Everything In Me

[Winter_5025]

Darkness.


The first thought that crossed my mind was that I was dreaming. A dark, oppressive dream, where the air weighed down on me like an invisible slab, crushing me from all sides. I tried to open my eyes, but nothing happened. I tried to move my hands, turn my head. Nothing.


"I'm paralyzed."


The realization hit me like an icy jolt. A moment of pure panic surged through my mind. I tried to calm myself, rationalize. This has to be a dream. It *has* to be. But there was nothing I could feel, no anchor to convince me that I was wrong.


"Where am I?"


The thought surfaced in the void, sharp and clear. But there was no answer. Only that invisible weight, that sensation of being trapped, floating in nothingness.


And then I remembered.


My name. My life. Memories flooded in like a torrent, images of everyday moments that I should've found comforting. Walking down the street. Listening to music. My house, my family, my friends. But they didn't comfort me.


Because they didn't fit.


They were… wrong. Out of place. As if they had been inserted into my mind, memories of someone else placed there to fill an empty space. Yet I knew they were mine.


The panic surged again, stronger this time. "This isn't real. This isn't real."


A sensation rippled through the void, like a distant hum slowly drawing closer. It wasn't a sound, exactly, but I felt it pass through me like a shockwave. The darkness was no longer just an absence of light; it was something tangible, alive. Something that was watching me.


And then, a͎̰̰̫̘̮̰͓͍͚̩̣͗̓͆͑̓̌̌̓̏͐̿̓̿̃ v̱̬͇̰̯̩͉̭̪̣͂͛͋́̆͛͗͗̉̔̒̅̈̆̃̓ŏ͎̞̝̟̲̬̘͎̑͐̓̈́̚i̳̥̤̞͚̯̞̯̋̎͑͑̍͒̔̑ͅc͚͖̥͕̟̊͊̾́́̈́͑̾̄͑͐̂͑̐̆e̪̩̤̜̖̘̙̤͆̐͗́̊̀́̀̾͌̆͆̀ͅ s͎͍̦̗̯̤̩̐́͒̾͋̍́̾̚ṕ̯͙͍͕͖̎͐̍̀̒͆͑̎͛̓ö͈͈͕̲͉̙́̊̏͋̋̚k̟̘̟̪̠̱̱̤͐͛͋̔̔̆̊͑̊ȇ͉̫͍̱̣̲̲̭̠̰͕͐͗͑.͎͍̘̟͆̃̋̊̊͛ ̟̫̯̳̤͐̓́͂̈́͐͐́̑͌̚
̝͓̜̞̳̗͎̜̰̠̘̘͙̄͐̐̔̈́ͅ
̲̳͍̦͇̗̪̱̳̮̳͙̎͗̆͆͗͊"͎͉̥̙̬̗͙͖͓̣̯̰͕̯̾̄͆̉͑͆͋̀̓̽̏̃̏̊̔ͅ[̠̭̰̩̭͎͚́̏͌̌͒̓̋̑̽͛͛̒D͓̖̖̤̱͕̖̀̽͐́̾̐͗̀e̙͖̲̘̜͎̭͙̔̂͒̒̀̍̽̆͌͋͐̚ͅs̬̗͉̜̰͆͐͌̇̈̄͐́̈́̓͋̚ṭ͕̥̠̯̳̜̦̩̞͇͉̯͒͋̂͛̓̀̌͂̋ͅi͈̮̘͓̜͚̝̖̤̬̍̄̈̏n̜͈̥̗̠͔̰̖̊̓̌̀̎̚y̤̤̬̙̫̦̫̖̟͔͕̟͎̩͓͙̍͐̂̔̃̅̈́̓̔̉͋̌̾̍͂̾]̰̪͔̳͈̲̪͙̇́̈͌̂̚ͅͅ"͇̣̮͈̤̥̙͔̟̤̠̲̅̀͌̓̓̐́̀͌̚̚
͔͚̖̤̗̠̦̟̅̌̾̽͆̓̂̅̆̉̋̆̑̊̉̀
͔͙̖̞̠͖̙̮̰́̇̃̔̉͂̇͊̋̈́ͅÌ̲̮͇̣̤̦̳͒̓̃̓̀̔̑͗͌̈́̔ṭ̪͔̲̟̤̤̜̜͕͓̔̃̋̎̎̈́͊̏́̇͊̀̋́̏ w̠̳͕͔͆̽̾̑̂̈̄͂͋̿̇̃ͅa͈͉͙̖̝̯͉̪̞̤̟̘͈̭̬̾̌̈́̌ͅs͚̳͕͕̯̟̀̏͊́ͅ c͇̬̠̤͕͎̊̅̃͌͌̽͂͂̊͒͆́̊ȍ͎͙̥̪̽̀̋̃̑̂̏̄́͑́l͔̣̟̥̤̗͆̈́̀̏d̮̠͍̟̩̖̫̘̱̠͍̠͓͔̮͛̏̋͑͂́̈͒͒͒̔̽̃̋, emotionless, but full of an absolute authority. It wasn't a sound; it was a word that embedded itself in my mind, as if it had been waiting for the right moment to manifest.


"Who are you?" I thought, my own internal voice trembling.


There was no immediate response. Only the hum, louder now, accompanied by a growing pressure. Something was coming closer. S̱͓͙̔̓̾͌̋̉ͅo̳͖̞̭̘͚͆͑̈́̆́̈́m̠͔̞̖̰̋͂͒͋͑̎́͆͌̀ͅͅe̥̮̙̖̯͙̬̥̙̣̲͗̄̾͒̈́̓̀̉͐̒̄̅̔ͅͅt͉͚͙̝̬͚̠̲͍͌̅̌͛͌̅h͉̲̩̖͎̘͕͓̬̬̲̪̫͙̩̟̉͑̓̍͊͐̿̒̔̿̐̆ĩ͚̱̰͙̤͖͉͙͎̠̙̑̆̀̔͒͗̎ͅn̖̪͕̞̗̖̝̰̟̾̑͗̽͋̇́̏͊͗̊̑g͍̞̥̲͍͕͉̬̦͍͎̰͇̯̩̔̈́̀̽̆̍̈́̑̇̒́̄̍͆̚ v̠͕̭̩̫̱̖̙̂̋̌͊̒̋̐̏̔̔̿̊͗̔a͍͇͙͎̮͖̯͍̘̖̩̞̙̅̈̈͑̓̾s̭͉̖̫̱͖͇̱̗͙̊̓̌̏͐̓̿̈̈́̽̌̽t͉̭̞̰̿͑̓̔͛̂́̍̌͋̌̉̊̇̏.͉̪̪̭̑́̆̿͒̍̊̓̓͐̒̇ ̲͚̘͙̪̇̾̾͒̈̽͗̇̋
͈̯͓͎̭̘̣̗̮̖̟̖̙͚̥͑͊̈́́̈̃͛̎̀̒́͐̐͆̀̚ͅ
̬̦͚͖͈͖͍̟̦͙̥͓͇̥͕̌̈̂̎̾͗̿͋̈̄͛̿̊̓"͈͙͇̤̜̰̤̝͓͕͉̌̈̊̀́͑̎̐̓͋̋̏̂͑̒[̰̞͕̮̤͎̞̦̰̯͇̰̯̈́̑̌̇̅͒̋̓̑̍̉͒̔̚D̠̣͔͕̦̬̱̥̖͛͌͛̿͛̅͌̀e̝̗̦̤͕̯̮͚̎͆͆̏s͔̠̦̫̱̰͇̗̓̄̀̏̈͆͌̽͑͋́͌̐t̫͓̰̯̰̩͇͍̪̘̰̞̙͌͂̍́̒̅̈́̀̑̈͒̍í̟̮͍̠͈̤̄̏͂̈́͒̒͛̾̋ǹ̟͇̠͕̙͓͇͎̜̓͐͑́̊ẙ̤͉̞̦̰͚̩̗̪̃̌̊́̂͋̋̋]͇̤̲͓̫̘̥̜͍̯̥̣͔̔̽͊͐͐͋̈͂"̜̭̖̖̙͇̲̦͕̟͕̳̈̅̄̀̿
̜͎̪̤̳͇̉̃̀̒̇̋̊
̞̰̳̮͈͔͓̲̣͖̖͙̬̉̓̉͑͆̋̀́̍̆̊ͅT͙̗̜͓̑͂̾̓̂͋̓̒͐͒͋͒͗h͓͎͇͓͚̪̖̲̬͙͉̐͒͑̾͋͆̀̽̎̋̃è̙͈̮̝̊͊̑̑̌ w̠̰̯̭͇͙̯̩̮̞͖̞͚͕͙̲̽͛̀̀̍̑̊̽́͑o̗̝͉̞̳͉͗̋͐̒̅̀̅̾̅̓̀̈́̈ŕ͇͖̗̥͎͖͇̖͕̇̌͆̊̐͗̑̆̓̋d̗͔̳͙̲͎͕͎̠̤͔̯͎̱̭̪̄̀̏̍͒́̆͆́̂̀̂̽̌̊̚ e̝̗̳͙̪̩͑͐̐̂̑̀͗͑̀ĉ̯͎͓̝̖̲̜͕̜͉̰͔̥͆̊̉̎̃̋̐̀̐̂̆̉̈̎̊h̙̦̩͈͎̜̞̪̦̖̳͍̳̐͆̾̊̄̋o̫̟̪͍̓͋̃͂̉̆̽͒̽́͆ͅḙ͎̦͔̜͇̭̬̫̪̬͈̎̔́̓͐̈̑̚d͈͕̖̫̪̥͊̓̿̈͋̚ͅ a̜̰̞͕̤̯̘̥̯̦̝̦̜͓̘̩͌̇̏̅̑ḡ̱̗͎̞̜̳̝̦͚̙͙̮̳̦̣̞̂̐̀̏ả̱̯̣̞̟̣̩͈͕͚̝͚͉̘̠͒͑̄̄͌̄͗͐̓̈́̂̇̉̀̉i̘̯̪͕̬̜̱̗͙̳̍͊̊̓ͅň̤̙̯̦͎̱͈͇͇͎͔̤̰̝̗͂̍̉̓̎̾͒̄̐͂̈͊̽, but this time it wasn't alone. Along with it came a surge of images: a map of lines stretching infinitely, each branching out in a thousand directions, each branch ending in a flickering light. But the lights blinked, some fading out completely.


