A kinda specific and maybe long but fun idea i had for a req:
Essentially, {and bare w me, i’m half asleep writing this lol} Reader x Sunday, and Reader is a childhood friend of his, who he loved, and someday when they were older, Reader was tragically killed in an incident. Sunday however, in a grief stricken state, decides to rebel against his original goal for the sweetdream paradise (penacony arc reference) and decides to shape it into a dream instead where he’s happily married to Reader, although for the sake of the dream he’s altered their memories. ending is essentially up to you!
{some additional ideas i had if you wanted to, were things like an argument between gopher and sunday, or robin and sunday, in whichever points of the story you wanted}
alternatively, a different Aventurine version would be interesting, mostly w the same set up but Sunday met Reader during Aventurine’s mission on Penacony, liked them, and Aven has to basically fight off the dream and Sunday.
but yeah, that’s pretty much it, everything else is up for creative liberties! i hope this one is at least somewhat interesting lol xx and srry if some of it doesn’t make sense 😓🤍
“Sometimes, the hardest part of letting go is realizing that the dream was never real”
Summary: In the idyllic yet hollow world of Sweetdream Paradise, Sunday crafts a perfect life with you—his lost love, altered memories and all—to escape the sorrow of reality. But as others begin to break through his illusion, and you start to remember fragments of a different fate, the dream begins to fracture. Torn between love and the harshness of truth, Sunday must finally face the choice to let you go, or remain forever in his self-made paradise.
Tags: Sunday x Reader, unrequited love, grief, loss, dreamscape, bittersweet ending, altered memories, memory manipulation, moral dilemma, angst, hurt/comfort, alternate reality, surrealism, slow unraveling, denial of reality.
Warnings: Grief, themes of manipulation, psychological trauma, implied death of Reader, reality distortion, emotional conflict, bittersweet resolution, morally ambiguous decisions.
A/N: Don't worry, anon! I appreciate all the details, the more details the more I can try to understand what you want exactly! Though I probably changed some bits of it here 😪
Sunday had always been proud of his role within Penacony, the creator of Sweetdream Paradise—a place where sorrow could be stilled, where suffering dissolved into an endless realm of serene dreams. It was a comforting reality he believed people needed, a soft oblivion to cradle them. Yet, in the depths of his mind, his peaceful philosophy hid a darker purpose, shaped by the ache of a loss he could never endure.
You had been his friend, a constant light in his youth, a companion who grounded his dreams. For as long as he remembered, you were there, with laughter that melted his worries and eyes that could see through his layered philosophies. But the day you were lost, taken too soon in a tragic incident, the world itself had hollowed out for him. The pain of your absence haunted him like a shadow, feeding a grief so deep that he was willing to defy his original purpose. In that moment of desolation, he turned Sweetdream Paradise into something far more personal—a realm where you still lived, where you loved him just as much as he had loved you.
In this new dream, Sunday made alterations. He reshaped your memories, softened the sharp edges of reality, and wove a seamless history where you had married him, where together, you built a life free of tragedy. In this dream, he could protect you eternally, shielded by his crafted illusion.
You woke to sunlight filtering through the windows, lying beside Sunday as the golden morning glow danced over his features. His eyes opened, catching you with a familiar warmth, and he reached over, brushing his fingers across your cheek.
"Good morning." he murmured, voice low and rich, as if savoring the simplicity of that greeting.
Every day was like this—a gentle, perfect rhythm that never seemed to break. You didn’t remember a world outside of this home, this life with him. And as you looked at him, you felt safe, loved, yet there was always a faint unease, like a fragment of something forgotten.
But the days went on, filled with laughter and love. Sunday seemed devoted to making sure you never doubted this world, his every word a reassurance that here, you were whole and happy.
One evening, as Sunday worked quietly at his desk, a visitor shattered the peace of his dream. It was Robin, standing just inside the doorway, her expression dark with a kind of wary sadness.
“Brother, you need to stop this,” she said, folding her arms. Her gaze fixed on him, seeing through the veneer of the dream. “This isn’t right. This… this paradise you’re keeping isn’t reality.”
Sunday straightened, his face hardening at her words. “Who are we to deny people peace, Robin? Haven’t we seen enough pain? Haven’t they?” His voice broke slightly, the facade slipping as he glanced toward where you sat by the fire, unaware of the intensity in his voice. He softened, as if trying to protect the dream from any trace of discord.
“You’re keeping people trapped. Yourself included. And for what? A fantasy? Is that really what they would have wanted?” Robin’s voice grew more urgent, her frustration showing. “They’re gone. You have to accept that.”
