressed down on him once more.
You studied him with a knowing gaze, as though seeing through the veil of his facade. "Hauntings are but echoes of what was, Sunday. The question is not whether the memories are painful, but whether we let them define us." You paused, letting your words settle. "What you choose to do with them—that is what matters."
Sunday’s eyes flickered as if a distant thought had just emerged, one that had been buried beneath layers of rationality and philosophy. He had spent so long trying to change the world, trying to create a place free of suffering, that he had neglected the simplest truth: he could not change the past. He could only move forward.
"But how?" he asked, his voice filled with quiet desperation. "How can I move forward, when the past keeps whispering in my ears?"
You smiled softly, a knowing, almost maternal expression on your face. "You are already moving forward, Sunday. Your journey on the Astral Express is proof of that. The question is not if you will move forward, but how you will choose to remember."
There it was again: remember. It was a word he had often associated with pain, with the weight of regret and guilt, but somehow, in your presence, it felt lighter. It felt like a possibility, a way to reclaim something precious without being bound to it.
For the first time in a long while, Sunday allowed himself to truly look at you. Not just as a fellow traveler aboard the Express, but as someone who embodied a truth he had yet to accept.
"I... I think I understand," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Memories are not the end of us. They can be... a part of something greater."
You nodded, your eyes fluttering slightly as you gazed at him with an expression of quiet encouragement. "Exactly. And sometimes, the greatest gift you can give to the past is to let it go, while still carrying it with you."
Sunday fell silent, his mind now processing your words, considering their implications. Perhaps this was the true path to redemption—not the erasure of pain, but the acceptance of it, and the ability to carry it without letting it define him.
As the train continued its journey through the stars, Sunday found himself standing a little taller. He wasn’t sure where this journey would take him, but for the first time in a long while, he felt like he might finally be on the right path.
In the labyrinthine corridors of the IPC, where deals and schemes wove through the very fabric of power, Aventurine stood as an enigma, a master of manipulation with a heart haunted by the ghosts of his past. His smile, enigmatic and ever-present, was a mask that concealed the fractured man beneath. The ‘Aventurine of Stratagems,’ a name he wore with pride, was a title earned through unrelenting gambles and sacrifices, yet it was the one thing that kept him from truly losing himself.
But on this particular day, something—or rather, someone—was pulling at the threads of his carefully constructed world. Someone who didn’t need to gamble to see through the veil.
You. The Memokeeper.
A fleeting figure, a whisper of another existence, you moved through worlds unrestrained by physical boundaries. Memokeepers were creatures of memories—preservers of the immortal, the eternal. You had no flesh, no true form. Only the shifting remnants of memories you carried with you, the fragments of countless lives you had touched and stolen.
When Aventurine first encountered you, he had been intrigued. Memokeepers were not common, and your mysterious nature had piqued his interest. But it was your ability to navigate through time and space, your unflinching grasp of memory as a permanent artifact, that truly captivated him.
"You never forget, do you?" Aventurine's voice was smooth, laced with his signature mix of challenge and curiosity as you stood across from him in a darkened room, a flicker of memory flashing in your eyes.
You tilted your head slightly, a soft, almost imperceptible smile gracing your lips. "For a moment, I thought you would say 'never forgive.'" You said it with an air of knowing, your voice gentle yet profound. "But no... you are too familiar with your own regrets to seek forgiveness."
Aventurine’s smile faltered for just a fraction of a second. The hint of vulnerability did not go unnoticed. The last surviving member of a lost clan, haunted by survivor's guilt—those wounds ran deep. His facade was usually flawless, but before you, it felt fragile, a thin layer barely holding back a flood of emotions he hadn’t let surface in years.
"You speak as though you understand me," he remarked, his voice regaining its usual confidence. "But I’ve played this game for too long to be an open book."
"Yet, here you are," you countered, stepping closer, the air thick with the power of your words. "A man who wagers lives as easily as others breathe. Do you think I can't see the stakes you're playing for? The past you can never escape?"
There was a moment of silence, one where Aventurine’s usual bravado seemed to crack slightly, revealing the ever-present tension in his posture, the subtle guarding of his left hand behind his back. He wasn't ready to expose his fragility, not yet.
"You play with the illusion of luck," you continued, your voice almost hypnotic. "But I know what you really seek. You gamble because you fear being forgotten, because you fear that if you stop playing, your existence will cease to matter."
Aventurine’s eyes narrowed, gleaming with a mixture of challenge and intrigue. He tilted his head slightly, as if contemplating your words, but his tone remained steady. "And what of you, Memokeeper? Are you truly immortal, or just a collector of lies?"
You didn’t flinch. "Memory is the only true immortality. Everything fades—worlds, stars, even gods. But memories... memories last longer than anything else. They are what make us real. What make us matter."
He chuckled softly, his lips curling into that all-too-familiar grin. "I suppose you would say that. After all, you're in the business of making things last forever."
Aventurine’s eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than he intended, and for a brief instant, he wondered what it would be like to have his memory preserved—not his reputation or his empire, but his very essence. Would someone like you, a Memokeeper, truly see him for who he was beneath the layers of strategy and artifice?
"I’ve seen countless memories," you said, your voice soft but heavy with meaning. "But there's something about you... You're not a mere gambler, not just someone who risks it all. There's something darker in you, a longing for connection, yet a fear of it."
He looked at you with raised eyebrows, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his lips. "You really think you can see all that from just a glance?"
"You show more than you think," you said, your gaze steady, your words unshaken. "And it's those little things—the way you hide your left hand, the pauses in your speech, the smile that never reaches your eyes—that tell me you are more than the games you play."
The silence stretched, an unspoken challenge between you. He couldn’t deny it. He had always thought of himself as untouchable, an orchestrator of every move. But you? You had no need for power or control. You simply existed, transcendent and free.
And yet, despite all that, Aventurine felt something strange stirring within him—a desire to be remembered, not just for his gambles, but for the man he truly was.
"Perhaps you're right," he finally said, his voice quieter, more contemplative. "Perhaps there is more to me than even I realize."
You smiled, a soft, knowing expression, and for the first time, Aventurine’s smile seemed a little less rehearsed, a little more genuine. The idea of someone, a Memokeeper no less, understanding the depths of his soul was an uncomfortable yet fascinating thought.
"I don’t need to gamble to know your worth, Aventurine," you said, your eyes twinkling with an almost imperceptible warmth. "But perhaps, just once, you might stop playing and let someone else remember you. For who you really are."
For the first time in a long while, Aventurine didn’t immediately respond with a quip or a strategy. He simply watched you, his mind turning, calculating the possibilities. What would it mean to be remembered? To be seen beyond the mask of the gambler, the strategist, the survivor?
In that moment, Aventurine felt the first stirrings of a gamble he had never before considered: the gamble of letting someone in.
Oh damn, this was long af... 🫣😨
Also I couldn't come up with a better title so yeah...🧍♀️