It was terrifying. I didn't understand what I was seeing, but a part of me recognized it. It was like looking at something that shouldn't exist, something too vast for a human mind to comprehend.


"What is this? What's happening to me?"


The voice spoke again, b̰͎̲̟̖̮̭͚̮̗̏͒̀͒̿̋̈́̾̂͂̍ͅu̯̮̖̭̪͍̱͚̰̳̤̜͈̦͚̐̏́̓̀̀̿̽̂̏̿̚t̠̳̠̣̯͓͖̗̱̓̈́̂̔̚ t̟̦͉̱͈̠̳̜̦͙͉̋̑̀̄ͅͅh͇̮̲̤͚͈̱̫̏̎̽̑͋̇̑͂̀͐̚̚i̲̠̬͓̩̠͎͔͕̅̈͂̊͊́͑̈̚ś͕̜͚̣͖̬͕͈͖̈́̀̃̿ t͙̗͚̳̩̬̦̉̐̐͌́̆̌̾̾͊i͖̠̩͈̞̱̬̩̤͇̇̉̏̊̇͗̎̀̏͑̇m̠̯̬̘̖͚̫̫̝̭̩̉̔̆̄̓̈̍̍͂͐͐̉͂̀ḙ̭̣͕̰̒̋̇͗̚ w̰̜̱̝̞̥̯͉͓͍̗͗̀̀̓̀̋͌́͂̑ĩ̫͕͔̞̣̲͛͐̂́̈̒̂͒̓͛̔͛t̜̯̭̖̗̥̳̩̓͊̑̔͂̋̅̇h͓̘̰͓̩̪͖͓̖̣̯̩͍̄͗̓͑̾͊̓̚ͅ ā̬̯̟̟̘̳̯̩͙͎͈̗̐͛̾̈̎̚̚ d̙̟̗̥̲͎̲̊̀̀̇̅̊̓i̤͓͎̜͐́̾̓̾̈̾̍̈͐̅f̟̯͕̘̗̬͈̣̖̖͖͕͍̭̳̀̑́͌̋̚f̲̘̮̘̜̘͔̫̿̌̂̎̊͗ĕ͕̲̪͓̳̠̙̱̗͚̮̮̽̓͐͋̌͊͛͛̉̔͒̿͋r̖̝͙̳͚̜̯̱̳̝̬͕̜̝̂̀̀́̽̇͌̒̏̈͋̋ȅ͓̖̝͇̯̭̥̥̱̤̤͙͍̽̎͂̔̒̐͐̀͌̊͒͑̌ͅͅͅn͎̝̥̜̫̋͌̋͂̄̌̎̆̀̎̋́̀̈́ṯ̪̥̳͈̭̠̮̦͋̋͌̓̇ͅ w̝͚̤̞̟̲͒̈́͛̀͂̒̈o̟̟̙̫̯͙͙̯̮̜͙̱͎͆͗̇͒̾̀͂r̗̠̰̪̜̫͓̩͕̰̜͓̘̱̣͋̄̍́̇̎d̰͙͔̭̥̥͐̓͗̀̊̂͌̆̌̃̔́͂̀:͇͉̪͉̗̩̩̽̆̇̀̓͋ͅ ̫͈͉̯̣̎̐͊̊̅̎͑̈́̒̇̈́̓
͉̩̳̰̣̜̟͎̮̳͍͎̇̎̑͐̓͂̈͑̾̇̊̾̑
͈̣̠͇̤̱́͒̇̚"͍̝̫̯̙̞͕̬̜̂͑͛̌̌̎̄̓͑[̫̣̩̱̠͖͈̮͓̞̝̉̄̂̀͋̀͐ͅT̮̠̦͇̤̣̯̟̀̄̏͊̆̉̅̋͌́̉͆r̞͈̣̭͕̝̞̓͛̍͊͊̔́͑͊̒̊̈̌͋̽å̲̱̲̗͔̒̒͗̌̾͌͊́j͉̯͇͙̏̈͆͐̏̓͊͛̃̉͛ë̙̖̲̟̞͙͚́͆͌̃̒̔̉̀̿͌͛c͙̜̭͍͍͇͍̟̪̓̂͛́̉͒̚ͅt̪̱̱͈̦͐͊̀͆o̰̙̝͙̝͍̞͔̤͙̥͎̬̜͇̲͂͑̀͂̀̉͆̈́̓̾̔̚ŕ̠̟̲̣̞̤͍͓͇̗͓͈͑̑̋y͉̠̖͔̯̬̯̫̤̣̣̯͌̔̏͌̋͑͛̓̀́ͅ]̩̟͔̘̭̦͍̥͇̤̮͓̬́̓͊̅̀͒̃̓́̔"͔̲̥͎̱̳̥̥̘̎̔̎̎̔
͉͕͓͔͇͍̲̤̗̄̇͂̈̅͋̆̆̓͗͑̅͌̑
̩̰̞͎͈̝͖̮̋̈̊̂̏̒͛́́̆̃̓̇̓A̞̠͈͉̍̄́̆̅̓͆̍͋̅̉̍̃n̜̠̣̣͕̣̪̪̳̓̃͊̾̍͐̓̏̓̚ i͇̱̖̘̭̓̐̌̆̈́̒͑̊͛̒̀͒̑n̤͈̦͓̗̤͙̯̬͎̘͙͑̎̉́̌͋̋̒̒̂͑͊̈́̌̚v̥̙̞͇̳̯̗̮̙̟̲̭̙̯̐̊̅̃͐̌̇̊̏̾̔͂̋̿͗ȉ͙͈̖͈͉̰̪͔̍̓̓̄̈́̿͆́͐̓͌̔ṣ̬͔̭͓̜̥͓̞͂̀̔͒̀́̂͊̈̿̚í͇̬̠̦̔̊́͌̋̌̋̄͒̋́͌b̯̰͔̝̰̎̂͌̇̒̃͌ḻ̞͖͓̜̗̣̖̪̟͓̳̝̈͌͆͑̏͋̀̓̾ͅë̥̗͎͕̯͉̠̗̪́͐́͗̎̋̑͑̎̑̎̓̍ c̭̜̩̘̙̦̱͉͙͎͚͚̬̲̈͂̀̄̿̅̀u͇̮̞͈͖̐͋̀̋͋̅͐̀̓̀͊ͅr͕͉̝͙̣̘͙͎̙̘͎̭͚̜̤͕̆̋͒̿͂̏͋̓͊̋ṟ̗͈̮̝̱̭̪͓̖̈́͗̍̈̽̌́ẹ͉̟͍͖͔͚̰̾̓̽̑̔̈̓͐̂́͐͐̓̌́̾n̜͚͖̦̄̏̽̐̌͆͑̇̈́̏̐̔͗͐̚ͅț͖̖͖̫͖̟̔̂̑̓̂̄̍͐̚ p̱̱͇͕̜̠̮͙͖̘̦̩̈́̔̍̀̽̒̀̂̀̊̏͆̽á̦͖̫͙̫̭̭͖̖͓̳̦̙̿́͒̌̒͛̇̋́͐s̯̬̥̣͎̣̘̙͈͇̄̾͑͌̌͐͐̆́̑́͛̉͛̉̍ͅs̪̣̟̠͚͉̫͎̯͖̘̰̩͑͌͌̃ͅe̲̜͈̮͔͈͖̲̝̣͕͕̅̏̓̔̿͛̎̍̚d̮̣͔̥̯̳̰̰̗̍̈̂̍̍̿̈́̉̓̏̌̉͒̅ t͈̮͎̐̆̒̆̋̔́ͅh̞̠̩͍̩͙̄̑̊̾r̫̙̙̠̙͂̉͗̂̊͌͐̆̃͗̇̐̀̂͐̾ô͕̖̗͖̫̲͈̇͂̍͗̐͛̐͌̽͐͂̄̓̈u̖̳̣̩̙̜̤̗͇̯̘͓͚̭̟͂̑̒̚g̠̟͉̮͖͓̝͇̟̬̳͕̭̤̲͉̀́̀̈́͊̈́̓̈́̏̽̓̎̚̚h̦̭̯̝̞̙̜̭̦̀̉́͊̾̄ͅ m̜̟̣͕̰̜̰̣͖͔͖͈͈͊̄̾̄͊̍̓ͅy̮̙̞̭̖͔͚̝͖̝̣̳̣̖̣̲̍̄̋͆͊̎̿̉̽̍͌ m̬̞͇̜̤̠̆͐̔̽̂͑̈̇̅̚i̤̱̫̫̠̩̭̠͇̥͙̳̥̭͆̆͐̉̑͑̒̆͋n̫͇̱͇̮͕͈̲̙̫̍̋̓̍̎͌͛͂ḍ͇̰̳̯͇͖͇̲͎͎̮͈́͗̽͐͐̌̋̂̀͐͆͛ͅ,̲̞̣̥̜͕͈͕̘̗̰̱̱̉̅̌͌̋͋͆̽̐͗͗̒͊ f̳̱͚̉̏̅̾̆͐͛͆̿̿͋͋̃̍ͅi̞̟̜͐̐̐̓̂̄͂́̓͒͊̄͒̈̆ͅl͉̘͖̦̬͕̮̘̝͎̝͓͒͂̓͐̔̋̂̍́̂͗̍͂͗ͅl̜̘̜̘̫̱̦̰͇̣̟̘̂͊̀͂ͅi̠̮̳̮͙͖͇̤̫͉͚̭͎͇̐̎͗̚ṋ̮̤̭̰̗͖͍̦̮͎̦̮̪̊́͌̂ġ̫͚̦̮͎̳̩̟̞͔̬̦̪͍̪̌͐̏̾̑̽͂ͅ í̝̤̝͉̥͈̬̠̯̦͓̀̔͐̆̓͛͋̆̑̓̀̓͛͆̚t̖̩̘̲̲͙̭̝̮̥͚̫͈̪́̀̍̈͌͆͆̌͒̃͒̄̌̉͌͊ w̭̥̜̰͓̙̱͓̝͇͎͐́̑̓͛͂ȋ͈̰̞̫͙̬̙͍͖̙͓͔́̎̎̓̄̒t͇̝͖̠͖͙͍̬̳͇̮͋̐̐̅h̳̦̘͕͌̌̌̋͐̋ͅ b̥̥͍̞̖̜̠͚̎̔̏̅̓̓r͎̰̯̞̐̊̄́̉̅͂̑̒͆̈́̈́͒̂̓̚o͍͈͇͓̮͖̯̱̐̌͋͐̽̓̿̅̌̓̈́̿͆́k̲͈̬̪̂͐̋͂̾̓͗̏̄́̄͑ḛ̪̟̗͕̳̘̩̫̥͂̄̅͛̉̐̌̉̎̿͐̆͛̊͐̚n͔̯̮̠̫̗͔͚̜̥̮͙̖͍͔̽͂̒̓́̒̍̐̆̊ f͇̩̣̠̮̣̥̦͔͍̪̩̭͉̈̋̈́̓̚̚ř̥̤̟͙̩̯͖͕̍̎͗̈́̍̉͒̊̓̽̓̓̀̄̐a͍̤͕̠̣̠̖͙͓̩̮̭͗̆̋̒̾͐̀́g̩̳͖̳͑͋͋̎̂͌̅̿̊́̓ͅm̬͙͖̳̓̌̓͂̔͊͗̊̎̊͑͆ȅ̪͎͕͉͉͔̠̖̩̝̠̄̅͊̆̈̀͂̆̅̂̉͆̈́͊n̘̩̩̞̖̩͕͚̓̑̒̌͂́̓̓̓̀̂͛̒̄̚ͅť͍̫͓̙͔̱̥͙̥̬̲̠̠͔͎͗̌̀͌̀̇̂̉̇́̐̑̊̏̚s̰̫͇͚͈̆̔̋̅͂̊̎̿̽̅̀̉͂̓̉̚.