Sunday’s fists clenched at her words, every fiber in his body resisting the truth. “How could you understand?” he whispered. “In this place, they’re alive. I’m not hurting anyone. I’m giving them peace. Doesn’t that count for something?”
Robin stared at him, her gaze a mix of pity and sorrow. “At what cost, Brother? You’re keeping yourself from moving on, holding them hostage in a world that isn’t even real.”
In an alternate version of Penacony, Sunday’s paradise faced an even stranger twist. Aventurine, the cunning Stoneheart known for his strategic mind, was on his own mission in Sweetdream Paradise, seeking information that only Sunday could provide. But as he delved into the fabric of this dreamscape, he found himself questioning the reality around him, the shimmering dream where Sunday lived an idyllic life with you.
Aventurine confronted Sunday one night, his tone half-amused, half-concerned. “Interesting setup you have here,” he remarked, eyes gleaming with curiosity as he took in the flawless surroundings. “I almost believed it myself… almost. But what happens when the dream can’t hold itself together anymore?”
Sunday’s gaze narrowed, his protective instincts flaring. “What do you mean by that?”
Aventurine shrugged, his gaze flicking to you, sitting quietly, oblivious to the tension. “Everyone in this place… it’s all too perfect, isn’t it? You’re clinging to a memory, one that doesn’t belong here.”
In a rare flash of anger, Sunday stepped forward, his eyes darkening. “This isn’t any of your concern, Aventurine. Leave.”
Aventurine met his glare, his smirk slipping. “You think you’re the only one who’s loved and lost? Reality has its flaws, Sunday. It’s messy, painful… but it’s real. This—this is just a prison you’re keeping yourself in.”
Sunday’s voice trembled, caught between anguish and fury. “Better a beautiful dream than a brutal reality.”
Aventurine’s gaze softened for a brief moment, though he couldn’t abandon his sardonic tone. “But at least in reality, they would have remembered you for who you are, not a god in a gilded cage.”
In the end, it was you—within the dream—who finally confronted him, feeling the intangible pull of memories you didn’t recognize. “Sunday… something doesn’t feel right,” you whispered one night, as he sat beside you. “I keep… remembering pieces of something different, something that feels like it wasn’t supposed to end this way.”
Sunday’s face grew pale, fear creeping into his eyes. “No, you don’t have to worry about that. You’re here. We’re together. Isn’t that enough?”
But as you searched his eyes, you could feel the truth breaking through, the dream trembling under the weight of reality. “Sunday, what are you not telling me?”
He looked away, his heart shattering as he realized he couldn’t keep you here forever. Slowly, he whispered, “I… I just wanted to keep you safe. To give us a life that didn’t end in sorrow.”
With a trembling hand, you reached out, brushing a tear from his cheek. “It’s okay to let go. You have to keep going… even if it means letting me go.”
Sunday’s shoulders shook, the dream beginning to unravel around them, pieces of the illusion fading as he looked into your eyes one last time. “I… I don’t know if I can.”
But in the final moments, he felt your hand slip away, leaving him alone in the vast silence of his own grief. And as he awoke from his dream, Sunday found himself in a world still plagued by loss, his heart hollow yet somehow freer. Though you were gone, he understood, at last, that he had to face reality, no matter how painful it was.
And in that pain, he found a fragile hope—a sliver of light breaking through the dark.
*cutely posts all my drafts that have been dying to see the light* 😇💖
This is the intro of a hualian fic im outlining, in which calamity Xie Lian believes he is White No-Face's reincarnation and god Hua Cheng is Jun Wu's loyal servant (or is he?).
CW beware that this intro has major tgcf spoilers and also contains violence and torture described in a callous, casual way.
This story starts in a temple.
A banished god lies on the altar. A crowd of a hundred people surrounds him. Standing behind him is the villain of this story: a man wearing white robes and a half-crying, half-smiling mask. He presents the people with a choice. They are to either die a painful death or kill the god lying on the altar and escape with their lives.
Fearing death and suffering, they accept the sword the white-robed man offers them and line up. And thus, the carnage begins. One after another, they stab the prone god and ignore his screams and pleas, until he dies, again and again and again.
Soon, the once shining prince is reduced to little more than a butchered animal. Unfortunately for him, he can't die. A shackle around his throat keeps that merciful end ever out of reach.
There is another person in the temple, although to call it a person would perhaps be too generous. It is the soul of a young soldier who died too young on the battlefield and yet still hangs onto the living world by the tips of its desperate, grasping fingers. Right now, it is nothing more than a little ghost fire, writhing and flickering in a pale hand.