͕͕̫̩̯͂̂͌̄͑̊̿̂͒͛̔̌̑̈̊̋ W̱̳͔͕̱͔̜͍͛̒̋͛̿̀̐̽͗o͎̥̙̖̯̠̊̓͐͆͆̏ͅr͈̠̳̫͈̥̫̱͔̬̗̩͎̈̏̓̐̒̈̄̓̉̎͂̆ͅl̖̦͉̜̲̞̗̦͉̰̘͔̟̟̩̃̋̽͗̓́̾̂̉͑̑͛̉ͅd͕̳͖̩͍͚̘̯̫̤͕͉̠̆͂́͛̾́̎̇͂̅́̔s̮̮̗̭͇̘͍̞̮͎͓̓́̽̂̀́ Í̙͔͓̫̳̯̫̯̟͙̖̤̯͋̓͛͆̍́̑̎̑̏͗̊ d̖̥͎̜͎͕͕̯͙͚́̎̀̽͐̿i͈̪̙̪̙͉̝͇̥̍̐͑̈́ḍ̲͚̲̝̖̥̝̮̦̘̣̥̽̋̍̂͛́̽̏n̜̦͎̖̗͇̱̟̯̖͈̠̽̑͌̇̇̐͌͂̽͗͒͋̌̽'̙̦̝̬̘̳͎̟̳̣͙̯͖̿̐̿͗͒t̰̟̝͇͎͓̣̞̗̰̗͉͕̀͛̾̋̒̅̾͐ k̞̤̦̰͚̗̩̜̳͉̠͖͚̘̮̂̂̓̅̉͆̃̅͑̓̿̈̂ǹ̬͔̦̖̙̬̜̭̭͓̳͚̲̰̩̃̋̾͆͋̊̇̑̌͊̌ỏ̥͍̲̥̩̽̔̇̓͌̿͂͑́̎̒́w̦̲͕͕͖̙̯̠͇̦͓̱͌͆͒͛̿̑̊̿́́̂̀,̝̘̰͕͔͍̠̪͊̋̔̽͊̀̒̈͛̄ ḷ̝̮̙̮̖̦̪͍̜̤̝̃͊̄̿̃̅͊̂̍̌i̮̙͍͉͓͉͇̜̙̐͑͌̽̀̐́̎́v̳̱̘̞͓̲̞̜̱͓̞̬̜̬͚̥̐̔̆́ê͈̞̜̖̠͉̦͙̭̮̟̣̊̅̽́̎͑̅̉͐̓̆̄̊̓̑s̲̣̬͓̥̭̝͍͉̳̞͛̈̐̽ ṫ̗̖̣̝̠͙̰̫͈̳͓͍̎̑̂̋̐̏̏̑̇͆͋́͑̃h̞̱̞̙̗̮͔̘͖̘̟̭̟̀̄̅͛ͅa̮̰̱̲̫͓̯͚̙̫̘͔͎͊̓̎̏͊͒̋͒͋̒ͅt̩̥͓̟̣̱͉̫̓́̒̏̍͒̑̑͛͗ͅ w̲̘̣̭̩͚͕̋͑̉͒͒̒̑͗̾̌͆̄̒́̚e͈̬̜͕͚̲͇̍́̈̓̑̒̀̂̓̄̈̈́̏̊̑r̯̪͖̖̰̲̗͕̦̦̞̈́͒̃́̚e̥̩̘̫͙͙̜̯͕̬̟̿̑̾̈̔́̀̎̅̾͆̂͋ͅn͇̗̜̜͖̞̯̲͂̿́̋̉́̊̅̾ͅ'͙̦̤͎͔̩̱̟̤̬̯̦͖̖̀̍͌̈́̃̑ͅͅt̳͕̖͓͚̦̥̝̣̟̳͇͕͕͔̖̐̀̾̅̑̄̇̋ m̦̞͍̳̀̿̃̔͗͑ͅì̝̪̦̣̜̘̫̜̱͓̞͇̟̓̆̍͗̀͒̅̃̒́̈͋̌́̆ͅn̠̙̗͎̪͙̥̥͍͋̾̉͌́́͂͊̒̑̆̓͒̏ͅe̙̳̥̓̾͐͛̋͗̆͛̈͆́̔̊̚̚ͅ,̲͈̯̦̤͓͔̰̘̌̍͆͂̐͂̀ e̦̞̝͈͕̣͙̭̗̟̐͋͑̉̐̓͛́̀͑͌͊̅̐v̜͙̪̩̌̎̓͒̀̈͂̽̑e̦̬̠̝̤̟̘̰̲̩̟̟̘̩̅̍̈͗̀ͅñ̯̗̤͚͎͈̌͗̃̂̓̈́͋̍̑̇̔͆̚̚t̠̠̪͓̜̯̤̙͉͆͐̎̓̽͒̾́͆͐̃̅̚s̙̱̥̲̮̱̰̫͔̊̈͗̉́̽̓ͅ t̝̥͕̘̜͖͎̪́̎̍͐̒̒̑̓̈́̂̋̍͒̂̚h͈̦̟͔̜̤̜͔̙͔̣͎̦̠͉̖̋̌̅͋͆͛̆̃̅̎̈́a͍̣̭̠͕̤̾̅̒̍̉̄͊͒̽̒͌́̉̃t͙̳̯͇̯̠̤̦̜̘̩͚͉̠̉̇͑̓̿̍̎̏̌̎́̚ c͇̩̰̥̪̝̙͈̩̟͓̎́̃͗̾̀̏̄̓̔́͆o̙͇͇̠̞̟̘͎͇̱̬̤̜̦̗̠̍͆̎́̌̒̌͐͒̓͐̽u̝̬͇͉̰̳̩͈͊̊̇͂̆̃̂̇̒͊͛̓͋̒l̤̦̯̣̟̲̭͍̝͇̬̜̔̂͊̀͋̀̍̽d͎̤͚̥̥̬̰͚̮͕̭̱͔̣̂͒̌̈́̌͛̉̒̓̈́͋̓̐͐̅͊n̟̥͍͗̂̌̂̑͋̈̇͒͊̚ͅ'͎̜̣͕̟̗̠͎͍͚͖̮̉̊̆̏͋͆̚t̤̯̝̝͖̭̟̮̟̖̭̫̞̩͙̏̎̍̋͛̒͑̀͛̍ͅ h̟̬̗̞͚̽͗̂͗̓͑̀͆̊͂̂̒̃a̭̲̯̥̗͔͗̅̔̄̀̿̚v̳̣̗̯̰̾̐̃̒̆̾̔̈̃̐̄͆̽̈́̆ͅe͓̳̯̙͎͂͌̌̏̅̎̌ h̞͖͇͖̙̗̊̎̉̋͛̚ͅả̮͖̯͚̟̙̠̝͍̂̈̊͒͂͒̋̑̾p͈͙̙͇̱͕͓͎̟͕͇̎͒̊̓͒̑̐p̰̟̣̜͂͑̑̂̈́͊̈́̈́̌̏̇̈́̆̒̄ḛ͔̰̬̇̾̓͗͋̿̀̓̊̅n͉̖̥̫̣̟͚̬̖̜̪̓̋̏̀̑́̓͌̾̊̇̍̀͛e̦͔͓̩̣͚̩̩̯͖͎̝̝̦̘̤͋̌̍̐̏̉d̗̲͇͓̘̖̤̝̀̿̏͌͒̒̾͛.̘̭̭̦͉̩̯͉̱̪̳̝͓͉͋̓͐̑̌̐̀̓ E͓͉͔̦͓̫͚̘̱͓̱̟͓̝̐̋͐̀v̤̭͔͙̮̯͖̮͎̄̀̂̋̌̏̆̐̌͗̏̅e̳̩̦̱̳̫̙̣̝͇̠̣͇̜͇̽͛̑͊̈́̀̎͆̍̃̾͋̑͋̒r͎̯̙̮̞̟̞͔̞̊̅̒͒̌͗̓̏̒̔ỵ͉̦͓̍̾̈́̂͐͆̇̌͌̂͗̑̃́t̞̤̘̲̥͇͔͖̟̳̪̑̐́̅̉̇͒̃͂͋́ͅh͎̣͖̳̉͆̽̅͗̂͋̀ͅî̠͓̙̜͍̞̲͚̰͉̫̞̭̅̔̓͗̽̐n͕̗͇͕̱͇͒͊̀̂̀̃̃͆g̳̱͔̟̝͓̙̫͖̘̭͇͑̃̊̽͂̾ͅ ŕ̯̰͔̬̒͊̓̆́̊e̘̰̲̩͙̘͎̅͗͂̍́͛͆̓̓̌̓̽v͙͕̝̞͇̦̦̟̤͔͉̳͔̩̑͊͗̔́̈̎̽̑̌͊̋̌̽̊o̪̫͓̮͂͊̾̃̈́̉̀l̫̬̲̦̙͍̞̫̗͔̜̒̒̅̃v̳̪̠̝̂̎̓̆̍̋̌͗͆͗̽̍ê̤̞̮̞̭͙͓̟̯̘̫͆͋̍̿̾͊̇͊͒̆͗͐̽̚ͅd͈̣̦͚͈͚͈̗̫͇͓̱̥͑͂́̅̀̐̈́́ͅ a͚̳͉͍̜̠̝̣͉̫̤͍̯͌͑͛̃̔͂͌̊̏r̘̖͖̪̣͇̤̙͕̫̩͍̯̀͛̆̈̔̈́́̉̐́̅̑ö̘͔̮̦̫̠̤̗̗̘͙̒̿͐̀u͎̖͔̤̟̪̪̜̖͕͈͛̾͌̾̉̎̐n̮͙̤̯̙͚͕͍͂̊͑͒͗̎ͅḍ̘̦̫͎̭̝̈̃͌̀͑̊́̊̀̃̽̈̇ͅ t̲͈͕̪̪̘̝̙̬̩̘̘̮̎͋̉͗̾͛̓̏̄̑͆́̓̚h͎̯̭̭̙͇̣̥͛̉̒͌͐a̝̥͙̭̜̽̀̔̓̿͆͑t͙͉͇͔̜̥̳̰̬̝̣͔̜̗̦͊̌͛͑̉̚ w͔̗̟͕̱̤͉̞͈̱̥̰͌̐̈́̈́́ò͖̲̤̜̳̜͙̤̘̲͉͖͛̄̃ŕ̦̩̪͎͇̫̣̤̟̃̿̌͛͐̇̾d̞͍̗̫͔̣̮̭͈͈̽̆̌̋̒͊̿͌̇̏̐̌̈́:̥͉̳̙͙̩̫̜̭͕̟̞̮̌̊̄̓̇̐͛̍ C̫̰̪̱͓̫͇̭͓͈͖̝̿̒͂͋́̋͂̓̔̄͗ͅͅy͍͓̩̣͙̆͋̿̒́c͙͙̠̥̭̩͓̬̙̗̿̈́̔̇͑̅̏̇̄́̏̎́͑̽̚l̯̠̳̯̝̙͎͍̀̈́̅̈́̔̐̄͌̊ͅe͚͔̜̫̳̯͔͂̀̾̐͗͂́̏̀́ͅͅ.̲̱̗̣̗͉͉̯̮̜͔͖̫͋͛̊̍̿̈́̽̑̒͗


I tried to hold onto the fragments, make sense of them, but they crumbled in my hands. Every time I thought I was about to understand, something twisted, broke, and left me with fewer answers than I had before.


"Let me go! Let me understand!"


The hum reached its peak, and for an instant, everything stopped. The pressure, the images, even the void. Everything was silent.


And then, the sensation returned, a̫͍͔̪̘̤͖̦͍̖̱͈̯̲̣͋̾́͑̓s̳͔̲͇̳̱̭̰͚̙͙̖͈̦̯̾͂̏̾̆̚ ć͎̥̗̟͙͚̰̋́̿̔̎̈́̐̓͆ͅo̩̗͍̫͎̣̖͔͎͂́͋̃̔̋̅̽͛̚ĺ͎̜͕͕̮͛̄͒̀̃͋͑d͓͇̪̙̳̣̖͇̙͚͛̎̔͒̀̈͋̎̍̚̚ ǎ̤̲̭͖̱͓̜͓̜̣̱̽̽̄̉̽̄̀̃n͈͔̗͔̫̙̬͔̩̙̈́͂͛͐ͅͅd̖̯͇̟͉͊̃͌̈͂̇̈́͗͊̄̓̔̅̚ ḋ̬͔̞̤̬͖͈̜̤͊̿̆̃̓͒͛̇͌̃̋̊̚̚i͖̤͎̩̤͌̂̓̃͆͂s̲̲̲̤̲̝̲͙͕͎̭͓̃́̅̓̒̅̐͂͂̃̚ͅț̠̮̯̖̌̈͊̑̀̌̇͂a͉͍̱̘̪̖̥̬̣̲̳̗̱̳̪͌͋͌̋̓̄̔̎͆̈́͂̽͋ͅn̪̖͔͍͔͎̥͕͚͖͕̖̭̤̮̎́̓̊͛͋̍̋̎͐͗͑̅̎t̩͓̩̯̽̂̐̌̽̃̀̃̑̂͋͑͑̚ a̯̥̠̪̾̽̓̓͒͑̅s̬̬̮͚̀͌͊̋͊̄̓ b̬̰͇̰͓̳̪̯̝̳̟̙͛̀̽̽́é̫͚̳̤̝̳̎̒̍̊̏̿́̓͐͂͒̂̎̎̚f͚͙̥̤̳̲͎̮̖̿̿̋̏͋̂̇́̈̚o̮̗̙̫̖̬̲̩̜͍̱͓͑̀̎̀͆ͅͅͅř̳̙̙̫͖͇̩͓̤͕̱̣̉̓́̓̏̎̈́͆̄͐̃̓̄é͙̜̤̭̞̳͕̥̫̳̍̓̏͆̆̾̍́̚̚:̞͈̝͓̞̋̍͆͆̋͑̈́ ̫̗̰͎͈̲̗̓̐̐̽́̎͐̽̀́͊̀̊̀̚
̲͚̰͇͉͓̲̬̯͚̫̗̪̑̒͒́̇͗̾̀̈́̾͐
͚͇̪̟̰͇̲̭̤̲̰̲̰̥̲̰͒͌̉͛̈́̄̒͋̇͂̋̚"͎͇̗͋̅̈͆̆͛͂͋͗̑̚ͅ[̞͙̠̤͂̃̋̄͑̽̅̋͒̏̋̽̚ͅA̙͇̖̩̭̭̫̖̠̙͇̜̟̓̈́̋̍̐͐͐̽́̿̊͋̍̿̃g͓̜͈̘̪͉̱͖̳̬̳̥̖̗͉̅̓̑̽̇ȑ̖͔͖͖̲̥̣̲͍̞͍̐̋̆̓̌̀̐͊̉̂͐̄͊͊̿ȅ̝̫̲̭̩̰̖̙̪̳̩̯̩̩̂̉̊̎͑̔̈̿̃e͔̖̘̘͍̭̦̯͓̬̠̓̾͗̚m̖͕͈͈͆̌͑̆̋̍̀̒e̫̥͔͚̯̜̠͎̎́͑̒͂̉ǹ̞̳̯͇͓̜̥̥̰̭̉̇̂͒͂̋̐̃̊̾̌̊̃̓͛t̤̱͓͇̩̙͔͈̞͔̙͂̑͗̄͌͋̎̐̉͑̊̾̑]͔͎̝̟͇̖̪̮̯͖͉͉̤̳͓̤͋̓̇̽̈̅̒̀̃̓̓"͕͓̞͖͖̘̓̔͗̆͑̄̊̇̽̊
̦̜̥̗͙̯͙͍̣̣̥͋̾͗̈͒̈́͑̌̄̊̀͐
̜̮̫̬̜̲̝̦̠͕̬͌͆̋̉̿̀̑Ț̣͚̟̗̜̤͛̃̈͛͛h̪̰̠̪̩̞͚͍̗̲̒̉̿̂̿͗̃̇͋̈͒̂́̆̚ȇ̤̜̮͍̭͇̠̥̭̗̳̅̉͐̆̊͗͋̉͂̊ m̫̩̯̟̜͇̣̯̪͈̩̖̳̬͐̏̋̓̑e̝̮̳̙͚̜͈̥̣̘͖͖̖̲̗̓͊̂́̍̀̋͌̐̆a̭̯̞̮̤͕͕̭̙̩͐̈́̓̔̈́̽̍͑͒̾͐̇n̦͔͓̜͓̭̠̰͎̣̠̘̎̈́͆̇̎̓̊͌̄́̑i̭̞̲̪̞͈͓̲̙͕̾̂͆̏͋̆̄̽̾̑̿̿̑ͅṇ͇̭͓̟͖͕͍̗̝̮̭͈̙͋͋͒̍̌̆ͅg̘̞̗̪̥̉͊̐̓́̽͆̒ ȏ̰̞̱̳̫͔̯͐̐̿̃̍͗̔̐f̠͔͍̱̳̈͛͑͐̃͌͐̀̈́ t͓͍̩̤͚̳͓̗̞̬͚̬̭͈̱̔͑͛͒̇͆̈͋̍̔̄̌ḥ͎̞͉̱͋̊̊͆̈́̐͒ͅá̮̳͓͉͔̯̫̈́̈̉̓̋̎̄ͅṱ̰͓͍͎̳̫̙̭̯̟̃̅̊̈̌͌ ẅ̘͓͙͔̟̫̬̲̦̮̩̤̮̗̪̙́̍̿̊̀̈́̿̿̍̈́̓ȯ̪̮̙͔̤̘̏̈́͛̿̍̔̄̄̐͗̆̀̊͋r͕̫͙͖̭͕̖̲̞̞̯̱̜̗͕͒̒͂͊̒͊̿̾̅̑̂͋ͅd̥̭̘͎͇̲̦̥͚̖͚̜̣̐͐͛̌̑͛̎̉̈́̈̋̄̽̅͐͊ f̞͍̙͔͉͙̣̫̘̜̩͉̙̣͚̪̀͛̓̾͊̀́̊̑̚i̬͔͉͔͇͙̮̫͚̰͉̱̙̰̾̄̀̌̆̇͗̔ĺ͉̮̜̳̠̥͍͈͇̳͉͋͐̾̀̋̾̌̔͋͌̓̔͗̇͆t̮̟͈̖̲̗̗̜͖̯̙̣͔̠͆͗̀͒̆̽̅̋͐̿̄͛̑͐̓͛é̝̥̮̗͎͕̗̗̰̝̩͚͎͚͗̇͂̔͑̈̊̀r͈̙͇͑̋̇̊̈̿͑̓ͅe͙̣̦̥̪̒̀̊̓̾̎̍̒̈́́̾͗͋d̫̞̰̠͇̔̅̋̾̿͊͆̈́̎̾̊̀̑ i̙̭͎͓̮̬̝͔̮̝͇̳̪͈̬͇͊̀͌͑̆̈̉́̽̌̚n̬͉̣̰͔̲̤͛̇͐̓t̖̘̘͔͓͉͍͈̯̠͕̫͂͂͋͐̎o̲̘̯͇̦͐̊̿̀̏̀͑͋͋ m͙̪̞̣͍̲̣̽̇͋̔͂ͅy̯̤̯͔̠̝͓̜̅̊̌͗͌͋̌̍̈́́̓̓̎̓ m͎͖̠̯͖͔͖͉̣̟̭͗̑͐̔́͋ǐ̳̜̥̯̘̰̭̘̍͊͂̀̓̉̄̚n͍̰̤̙̯̗̳̮̭̖̱̮̜͛͒͂̓̄̽̎̔̒͌̈́͒̋̎d͖̥̖̩̗̲͉̍͛̀̄, a truth I didn't want to face. I was incomplete. Something was wrong with me, something I didn't understand, but that I could feel in every part of my being.