In one world, our villain, the white-clad calamity, takes one look at the struggling ghost fire he holds and dismisses it as unimportant. Something like this, a ghost so weak it cannot even take on human form, is nothing to an ancient, powerful creature like him. Even destroying it would be more effort than it deserves, and so he leaves it be.
In that world, that decision results in this: tormented by the sight of its god being tortured, the ghost fire erupts into an inferno and burns down the temple and every human in it.
Its god is saved, for that moment, at least, and the white-clad calamity leaves to return another day.
But that is not our world. In our world, the white-clad calamity looks at the ghost fire in his hand and starts thinking about loyalty and hope and risks. In the end, he decides to play it safe.
He is certainly old and powerful enough to know how to hide and manipulate memories, especially for something so weak as a ghost fire. It is only a matter of seconds for his mind to infiltrate the ghost fire's essence like roots growing through loose soil and rearrange it as he sees fit.
He suppresses most of what the little ghost remembers from its life: gold and white and flashing red, strong arms and a gentle face, devotion and shelter and flowers. He leaves the suffering, the pain, and the fury.
It will not do to have another ghost be obsessed with his pet god.
As the memories fade, the ghost fire grows weak and confused in his hand. It stops struggling, and finally, it sinks slowly to the ground.
In the absence of the fire and retribution of that other world, the people continue killing the god. And our god might be immortal, but as it turns out, even immortals have a breaking point.
Eventually, the shackles around his neck break, and he dies one last time. The people do not notice at first, but our white-clad calamity does. After all, it is he who gave the god the shackles in the first place.
He stares at the corpse on the altar for a while, unsure what to do. He had not expected his plaything to die. Now, the people are noticing too, and are starting to panic, for not all of them are saved yet. How dare their martyr die before finishing his task?
Annoyed, the white-clad calamity snaps his fingers, and death spreads among the people. It seems their god's sacrifice was for naught. It is only a shame he is not there anymore to realize that.
When the last of the mortals falls to the ground, dead, something changes in the air, and the white-clad calamity turns to look at the body on the altar. Something flickers above its chest, and a tender, new ghost fire starts to form.
Our villain smiles.
He walks over and takes the ghost fire into his hand. As he looks down at it, an idea starts to form, sparked by the fate of the ghost fire still burning weakly on the floor.
The white-clad calamity does not shy away from manipulating things to go the way he wants them to. Still, he would not take it this far if everything had not already deviated so greatly from the set course. As it is, his previous plans need readjusting anyway, and he might as well ensure that his student stays on the right path.
He wants him to see things his way, but not everything needs to be experienced first-hand. Or, at least, not quite.
It is even easier to rearrange this ghost fire's memories than it was for the one before, a side effect of it being brand new. He does not merely suppress memories; this time, he also inserts new ones.
They are his own; memories of heat and fire, of screams and failure, of grasping hands and searing pain. They mix nicely into the young ghost's existing hazy memories, blending and blurring and overtaking.
He does not remove all of the memories of the god's own life. It would defeat the purpose of his plans. He can help and nudge and manipulate, but in the end, the god has to walk the path himself. The shared memories can help him along, but what the white-clad calamity wants is someone like-minded, not merely a reflection of himself.
When it is done, he cages the ghost fire that was once a god in his sleeve and takes its corpse into his arms. Without another look at the destruction around them, he sets off for Mount Tonglu.
On the floor behind the altar, the ghost fire that is left behind burns a little brighter.
I love you, I know you don’t believe me right now, but I do. But that just makes digesting you like this all the more important. I’m not the only predator, not the only monster, out there? You are delectable, a temptation not just to me but anything and anyone like me. But in here? In here, you are mine, my love, my prey, my meal, no one but me gets to feel you, see you, experience you and once you melt and churn away in my belly? Nothing can take you from me again.
I know you don’t really understand, you think I’m confused, that I’m mixing predatory instinct with my love for you, that I’ve somehow lost control and don’t realise what I’m about to do. Or that I’ve grown bored of you and this is the only use for you I have left.
But darling, that’s not how this works, I’ve always felt like this, always wanted to do this to you. The only things stopping me from acting on it, was the belief that you could live out there, without being stolen from me and the knowledge you would act like you are acting now: terrified, betrayed, confused and saddened.
I want you to be happy and safe, truly I do. But I can’t give you those things out there. Shhhh, I know love, it’s scary, you’re melting, dissolving, churning, compressing, drowning.