The pressure returned, more intense now, as if something invisible were crushing me against the nothingness.


"What ḁ͕̬̘̠͚̗̑͊͐̈́̎̿̐̅̀̾́͌̈̀̔m̬͙͇̞͓͉͍̀̌̇͋̀̿̎̔̃͒̈́ͅ Ĩ͉͉̭͈̜͓̮̲̜̭͓̪͓̠̪͋͗̋̑̎͑̄ͅ?͓͚̜̦͎͚̮̄̉̉͊̅̒̊͋̏̔"͈̦̰̱̣͔̙͚̱̱̠̯̙̞̞̲̓̒̾͛͑̍́͑͊̃̎̓̔͐ I̪͔͙̝̖̖͉̳͇̙͇͇̲̲̤̜̓̄̑̃ ț̤̮͔̠̪̘͒̌̈́̉̉͂̏̍̏͐̃̀́̿̂̃ĥ̩̫͉̟͚̜̖̟͙͔̠̰̯̙́̂̂̃͂̇o͓̠̭̥͇̳̍͗̓̈̓͋̾͂́̈̏̎̿ṳ̰͔͈̖̩̫̮̙͉̅̓͋̇̆͑̑͛͐̋̿̒́̿̑̑ͅǵ̞̭̖͎͇͔̫̭̱̭̀̀̀̐̈̎̀ͅh̖͍̤̝̞̮̱̘̜̭͔͚̽̏͆́̂͒̍̉̑̈́̓̓̂̓͛t̗̝̣͚̜̦̩͚͉̳̩̱̦̞͒́͒̀͌̒̌̓͆̚,̟̭̝̮̈́̈́̓̑̓́͐̍̇̊̓̓̋̌̾ͅ ä̗̱͚̫̟̦̯́̾̓̑͐͐̊͌̋l̜͇̜̠͗̂̈́̊m͓̝͍̭̜̱̭͔͔̄̄͌̆̊͐̑͋ͅͅõ̬͓͈͚̠̭̤̦͖̘̇̋̽̆̿͋̃͋͊ͅs̝̙͇̲̯͎̱̯͗̔̃̐́̒̓̏̉̌̇̄̚̚t̪̜̲̣̭̭̣͍̳͉̣̟̰͙̥̔͋͋̃̑̏̎ͅ d̲͍̟̪̏͛̍̈͐̋̆͑͐̄̉̒̎̓̅̚e͙͔͉̯͈̙̖̱̪̭̩̰̮̔̊̉̔̿͛͛s̩̬̖̩͇̩̩̪̮̳͗̈͑́͊̾̏̊̆́͐̌̽͒̚p͉̬̙̣̥͕̜̋͒̉͊̇è͙̮̬̖͈̜͑͋̽̈̽̐̎̈́̎͒́͊ŕ͕̮̜͎͎̟̫̦͉̈́͆̐̿́̽͗ͅͅa͚̠̟̲̱̖̜̙̜̙̔̿͊͐̏͑̉̓̎̔́̆̈́ͅt̗̥͓͉͚̠̱̠̠̝̪͍̪́͐́̾̍̓̍̍̐̓̾ě̗͔̪̰͍͈̣̥͈̟̈͌̓̒͛̆.̩̞̲̮́̄́̉̀͒̂͌̅̍ ͖̥̗͎̈̏͆̊
͚̦̯̦̮̑̉̌̆̚
͖͎̳̝̟͔̞̥͉̜̳̃̀̀́́̃̄F̱̯̰̯͙̲͈͚̲̱̗̎͌̊̔̊̂̆̑͊͑̈̾ṏ͖̤͉͓͈̣̟̰̘̪̲̥̯̭̭̙́̉̊̍̐̈̅̈́̎̈́̔̐͆̉r̟̗̩̪̫͓̮͕̾͂͂̑̿̍̈̊̐̓͌̑̚ ț̱͔̦͉͖͙͉͈͚̟͍͙̟̓́̽͂̏̿̿͋̄̍̑̿͋̀̀̚ͅͅh̲̩̰̬̖̥̱͎͖̜͚͚̥̬̙͗̿̍̽̚ē̟͔̞̮̬̖͔̰͎̰̦̣͓̪̤̈͌̄̉̂̊́̾̑̃̀͒ f̲͉̗͚͎͕̦͍͎̠̑̋̆̈́͌̇̀́̋́͒̆͌i̬̫̱̤̠̦̤̠̫͚̜̩̭͚͙̿̀̀͛͂̍̅̀̈́̾̉̒́͐̃͆ͅr̰̟͓͙͎͙̜̠͖̱͚̎̏̔͋̏͆͗̐͐s͖͇͓͓̒̔́͒͌̃̃̂t̗̙̩͚̂̐̇̉̍̈̾̎̉̅̑͛̾͋͊ ṱ̖̗̦̟̣̣̰̣̬̓̓̓̎͒͑ị̣͖̙̖̦̟̘̭̞̂̀̎̊́m͈̩͓̠͆͗͆̎ͅẽ̗̪̭͖̿̂̽̽͋̀̊͊,̜͖͕̬͕́̀̈̓̌̀̑̿͂͋ ĭ͇̥̜̩͙͉̮͖̲̲̲͖̊͆͂̈͂͌̉͆̈́̋̊͋̔ͅͅẗ͓͓̭̦͇́̉̆̀̅̒ ȑ͔̰̥͙̳̮͈̭̞̣͕͉́̐̀̇͂̊̀̍ͅe̮̠͓͍͔̱̝͍̩̥͎̮̰̗̪͂̈̎͆͒͌͑s̩̠̝̫͈͍͓̾̓̾̀̋̆̔p̝̪̜̝͙͈̐̀̂̉̔̅̈̃̒̉̐̃̍̅̈́ó͉̟͉̥̏̀̆͊n̮̦̝̥̥͕̯̙̙͕̣͎͛́̂͋̾̇͛͑̒̃ͅd̝̳̳̟͍͒̉̓̀̊͛̓̓̃̏̍́̚̚ͅe̮̱̣̜͎̘̩͓̠̫͚̖̓̊͗͑̓̉̊̆͊̚ͅd̗̲̟̟̂̏̈́̇̃̆̀͂͋̒̌̚ d̪͕͈͕̣̮͎̱̦͆̎̇̎̍̈͋͋͛͛̏̉̐̚ͅi̦̗̟̲̦̤̣̗̤͋̏͌̏̀̿̈́̚r̰̘͈̪͛́̈́́̓̉ë̬̠̮̘́͛̇͆̓̇c̗̳̗̘͙̘͕̯͓̠̞͇̭͉͍̎̌͆͋͗̊̄͒̚ͅt̬̪̙̲̮͂́́̍̌̆̔̋́̀͂̃̚̚l̥͕̝͍̣̠͓͙͗̓̆̓̊̉̒̿̆y̟͎͔̯͈̝̥̪͈̬̮̋͒͌̐̀̔̊̐̉̿̉̿̈̀̈́̐,͎̥̗̪̦̰̭̞͍̘͕̰̙͑͊͛́̀̽ ȋ͎͎͙̞̪̮̥̩͒̈̐́̽̂̽̉͐̈͊̒̿͐̚t͙͙̲̱͍̝̥̙̣̤͙͔̯̩̦̫̅͗͑͊̓̈̾̀̀͌́̍͐̎͋̾s͇̝̦̥̄̊̽̅̌͗̄̀̿̃́̑͆ t̠͕̪͍̪͇̦͔̝̞̖̣̞͇̋̎̋̀̇̊̆̉̎̓̌̃̓̉ͅò͍̯̠̪̘̫̤̠͇̆̅̔͗̾̀̃̑̀̀̊̃n̳̟̫̬̰͇͖͙̖͓̜̯͈̥͕̎̊͌̆́͂͒́̈̄̆͂͂̋̊ḛ̜̣͍͍͎̰͈̞͉̜͔̙̥̽́͆͑̃̃͛̒̑̆̌̈͊ i̪̰͍̟̯̞̜͎͚̞̝͍̰̝͊͋̔̍̅̄̀̀̽̆̔͊m̟͉͕̗̳̖͔͕̩̌͋͂̏̎̌͐̉͒́͆͆̈́̆͐̂p̜͈͔̣̫͕͙͚̦̰͙̞̜̝̫̓̍̽̆͆̄͂͒a͕͍̪̲͉̤̞̮͌̾̒̒͑̀s͈̩͔̣͖͙͚̗̟̣̩͇͉̽̅̐̏̒͂͛̊͂͊̉̊̊̑ș̙̜̱̣͖͕̬͕̪̦͎̮͎̱̀̂͊͒͐͗̚i̘̩̣̣͐̒̋̃̇͒̽͛̊̿̚v̤͚͙̬̯̫͕͕͂̋̂̐͌̂́̓̏è͎̙̜̲͔͙̤͕̪̂̂͂ b̝͎̝̘̗̱̱̬͙͉̯̮͙̔̽͆́ű͙̠̣̫̫̮̣͙̩͛̅̀̔́ͅẗ̙̬̘̭̩̩͉͎̤͑̆̊͒͋ͅͅͅ f̮̖͚̱̬̮̘̝͑̍͌̾̑́̊͋̚ȉ̘͈͕̯̘̖̞̗͖̰̭̞̦̿͋̐͂̆͌͒̓ń̖͔̤̫͉͇͍̫̖̟͕̪̘̲̈͗̂̀́͂̄̽͑́̒̚ͅả̤͔̟̖̲̱̗̟̬͇̗͉̦̙̀͒̈́̋̑̂̒̇̀́l̫̜͙̜̠͎̮͖̱͇̝̲̭̥͇̯͐̒͑̃̑̀̊̄́̾͒̓̓:̰͙̤̯͋̓̅͛́̏͑̍̌̅ ̟̝̖͈͍̟̘̬̬͉̳̬͇̰̰̙̈́̑̌̌̄̈̎̅͗̏͆͌̀̾̋
͔̳͍͚͉̪̝́͐̽͒̾̽̽