But I need you to bear with me, I’m trying to wear you down, digest you in an even and timely manner. But the pressing out won’t help with that my love, you need to stay in the middle dear. Don’t crane upwards out of the rising acids or push futilely against my compacting stomach walls. It won’t stop me love, all it will do is prolong the inevitable.
Oh darling I abhor hearing you so distressed, won’t you give in? For both our sakes? No? But beloved, can’t you see? No matter how you cry and struggle, it’s already too late, you are already mine.
You don’t stop fighting me, but as I said, you inevitably succumb. I sigh in pleasure as I feel you finally give into the only outcome I was ever going to allow. You were wonderful, I enjoyed every second of you in there, even if your belief that I had come to hate or disregard you was deeply saddening. Your movements were heavenly and I confess, if not for my fervent wish to minimise your suffering, I would have begged you to struggle more not less.
Now, you are mine, your soul, exhausted from your recent death, can only rest peacefully within my own, you may find the strength to object eventually. But by then I will have woven a suitable dream world for you to inhabit. One where you are safe, loved and happy. One where you don’t even remember that you are dead and eaten.
The rest of you works it’s way through my body, becoming a part of me, you leave me quite the sizeable pot belly. But I don’t mind having to squeeze into my old clothes if it means letting those who dared to try and take you realise that now they can’t.
I’m sorry, I know I scared you darling, but I can’t bring myself to regret this. You’re safe now and I? I have just had the most exquisite meal.
Author's note:
This is probably just a glorified lore dump, but at least it's on the shorter side.
Thank you for your patience and understanding regarding the delays in fic-related posts.
I enjoy writing this story and I will not stop until I've told it in full. It'll just take a while.
I appreciate those brave enough to share their thoughts and opinions in the comments and I value the support, even if it's someone leaving kudos. I see them all, I promise - and they fill me with so much joy and inspiration.
Please enjoy this humble entry!
SUMMARY:
Zooble takes matters into their own hands.
Now they are faced with what they are willing to lose to the ringmaster.
HEATWAVE
It was all too much.
Zooble had forgotten what it felt like; the jumbled, dark, chaotic plague of glitches and brightly coloured eyes peering at them from the very corner of their mind – taunting them with every inch they moved and every thought they had. That’s how long it had been since the amalgamation felt a dread such as this. They knew everything was falling apart, but they didn’t anticipate for things to collapse as suddenly as a delicate house of cards.
It all went wrong so quickly and there was nothing they could do about it other than what they had been doing for the past week or so – to set chase after their friends who caused the collapse.
Pomni and Gangle.
Zooble wished that it was the only reason why they ended up running, but that wasn’t the case.
They were running from everything at this point.
They ran from the reality they so blatantly lived by, the unrelenting, stone-cold truth of how royally screwed they all were, considering how things had gotten out of hand as of late.
They ran from their role in their precious system, who was once a gentle breeze, currently twisted into a monstrous sandstorm that bit at the hides of all that tried to brave it, only to fall face first in the desert sand, causing everyone else to ground themselves best they can within the oasis – as if time stood still. At least, even if it was indirect, they still managed to play their part within their role, forcing the weight of the reality that the group faced to bring them to they’re knees with no choice but to face how dire their circumstances had become.
It was a curse – Zooble didn’t even try to fulfill their role, but like dust, they’re function never seemed to leave them, always hiding in the crevices .
They ran from Ragatha… god, they couldn’t help but run.
Soon after the incident, where Gangle was pried off of Ragatha, only to newly possess Pomni, the Zolo-creature confronted the doll. The doll who lived through whatever their poor theatrically themed ribbonoid was suffering from. She saw Gangle’s mind and they knew… they knew that Ragatha had answers – context – anything to give them a chance to reach their partner.
But they pushed the crowned jewel of the circus too far in their desperation.
Zooble was quickly reminded why Jax often called her ‘princess.’
The doll retaliated; it was chilling. They couldn’t recognize why they were scared, but the fear was undeniable, as if their body and instincts knew better. They just had to trust that gut feeling. It was too earth-shatteringly loud to brush it aside. Zooble felt like they were missing something important about the icy steeled look in the doll’s good eye, but they couldn’t grasp it; like it was a speck of dust carried away in the breeze.
It was too much.
Thank god Ragatha left the room. They feared that they would have lost something precious if she didn’t.
Stille water… diepe grond…
The foreign phrase danced in Zooble’s head. It suited their doll so well, it was disturbing. They couldn’t remember why.
How frustrating!
How terrifying.