̦̰̲̳̤̗͙̬̗͛͂̈̆͌̾̓͐"̭̣̮͉̲͇̖̣̍̆̀̋̐̉̓́̇̿́[͙̙̟̙͖͖̪̱͉͉̯̩̬͎͌̃́̐̇̅͆̾̅̅̇̀͌ͅË͍̘̥̳̤̫̫̜͈̰͛̿̽͛̄͆̾̿́̅͐̏n̮̣͈̬̜̤̝̖̦̜͙̣̥͎̜̏̾͑̇ẗ̩̭̝͍̫͓͖̝̞̲̙͓̫̟͈͕́̂͋̓̒̄̔̋́̾̉̇i͕̤͖͔͕̪̗̦̬͓͕̠̤̱̓͒͊̋ͅͅt̪̝̮̣͙̝̫̝̱͉͕͉̯̟͔̯͋͒́̏́̌̀̚y̤̣̫̰͔̭͗̂̋̆̊̑]̘͙͎͖̩̰͙͚̩̞̯̲͕̜͈̔̂̽̏͌"͓͕̜͔̜̐͑̉͆̌̽̄
̜͍̟̮͚̫̝̖̯̩̪͎̅̐̽͐̾͑͗̈͆̏̒̽͋ͅ
̟̜̤̾̓̀̐̅̇̀̀ͅT͕͈͍̯͇̙͙̖͈͚͉̤̰͈͛̀̊̄̆̚ḫ͓̳̪̱͚̦͌̅̒́̾̇́̋̚ḙ̯̘̳͈͉͔͚͔̤͎̘̖̳̱͓́̆̒̽́͛̄́͒̀́͂̀ ẇ̩̭̫̖͍̣̬͇̥̬̖͙̈̈͐͒̂̾̽ō͙̖̪̭̯̙͍͚̞̗͖͌̉̾͐͆͑͛r͖̫̲̙̲̳̠̂͋͊̀̒̑͗͑̍d̬͇̘͎͖̜̮̠͚͕͔͒̋͆̈̂̔̇͊̏͌̈́ͅ f͍̜̜͉̯͚͍̝̩̮̬̟̠̝̍̋̆̓̚ì̥̯͙͉͓̪̳̤̤͒͌̎͋̓̿̌̑́͛͋̐̎̚l̖͖͈̖͛͑́̀̄́̇͋̑̚l͓̤͖͈̯̱̝̮͕͎͖͋̀̊̐e͙͙̥̱͖͙̮͎͔̟̱̝̱̯͐̎͛͐̅̓̒̍̆̚d̯̭̬̥̯͚̞̘̬̜͈͉̠̱̞̮̆̏̋̑̽̌͆̿ m̲̪̙̙̗̪̯͍̬̯̠̖̲̩̘͗̿̇̅e͖̜̗̱̽͗̌̀̎̈̃ w̙̫̥̫̮̲̟̬̭̗͗̓̅̄̃̽̎̐͛̽̆͌̈̚ͅi̩̣̞̰̙͗͂͂̌̇͆̾́̐͐t̘͔̭̝͎͓̣͇̳̗̣̪͓͙̮͊̇͆͊̅̐ͅẖ̜͇̊̇͂̋͗͋̄̉͋̚ͅͅ ȧ͉̠͙̥̮̯͓̎̇̀̇͆̽͛̃̓̍̎͌̒̓̓ t̟̬̱͉̖͙̜̠̬̬͔̤̦͌̾̄͗̅̇̉̈́́̀͗́͑ė̪̠͖̤͖̱͕̣͕̗̘̗͇͑͐͆̓̔͛r͓͙̠͇͚͓̆̽̃̾̓̐r̤̳͈͓͓̦̯̗̝̲̳͍̋̆͆̋̿̾̓̀̋͒ͅö͖̩̠̳͙̝̦́̿̆̔̿͐́̃̉̈́͌r̜̲̰̤̫͈͓̉̍̔̐ I̘̯̰͕̘͕̮̗̠̞̪̰̪̲̤͔͛͂͗͊̃̍̿̄̄ c̳̱͔̙̪̞̩̥͈͔̀̽͋̃͋̈̿̾̎̂́̌̿̔̒̚o̭̞̠̘̽̎͌͌̓̀̚u̱͔̲͇̣̠̬̜̱̖̥͈̝̝͓̇̉̽̋̽̊́̉͂̚l̝̣̖̞̣̝̖͍̬͓̦̱̣̘̗͛͋͑̿̆̇̒̀̑́͊̀́̂d͚͈̝̥͊̄̀̎͌́̓̿̿̀̀̋̚n͍̠͇͓̎̊̂͗̂̀̍̎'͍̞̬̜͗̈̃̓͗͗̄̽̂̉̇̀̈́̍t̲͔͙̤̰͖̫̗̣̮̍̓̀̈́̾͐̐ ė̘̘͖̮͍̪͉̭͍͙͕̗͑̒̅̽̒̓̊̆̑͑̌͋̚x̖͍̗̱͔̄͆̃̅͊̈́̐̍̄p̠̯̳̘̱̘͕̰̰̮̗̪͕̔̀͗̊̽̉̈́̈́̈́͆̀͗̌́ľ̟̜̲̯̱̥͇̤͈̲̪͎̙̙̗̀́̏́ͅà͇͓̱͈̤̙̱̤͋̆͋̋̈͋̉͊ͅi̫͈̥̤̜̣̳͕͔̬̍̾̊̇̔́̑̍̀̉̿ǹ͔̥̤̱̗̜̟͍̖̂̐̌̂̄͌̐̉͛̌̍ͅ.̳̯͚͓̭͉͔̟̬͉̇̾͂̈̈͛̎͐͒̎͆̐͂̑͐͗ I̭̱̤̠̤̰͗̃̇̿̈͒͒̂́̔̆ ḏ̜͓̖̤̥̩̭͚͉͛͑̆͑̊͑͂̅̈́͐̎́̉i̯͉̯̭͓͈̠̳͙͓̘̫̰̎̃͂̾̉̐̆̐̽̅̀̎̿̋̿̿ͅͅd̮̲̭̥͛̽̈́͊́n̠̪̖͖͚̜̩͓̥͔̭̱̉͂̈̎̍̂͑̇̚ͅ'̫͕̟̱̲͍̯͕͑̓̉̎̾̓ṱ̞̫̖͍̩͖̮̱̣̮̣̯̿͑̇̃̃̋̎̓̈͗͋̾͗̒̈͊ k̤͍̦̩̯͈͖̜̤͈̝͓̲̝̃̎̓͒̾̀͐̐̔ṋ̥̗͉̃̊͊̊̏̽́̚o̥̗̮͓̗̔̈́̽́͂̏w͖̝̬̜̮͎̖̖̜̯̱̉̅̐͊͆͑ w͇̗̮̩̭̯͙͔̩̬͙̓͋̀̏͌́̓̇̓͒̇̑̂̀̏̚h͖̰̥̖͇̘͕̯̳͔̩̓͗́̽̄̒͆̂̊̔́̏̉͐̇ā̬͇͔͔̯͕̯̯̗̯͉͇̩̗͓̋̏̔̽t͎͙̮͕̖̩͔͙̰̥̣̖̀̀̆̅͌̌́̂͒̈́̽͐̑̀ i̟̪͍̣̞̐̾̀̊͂͊̀̽̿̈́t̤̭̞̪̣̞̑̈̍̂̃̆͋ m̫̯̬̘͍̱̊́̄̐̀̃́͂͂̽̉̓̌ͅe̤͈̝̮͇̭̭̮͚̪̯̤͙͑̏̆͂͑͛͑̽͂̓̊͊̔̀̇͑a̤̟͍̣͇̬̳̪͙͚̱̲̫̥̓́́̏̇̐̄̽̓͑̒̌̓ṉ͍̪͎͎̪̫̤͐̆̀̾̒̆̄͊̊̍̀̄̄̚ṱ̣͔̠̘̗̬͓̱̳̳̥̮̖̫̊̊̆̉͂͂͊͆ͅ,͕͓̪̞̘͉̞̉̽̏̿̈́̎̒̾͆̍̚ b̬̗͓͖͖͓̮̯̮̜̬̖́͂͒͒͑̿̂u̮̜̝͇̤͇̙̜̎̉͆̏̔̀͌̈̈́̊̔̽̍͒t̘̣͍̘̤̠͕̭̪̤͖̽́̍͗͗̀͊̆̈͗̇̅ I̗̰̯̖̰̳͉͕͍̣̙̜̲͛̎́̾̔̈́̑̽ͅ k̳̞̱̪̜̜̪̯̰̲̞͆̄̅̃̏͌̄͊̌̑̓̈̏̿̃̊n̳̗̗̱͈͖̗̯̤̠̫͈̩̣͕̬̂͑̇̀̀̊̔́̚ẹ̖͓̤̪̣̦̗̱̫̖͈͉͇͍͍̔͑͂͒͗̏̌͗̽̐̇͒̉͆͐̌w̰͎͇̳̭̘̬̙̟͕͈̓̽͊̈̌̆̓̏̓̒̉̄̀̇ͅ í̜̣̠̥̬̎̄͛͗̌̇̄̾͑́̀t̮̜̬̤̳̗͖̬̑͆͐̅͂̈͛̌̀̀̆́̓̀͗ ŵ͎̦̬̬͖͎̪̮̟̑̀̈̾a̦͚̮̜̪̗̯̦̳̓̃̔̈́͑̾̏̇͗͆̀̀ŝ͓͓̠̃̈͌̇̇͗͂̄̇̆̔ͅ t̯̞̱̤̳͈̬̝̬͉͓͚̱̫̀͛̉͆̃̌̋͋ͅr̞͈͖̱̘̤̪͙̎̓̇́́́̐́̉̈́͆͌͑̓̒ͅu̘͍̞͙̳̍̊̓̀̅̐̃̎̌͂̽͆̉̽͂̚ͅe̫͇̤͚̩͍̤̱̣͆͆̏́̒̀̇̚ͅͅ.̣̜̠̬̫͇̗̰̔͆̐͒́̈́̈̉ͅ And in that moment, I understood that I was no longer who I thought I was.

 

[Sachertorte]

Entity Fic? On Sufficient Velocity? COUNT ME IN!!

 

[Winter_5025]

The air in Greg's makeshift workshop was heavy with a metallic tang, a mix of fresh welding fumes and worn lubricants. It was his sanctuary, a place where the rules of the outside world didn't apply. Here, he could be more than Greg, the socially awkward nerd everyone remembered from Winslow. Here, he was a Tinker, a creator, a force of retribution.

The room where he worked was a chaotic blend of disorder and purpose. Metal scraps, circuits, and tools were scattered everywhere—some gathering dust, others clearly in constant use. At the center of this disarray, Greg leaned over his workbench, a surface barely visible beneath the weight of his latest project: a jetpack powered by compressed air.

"Come on, come on… just need to calibrate the exhaust valve." He muttered to himself, his gloved hands moving swiftly over the components.

The sound of the welding torch filled the air, a bright spark illuminating his face as he adjusted a crucial connection. He had spent weeks working on this device, and the obsession that had driven him to this point was evident. Deep circles framed his eyes, and his hair—already untamed—seemed more unruly than ever.

He paused for a moment, adjusting the glasses he wore beneath his helmet to inspect his work. The structure of the jetpack was crude, more functional than aesthetic, but Greg didn't have time to worry about appearances. All that mattered was that it worked.

"If this fails, I won't just end up stranded on a rooftop. I'll probably end up splattered against a wall..." He said with a nervous laugh that no one else could hear.

Beside him, a crumpled sheet of paper lay covered in sketches and scribbled calculations. Most of them were crossed out or filled with frantic annotations. Greg had a habit of changing his designs midway through, a mix of inspiration and perfectionism that often cost him more time than he liked to admit.

"Alright, ignition test."

He straightened up, taking a deep breath as he connected the jetpack to a temporary power source. He reached for a small, makeshift switch on the side and flipped it on. The jetpack emitted a sound of pressure building, followed by a faint hiss as the valves began to release air.

Greg grinned.

"Yes! Finally!"

But his excitement was short-lived. The hissing sound grew louder, becoming unstable. Greg cursed under his breath and quickly cut the power before something exploded.

"Okay, maybe not so much 'finally'..."

He grabbed a screwdriver and began meticulously adjusting the valves. His mind raced, calculating, discarding possibilities, testing combinations. But in the back of his thoughts, there was always that persistent whisper: the need for perfection, the fear of making mistakes.

It was something he had learned the hard way.

Greg's eyes couldn't help but drift to a small table in the corner, where the remains of one of his early inventions rested. The rusted fragments of a battery, barely recognizable, sat there as a persistent reminder of what could happen when carelessness took over.

He shook his head, forcing himself to focus back on the jetpack. There was no room for distractions.

"Come on, Greg. This isn't your first rodeo."

After several minutes of adjustments, he straightened up again and reconnected the power source. This time, the sound was smooth, steady—a consistent flow of air indicating that the valves were finally calibrated correctly.

Greg smiled, this time with more confidence.

"Now we're talking."

He strapped the jetpack onto his back, adjusting the harness with quick, precise movements. He had designed it to be as lightweight as possible, though it still carried some heft. Not enough to hinder his mobility, but just enough to remind him that he was carrying a small technological marvel.

Taking a remote control from his belt, he activated the propulsion function. A stream of compressed air shot out from the nozzles, lifting him a few inches off the ground before coming to a stop.

"Perfect."

Greg let out a sigh of relief, though it didn't last long. His mind was already racing with potential upgrades: greater fuel capacity, a more advanced stabilization system, maybe even an emergency parachute.

But those ideas could wait. For now, he had something functional. Something he could use.

"You're going to shine tonight, baby." He muttered, giving the jetpack an affectionate pat.

On the side of the workbench lay the rest of his arsenal: reinforced gauntlets that would quadruple his strength, motorized boots with integrated skates, and his helmet—packed with features he didn't fully understand yet. Almost instantly, a flood of ideas, improvements, and new designs filled his head. He had to push it aside for now. There would be time for that later.

Turning toward his gear, Greg picked up the reinforced gauntlets and strapped them onto his arms. Then he bent down to slide on the motorized boots, carefully locking them into place. Finally, he grabbed his helmet, ensuring all its systems were operational.

"I think it's time to field test this."

He walked over to the corner where his taser gun rested, his hand hesitating for a moment before picking it up. His gaze drifted, involuntarily, back to the remains of the battery.

"This time, I won't fail."

But the moment passed. Greg shook his head and focused on the present.

The decision loomed in his mind, constant and burning. He could simply patrol, doing what many independent heroes did—stopping petty crimes and building a name for himself. But that wasn't enough. Not for him. He knew there were places where he could truly make an impact, places where he could do some real damage. Hookwolf's dogfighting ring was one of those places.

"It's now or never."

---

Greg moved like a shadow, gliding through the streets of Brockton Bay with an efficiency he could never have imagined years ago. The motorized boots propelled him with precision, and when he needed more speed or height, the jetpack activated, carrying him over rooftops with a brief but powerful roar.

The city was as bleak as ever, especially in its less fortunate areas. Filthy streets, abandoned buildings, and a silence broken only by distant screams or the occasional engine noise. Every corner of Brockton Bay seemed to be slowly dying, consumed by gangs and despair.

As he moved, his mind kept circling back to the hatred he felt toward the E88, toward Hookwolf and his Nazi friends. He had done enough research to know that the villain rarely showed up at the fighting rings, but this time might be different. At least, he hoped so. The mere possibility was enough to keep him focused.

"I'll take them down. Every single one of them."

The thought repeated itself, like a dark song in his head.

Finally, the ring came into view. An abandoned building, almost indistinguishable from the others, except for the flickering lights inside and the cars parked around it. It was a depressing sight, a reminder of how low humanity could sink.

Greg stopped on a nearby rooftop, adjusting his gear one last time. He took a deep breath, letting the cold night air fill his lungs.

"It's time."

He launched himself toward the building, his jetpack roaring as he descended like a missile.

The impact of Greg landing in front of the building was deafening, a statement he didn't bother to hide. The front door burst open with a single kick from his reinforced boots, the hinges giving way under the enhanced force of his gauntlets.

"Nazis! Come out now, or I'll clean this place out myself!" He shouted, his voice amplified by the modulator in his helmet, ringing with a metallic echo.

Inside, the occupants reacted with confusion and panic. A few men guarding the entrance reached for makeshift weapons, while the spectators recoiled, some screaming, others frozen in place. Caged fighting dogs barked and slammed against the bars in response to the chaos.

Greg didn't wait. He raised his electric pistol and fired.

The charge arced across the room in a blue flash, striking the first man with a crackling snap. The guard hit the floor, convulsing as spasms racked his body, his movements drowned out by the barking of the dogs. Before anyone else could react, Greg fired again, bringing down another.

"You think you can hide behind cages and blood? This ends now!"

Activating the skates on his boots, he propelled himself forward, dodging a metal pipe swung by one of the men. With a swift motion, he delivered a punch with his gauntlet, sending the attacker crashing to the ground in a single blow.

The room erupted into total chaos. Some tried to flee, but Greg gave them no chance. Gliding between them with the precision of a predator, he used his gauntlets and pistol to incapacitate anyone who stood in his way.

There was something frantic in his movements, almost desperate. Each blast of his weapon, every strike he delivered, carried an intensity that wasn't just fueled by hatred for the E88. It was as if he was fighting against something more—something unnamed that burned within him, demanding to be unleashed.

Finally, the last man fell. The room fell silent, save for the barking of the dogs and the groans of the wounded. Greg stopped in the center, his chest rising and falling heavily as he tried to catch his breath.

He looked around, searching for Hookwolf or any other Cape from the E88, but there were none. Just ordinary men, not even armed, incapable of posing any real threat.

"Is that it?" He muttered, his voice laced with frustration.

He switched off the electric pistol and tucked it into his belt. He'd accomplished his goal, but the emptiness he felt wasn't filled. He hadn't faced anyone significant, no one who could give him the satisfaction he was looking for.

With a sigh, he activated his jetpack and left the building, leaving behind the chaos he'd created.

Greg moved across the rooftops of Brockton Bay, propelling himself with his skates and the jetpack. The city, lit by flickering streetlights, stretched out like a mass of shadows and blinking lights.

As he moved, his mind returned to his gear. The electric pistol had worked well, but it wasn't perfect. Maybe he could improve the battery, allowing it to fire longer without needing a recharge. Or maybe he should focus on increasing the power, making each shot more devastating.

"Both." He murmured, making a half-hearted decision.

But the thoughts couldn't fully distract him. Somewhere in his mind, an old wound still hurt. Sparky. He didn't want to think about it, but the name had come up again, like a persistent echo. He closed his eyes behind the helmet, clenching his fists.

"I can't sit still. Not again."

The sound of sirens snapped him out of his thoughts. Stopping at the edge of a building, he looked down, where several PRT vehicles were speeding by. He activated the telescopic function of his helmet, adjusting the view until he spotted a figure flying above the cars.

Dauntless.

Greg gritted his teeth as he recognized the Protectorate hero.

"Again..." He murmured bitterly.