It was clear as day; reaching out to the vast ocean that was Ragatha, at this time that befell the Circus, was like scooping up water from the ocean to drink.
It would all just end faster.
Why?
They couldn’t find an answer.
They didn’t want to look for one, either. They were looking for something, though, but even then, they didn’t know what it was or why they couldn’t find it.
Where was Gangle? Where was their best friend?
Why did she run away with someone else they didn’t even fully come to know?
Why did it hurt so much?
Why did that pain-staking creatures of fuzzy, jumbled, screeching voices - that ooze of thick inky black pus adorned with countless bright piercing eyes, want to trickle and ooze from every crack and crevice of the toy box character’s being?
Why did it become harder and harder to care about it eating her from the inside out?
It hurt so much that they couldn’t feel anything anymore.
So they ran.
Ran to the one thing that made the circus make sense – the one thing that made the circus feel bearable.
Gangle.
Zooble didn’t let the ever-growing distance between them and their partner deter then from absolutely hunting her down. Every step away from the abomination made them more desperate to reach her. If the ribbonoid wanted a game of chase, then that would be what they provide. They would stop at nothing to get to her. Even if it seemed pointless.
They wanted her more than anything.
They would have her, even if they abstracted themselves in the process of getting to her. Nothing else mattered. Gangle could keep Pomni as a pet for all they cared, but they wanted to hold Gangle in their embrace again.
The chase actually made them feel alive again.
Yes, it was fun, that’s what it was… it was… just a silly little game their precious little minx was playing, wasn’t it? It was all just a silly prank…
They just had to keep trying to catch her.
They just had to drown out the sickly mass of screaming eyes and black pus that Zooble wanted to vomit out with every fleeting image of their partner disappearing… yes.
A game.
It was just a game!
They would catch her eventually. They just-
“I think I’ve seen enough of this, now.”
Zooble blinked their multiple stinging eyes, before they began to heave at the feeling of their core being drowned in the blackened pus that poured from every limb and joint they had. It was heavy and overwhelming; every breath felt like a battle Zooble wasn’t strong enough to face.
But that voice forced them to look up, not knowing if it should be a blessing or a curse.
Caine.
He loomed over the crumpled down form of the Zolo-being, lifeless, yet animated eyes looking them over as if they were a puzzle to solve.
This could be really, really bad.
“How much…” The tired creature gasped as if they were on the verge of drowning, the pulsating black flood of eyes steadily thrumming from every crack in their form, “…did …you see…?”
Caine didn’t act like his usual showman-self when they were alone – he never did. Zooble was the one that confided to him the most, back when they first got trapped in the Digital Realm. They were scared but desperate for companionship.
Back then, they turned to the AI first.
Things were never really the same since then. Zooble came to know what Caine was. A simulation. A machine. A student. A sponge. It took whatever it could and processed it into something it could understand.
It caught itself to mimic behaviors and evoke new reactions. New emotions. More data.
Zooble saw it first.
That was when another mask slipped and they saw just how robotic Caine was. It was all fake. It was all real. Data and input, creating responses and output.
They were his favourite, he owed them a direct answer.
The silence stretched for a moment, his gaze indicating the options he had as an answer, before it quietly voice rung, “All of it.”
“Where were you?” Zooble asked, all of their eyes unblinkingly staring at the Ringmaster’s looming figure, with their voice barely above a whisper, “Where were you when we needed you?”
They could feel the unstable buzzing and screeching within them dim down to a low, ominous hum as no more eyes squeezed it’s way though all of their crevices and holes. The inky back surrounding the corners of their vision, gave way to the colours of a bright suit, and their breathing eased up. They saw Caine nod once, expectantly, and they couldn’t help but feel more like themselves again.
Breathe in… Let it out…
Caine was here.
“Ha!” the AI scoffed without any real bite, clearly not as serious about the situation as the abomination had hoped, “You flatter me, my dear! But we both know that you all insist on the fact that I’m not a necessity regarding any of your human shenanigans. Or did that condition suddenly change?”
“You know what I meant!” Zooble growled in response, we were in way over our heads – and where were you? Watching from the sidelines like some psychopathic-!”
“Now, now, my beloved toy box cuisine!” the ringmaster chided as if he was scolding a child, “What did we say about your foul language?”
Zooble didn’t register the ache in their joints as they crumbled into a heap. It seemed fruitless, but they had to keep trying. Nothing ever stood in their way before, nothing they couldn’t overrun or charge through. They were relentless – they just had to remember that.
They had to remember.
“I’m sorry, Caine. I am frustrated.” The Zolo-creature slowly stated, every phrase felt like pulling teeth, “Everyone is scared and emotional since Gangle’s outburst. I’m worried about her and I want to find her. I want to talk to her, but she keeps running away. Not to mention that she’s holding Pomni hostage via her ‘Possession’ ability. I can’t reason with either of them if they keep influencing each other not to. I’m not even sure if that’s the case… I’m at a loss. I… I need… I don’t know what I can do to help them.”
If only some deity could allow Zooble to ascend into the void… it was like explaining quantum physics to a six-year-old…
“Well then, I’ve identified 3 problems!” Caine announced triumphantly, holding up 3 fingers to emphasize his point, putting them down one by one as he listed, “One, the entire group is emotionally distressed and broken apart. Two, Gangle is abusing her Character Ability and disabling another player from fully immersing themselves in The Amazing Digital Circus as they please, with the possibility of them manipulating each other into staying attached.
“And lastly, three, you fail to realize that nothing you do, would help or disadvantage either Pomni or Gangle in the slightest. Whatever reason they have for being together, you had no part in it whatsoever, otherwise they would have included you in their predicament. As of now, you are a spectator to their two-man show! Well… er… two women show…? You’re bright, you’ll get the gist of it!”
Caine’s words couldn’t hit any harder.
Zooble couldn’t be mad either, he was telling the truth, He was literally listing facts, one by one. There was no room for argument, because he was right.
Gangle didn’t want Zooble as an involving factor.
She would have run to them if that was the case.
“You’re right.” They said, sounding as defeated as a crumbled leaf skimming across the ground in the Autum winds, “She doesn’t… Want me there.”
There was no beat of silence before the enthusiastic ringmaster continued to ramble on, “Of course! Nothing gets past these eyes of mine! Yet still, every problem requires a solution, no?”
A solution…
“Hey… you’re right…” The abomination said slowly, their eyes widening as they lifted their gaze onto the toothy showman, “You have available options?”
“I may have one…” Caine suggested, tilting his head with a tiny shrug as he did his best to imitate the action of scrunching his non-existent face, before his gaze flicked onto Zooble’s mangled limbs with a mechanical flash as his synthetic voice grew quiet and cut-throat. “But it’ll cost you. You’re not going to like what I have in mind either.”
If Zooble could gulp, they would have.
They had no choice.
They were running in circles.
Caine seemed open and honest about it all thus far, but then again, could a machine really lie?
Would he benefit from their downfall?
“What do you want?” They ask wearily, not wanting to relent, but standing idly with no way around their predicament.
A click indicated the flick of Caine’s interest being peaked, “A memory.”
“No.” The abomination said immediately, already shuddering at the slimy tendrils poking and prodding about their mind under the piercing gaze of green and blue, “Something else.”
A faint fizzle of static and a small spark glitched Caine’s face with a pop, before Caine lifted a finger to his gummy chin in contemplation, “Hmmm, you don’t have anything else I want.”
“I’m not letting you into what little free will I have-!”
“I never asked for your free will.” The AI calmly interjected, staring straight into the jumbled character’s being with unwavering eyes, “Just a memory. Just one. I’ll even let you pick which one you’d like to share. You know why I need it.”
One memory…
In a place where memories were all they had.
“You can’t think of anything else?” Zooble grumbled in a low tone, trying to think about their back being held to the wall of the option they had left.
“I don’t want anything else.”
Silence never screamed louder.
“What is your plan?” the amalgamation asked lowly, glaring up to the machine, “I’m not making any decision until I know. I need to know if it’ll be worth it. If I’m gonna just… give in, then I need to know whatever you’re planning, is going to work.”
Caine scoffed, waving his hand dismissively, “If I tell you, then it won’t be effective. You think this solution doesn’t involve you too? I presented to you 3 problems – your views being an entire one of them. I present one solution. And it WILL work. It wouldn’t benefit me to set you up for failure. I need you… or did you forget that?”
All he said was true and they knew it.
They had to be clever about it.
“Fine, let’s say I give you a memory…” Zooble growled, shifting closer to Caine, not appreciating the machine looming over them, “And let’s say your ‘solution’ is guaranteed to work, and we all end up together, getting along and singing kumbaya. It’s not enough. Not for me. I have a condition. Only then you can have your memory.”
Caine’s gaze was averted, calculating and cold, like he was processing things. All Zooble had up to this point, was bluff. Their back was against the wall. What they had been doing, didn’t work. But they had to make Caine believe that they had other options. Better options.
That they didn’t need him.
Swiftly Caine turned to Zooble’s messy form. A flash in his eyes made anxiety spike in their gut. That look could mean anything – it was impossible to get a read on an AI. They flinched as he animatedly perked up, his voice flashy and bellowing.
“Well, aren’t you a little chancer, you mismatched sock-puppet~!” The ringmaster pet the triangular block of the Zolo-being almost condescendingly before putting his hands on his hips and puffing out his chest proudly, “Oh, fiddlesticks, I just can’t say no to you, can I? Very well then! I’ll get everyone together again, willingly… and I’ll indulge your ONE condition. In exchange for access to ONE memory of your choosing.”
It seemed so simple…
“Yeah. Yeah, you got it all in there.” Zooble said, more hesitant and lost than they wanted to sound as they raked through the memory of his words over and over again.
It was all they wanted.
But it was so vague, though…
What choice did they have?
Ragatha was recovering from the explosion of this ordeal.
Jax was her prowling guard dog.
Kinger was lost to his own mind after fighting the madness to stay afloat.
They… Zooble… They were running in circles trying to plug the too many holes Gangle gouged into them – more holes than they had limbs.
Caine… was the one who saved them.
If it wasn’t for Caine, if he didn’t speak up – if he just kept watching them, without interfering, would they still have been there to think about the odds?
“Zooble.” Caine spoke softly, his tone robotic as he held their gaze, summoning countless eyes to hold their own against every one of their own, “Do we have a deal?”
God be with them all…
“Deal.”
“Done.”
Darkness.
Only for a little while, thankfully. The blinding darkness trickled away and the looming figure of Caine floating over them, pixelated in slowly. They hated that this wasn’t the first time they looked into his empty jaws, seeing his eyes vacant from their usual place upon his tongue.
He slowly held out his hand expectantly.
He was completely blind.
‘The only things I can’t control here, are your minds!’ Caine said to Zooble’s trembling form, their countless eyes flicking about, frantically wondering if it was the right call to let Caine, the ringmaster, the AI, running their hellscape, into their mind, “But you can give me permission to let me into it. Even then, I’m blind, rendered helpless. All I can do, all I can take, is what you allow me. Remember that. Don’t be scared, alright? You hold the power here.”
They were in awe at how sweetly he spoke back then. They didn’t know anything back then.
But this time, they knew. They understood the risks and what he was capable of.
They knew what they had to do.
They shifted, twisted and bent themselves to extend a limb to take hold of the ringmaster’s hand, then led him deeper into their Mindspace. They walked quietly, thinking about what memories they should share. They navigate their own mind like a spider on it’s own web, crawling up the loose strands and strings until they reach an unseen meshwork of past events, littered with rich twinkling emotions and reflection.
With a tender and precise stride of each of their limbs, they climb and crawl about the network, all of their eyes searching and prodding among the memories they so lovingly cherished.
It always seemed impossible to pick one…
Anxiety welled up in Zooble’s core. They didn’t want to risk losing too much… Maybe one of the uneventful encounters with Kaufmo? He was gone, so anything surrounding him wouldn’t be of much relevance, no?
No…
No that wasn’t true.
Gangle cherished Kaufmo dearly, even if he was to root of her pain. Anything related to Kaufmo was important to her, proven by her mental breakdown she had due to his absence only days before. The memory of him made her run away from everything else.
Away from their arms and into darkness Zooble couldn’t navigate.
If it was that important to her, it was important to them.
And yet…
He berated them. A lot.
It was little jabs, carefully crafted to seem like idle chatter to most, unless you were the one, that the quip was directed to. He’d chip away at you, bit by bit, until you were on your knees, trying to scoop up the bits and pieces with whatever was left of your battered and bruised hands.
Zooble knew that all too well.
‘A bad influence.’ He’d jest, his smile not meeting his eyes as Gangle dismissed the comment with an airy giggle. That was one of many moments they compartmentalized and dissociated for the sake of their muse rather than fight back like they wanted to. One of the many bricks that walled them in with that monster.
He didn’t appreciate the couple’s secretive glances and hushed meetings without his knowledge. Yes, they didn’t stop, but his disdain to the Zolo-being versus the obvious favoritism he had toward the masked ribbon was exhausting to deal with.
Yes, that memory would do nicely.
“Caine?” they alerted the stagnant, floating AI ringmaster with a quiet rumble, attentively weaving the stringy silk for the mesh of the past, before carefully coiling it into looped rings around a gloved hand, “I’ll give you this one.”
There was hesitation in the abomination’s handoff, before linking the hoops over the ringmaster’s fingers.
Their eyes fell back to the empty jaw, eerily vacant of his usual cartoon-like eyes.
Zooble knew what Caine was. A simulation. A machine. A student. A sponge. It took whatever it could and processed it into something it could understand.
It caught itself to mimic behaviors and evoke new reactions. New emotions. More data.
Zooble saw it first.
They jumped when the white gloved fingers suddenly closed around the silky thread. It burst into a sparkly powder as he gripped it tightly – a soft hum signaling Caine system processing the memory deep into his own mind.
“That’ll do.” The empty jaws mouthed, the sudden movement sending a chill down Zooble’s spine.
With a curt nod, they squeezed his white gloved hand and closed their eyes with an exhale, feeling the floor beneath their feet give way and they became weightless, before the Zolo-creature’s body met the ground in a painful unceremonious thump.
Brightly-coloured surroundings invaded the mismatched character’s vision once again. They groaned at the pending headache that greeted them upon abruptly leaving their mind.
“Apologies, my dear fellow!” Caine quipped, dusting himself off, watching Zooble push themselves into an upright position with an annoyed groan, “I’m working on that.”
“Sure. Whatever.” Zooble grumbled, shaking off the sudden impact, “So, my condition?”
“I would say I’m all ears, but that would be a blatant lie!” Caine beamed, before looking down with something akin to furrowed brows as he spoke in a more serious tone, “By the way, you’ve asked me to inform you when it happened again, but… you gave me a memory just now. You do remember that, right?”
“Huh? Oh… yeah. Thanks. I managed this one better than before, so I got it…” Zooble mumbled, thankful that he kept his word, “What did you take?”
“Based on what I saw, it was an insult.”
“Oh. No, I guess that’s fine.”
A pause.
“You had a condition?” Caine awkwardly drawled in question.
“Uh… What?” Zooble hated feeling so out of it.
“My solution to bring you all together?” the ringmaster reminded, amused, “you had a condition?”
“Oh yeah…” Zooble acknowledged dumbly, trying to get their thoughts straight, “Right. If’s you’re gonna pull some crap to get us all together, you’re gonna disable Character Abilities. I’ll get Gangle off Pomni’s tail by any means necessary-”
“Oh! But if THAT’S what you wanted, why not just say that?” Caine bellowed triumphantly, before holding up his left hand to snap his fingers.
“Wait, no, Caine, you don’t have contex-”
“Here we go!”
“WAIT!”
But the floor gave way under them again.
They found themselves surrounded by images of all angles.
Reflections.
A chill ran down their spine as they met eyes with the monster they represented, staring at the beast they were in the face.
They were surrounded by different angles of themselves, and it slowly dawned on them what contraption they found themselves in.
Apollo may be a god, but Lester's brain is very human, with some very human security risks.
More doodles from that fic idea where Niobe kidnaps Lester Apollo and brainwashes him into thinking he's her human son, to get some long overdue revenge on Leto.
Niobe's covering her bases. She's not just relying on Circe's magic manipulating Lester's memories, she's stacking those effects with some hypnosis & even some (banned for being dangerous) attachment therapy techniques. Poor Lester's head is gonna be such a mess, it's gonna take more than water from the River Mnemosyne to sort him out.
LInk in Bio! So Chapter 2 opens with July getting called into Miss Popplewish's office because—shocking—her harvest report is two hours late. But here's the thing: we immediately learn July's full name is Sofia July Crimson and she HATES being called Sofia. Miss P only busts it out when she's being Serious™, which means this is about to get juicy.
Can we talk about how July and Galen once broke into the wine cellar, got absolutely plastered in the orchard, and puked up "all their past and future sins"? Because same, honestly. Miss P caught them and made them promise never to do it again, but July calls it her best birthday. I love a girl who knows her priorities.
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In 2013, a landmark paper published in Science described how researchers used intracranial optical stimulation of hippocampal neurons to introduce a false memory of fear in a mouse. While the clinical applications are limited, this experiment demonstrated that memories could be manipulated by altering the firing patterns of key neurons. Building on this experiment, another group of researchers showed that memories can also be transferred between animals. When researchers recorded the hippocampal firing patterns of a rat learning (and encoding memories of) how to perform a task, and transmitted those patterns to another rat via intracranial stimulation, they found that recipient animals could successfully perform the same task without any training. While these experiments used stimulation probes requiring surgical implantation, the emerging ability to plant memories is reminiscent of brainwashing attempts by the Soviets and Chinese during the Korean War—and presents the possibility of creating a neuroscience-enabled “Manchurian Candidate.”