It was the fourth time they had sent someone after him. It was almost a game now, an endless cycle of pursuit and escape. Greg knew he couldn't face the Protectorate directly, not in his current state. But that didn't take away the resentment.

As he watched, the vehicles stopped in front of the ring he had just left. Dauntless descended, his weapons gleaming under the streetlights. Greg turned off the telescopic view and took a step back, moving away from the edge of the roof.

"Not this time." He said to himself, activating his skates and heading into the darkness of the city.

He didn't know exactly where he was going, but it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was moving forward, continuing to build, continuing to fight, doing something.

Greg slowed down as he crossed one of the tallest roofs in the neighborhood. There, the city lights were more distant, and the shadows stretched out like cloaks of emptiness. He let himself drop against one of the rusted vents, turning off the jetpack and the skates on his boots. The adrenaline from the fight still buzzed through his veins, but with every passing second, that energy began to dissipate, making room for something heavier: failure.

The ring had been a direct hit, a clear message to the E88, but not the one Greg had wanted to send. He hadn't found Hookwolf or any other Cape. He had only knocked down common thugs, guys who would likely be replaced in a matter of days.

"A waste of time." He muttered, his voice muffled by the helmet.

He ripped off the helmet with a sharp motion, letting the cold night air hit his face. He was sweating, and his messy hair stuck to his forehead. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment as the images of the ring attack flooded his mind. The screams, the flashes from the electric gun, the sound of bones breaking under his gauntlets.

He had won. But it didn't feel like a victory.

Something else was bothering him.

A memory suddenly invaded his mind, unexpected and heartbreaking. A feeling he couldn't ignore. Greg gritted his teeth, his hands clenching into fists. He didn't want to think about it, about him. About what he had lost. But memory was treacherous, and the images began to flood his mind: the blue glow of circuits, the relaxed voice that had always accompanied him in his early creations, the days when things had seemed simpler. Clearer.

"I couldn't save him..." He whispered, the confession falling into the emptiness of the night.

He wasn't sure if it had been his fault, or simply a consequence of playing a game he never had a real chance of winning. But that didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was that he was gone.

The bitterness hit him again, mixed with a dull anger that he didn't know how to direct. The Protectorate. They had been there, sure, but not to help. Just to assess, to control the narrative, to make sure the little ones didn't cause trouble.

Dauntless had been one of the first to arrive that day. Greg remembered it clearly, the golden gleam of his spear cutting through the shadows as he evaluated the scene. But he hadn't done anything.

Greg opened his eyes, fixing his gaze on the distant lights of the city.

"This doesn't end here." He murmured, his voice low but determined.

He stood slowly, placing the helmet back on his head. He activated the night vision, observing the streets from his elevated position. Nothing immediate required his attention, but it didn't matter. There would always be something. There would always be someone who needed to be taken down.

He activated the skates on his
boots and propelled himself forward, letting the cold wind wrap around him. He didn't know exactly what he would do next, but that didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

 

[Winter_5025]

The boardwalk had a peculiar vibe at that time of morning. It wasn't the chaotic hustle that took over at midday, nor the calm hum of the afternoon when tourists were too tired to keep exploring. It was something in between: shops just starting to open, workers setting up displays, and a handful of early risers looking for coffee or breakfast.

Madison wandered aimlessly, her shoes softly tapping against the wooden planks of the boardwalk. She liked that sound-the hollow echo that followed her. It was better than absolute silence, though she'd never admit that out loud.

Her mind, as usual, wandered. There were things she preferred not to think about, but Winslow was impossible to ignore. School was always there, like a weight that refused to lift, even outside of hours.

Winslow was... complicated.

Madison pressed her lips together, trying to find a word to describe the experience. It wasn't exactly a nightmare, but it wasn't far from one either. The classrooms were old and gray, the lockers rusty, and the hallways always seemed on the verge of collapse. But that wasn't the worst part.

It was the people.

Her thoughts drifted to the familiar faces of Emma and Sophia. The three of them had found a dynamic that worked-or so Emma and Sophia claimed. There was something comforting about the order of things, about knowing there would always be someone lower on the social ladder than them.

And then there was Taylor.

The name hit her like a dull thud, accompanied by a trace of guilt Madison immediately tried to suppress. Months had passed since it all began, since Taylor had gone from being just another face to becoming the target of everything. Madison wasn't entirely sure how it had happened, exactly. One day, Taylor was just there, like always, and the next, everything had changed.

She wondered, for a brief moment, if Emma had gone through with the prank she'd suggested. It had been something stupid, something she'd said in a rush to impress Sophia, to prove she could fit in. But now...

Madison pressed her lips together and shook her head.

There was no point in thinking about it. What was done was done. Besides, it wasn't like she could do anything to change it, right? That was the logic she used to justify everything she did or said. She didn't have the power to fix things, not even to take them back.

The ocean breeze picked up, making her frown as she adjusted her jacket. Winslow and everything it represented were miles away, but even so, she couldn't shake the feeling that it was following her like a shadow.

She stopped for a moment, staring out at the ocean.

"It's just another day." She thought. But the words didn't carry enough weight to convince her.

Madison resumed walking, letting her feet guide her while her mind kept racing. As she neared the first open shops, she began to notice the tourists.

They were everywhere. Families with small children running back and forth, young couples taking photos, even some retirees strolling leisurely and pointing at buildings with curiosity.

It was hard to understand what drew them to Brockton Bay. It wasn't exactly an ideal tourist destination. Sure, the boardwalk had a certain charm, and there were restaurants serving fresh seafood. But the city was scarred by chaos. Cape battles, corruption, divided territories... there was nothing that made it a safe place to visit. Unless Volt was really gone.

And yet, there they were.

Madison's gaze settled on a woman wearing a t-shirt that said 'Visit Brockton Bay' with a poorly printed image of the Protectorate's headquarters out in the bay. The woman smiled as she spoke to someone on the phone, completely oblivious to what the city really was.

Madison sighed. She knew the answer, but that didn't make it any less frustrating.

It was because of Panacea.

Amy Dallon was Brockton Bay's living miracle. The girl who could heal any wound, any disease, any disability. No matter how severe it was, Amy could always fix it. And that was enough for people to ignore everything else.

"As long as Panacea is around, nothing bad can happen to us." She mocked in her mind, though her tone lacked malice.

It wasn't that she hated Panacea—not at all. In truth, she didn't know her beyond what the news said. But there was something about the way everyone revered her that felt... irritating. As if one person could carry the weight of an entire city.

Madison lifted her gaze toward the horizon, toward the Protectorate headquarters rising above the water like a solitary beacon. It was a constant reminder that the heroes were there, watching, protecting.

But it was also a reminder of how fragile everything really was.

You could put the strongest heroes in the country in one place, and it still wouldn't be enough to fix Brockton Bay. The city was broken in a way not even Panacea could heal.

A small child ran past her, laughing as his mother called out from behind. Madison watched him disappear into the crowd, wondering if he also thought the city was a magical place because of the heroes and the sights.

The sea breeze blew again, tossing her hair.

"Tourists…" She muttered to herself, her voice barely audible amidst the noise of the boardwalk.

The Protectorate headquarters continued to draw Madison's attention as she walked. It was impossible to ignore. Even at a distance, it loomed over the water like a constant reminder that Brockton Bay had heroes—or at least pretended to.

Were they really helping? It was a question that had crossed her mind more times than she cared to admit. Of course, the heroes were important. They kept things from falling apart faster than they already were. But were they actually changing anything?

She thought of the names that always came up in the local news: Dauntless, Battery, Assault, Miss Militia… They seemed larger than life, almost mythical, when you saw them on TV. But in reality, they were just people. People with powers, yes, but people nonetheless.

Madison stopped in front of a souvenir stand where action figures of the Protectorate heroes hung from hooks. A young boy was pointing at a Dauntless figure while his mother searched her wallet to pay.

Dauntless was always the one they sent when something big happened. He was the most impressive, with his gleaming armor and a spear that looked like it belonged in a video game. But even he had limits. She'd seen it on the news, during his fight with Lung, where he had barely managed to hold him off.

"They're always too late." Madison thought, turning her gaze away from the boy and his mother.

That was the problem with heroes. They always arrived after the damage had already been done. The fight would be over, the city shaken, and then the heroes would show up to clean up the mess. But people were still hurt. Buildings were still reduced to rubble.

The Protectorate couldn't fix Brockton Bay. They couldn't repair what was broken in the city, because what was broken wasn't just physical. It was deeper than that.

And yet, there was something about them she couldn't ignore. A small part of her wanted to believe they were different, that they could make a difference. Maybe they couldn't save the city, but they could save someone.

Madison kept walking, leaving the souvenir stand and its action figures behind. She wasn't sure what she thought about the heroes. But she knew one thing for certain: they weren't what everyone believed them to be.

The Protectorate headquarters faded from view as she turned a corner, but the questions lingered in her mind.

Were they really heroes, or just actors in a city that desperately needed to believe in them?

The smell of freshly brewed coffee reached Madison before she even saw the café itself. It was a small, charming place with outdoor tables and a couple of customers chatting casually. A display case of donuts glowed under the morning sun, each one perfectly glazed and tempting.

Her stomach growled, and Madison was momentarily surprised. She had forgotten why she came, too distracted by her own thoughts to realize she was hungry.

She slowly approached the counter, watching the owner, an older man in a checkered shirt, chatting animatedly with a customer while serving coffee. A steaming cup and a paper bag with a couple of donuts rested on the counter, forgotten in the middle of their conversation.

Madison paused, assessing the situation. There were no visible cameras, and no one seemed to be paying attention to her. She took a step toward the counter, then another. Her hand reached out for the cup and the bag, almost on instinct.

No one reacted.

Her heart pounded as she grabbed the coffee and donuts, waiting for someone to shout, for someone to stop her. But nothing happened. The owner kept chatting, laughing at something the customer had said.

Madison turned and began to walk away, the hot coffee in one hand and the bag in the other. She couldn't help but glance back, expecting someone to come running after her. But no one did.

Once she was a safe distance away, she looked back toward the café. The customer was ordering again, as if they had never received their initial order. The owner, still smiling calmly, was preparing it all over again.

"The same as always." Madison thought as she took a sip of the coffee.

She knew what had happened. Her power had done it, just like it always did. It was as if the world simply… ignored her. As if she had never been there to begin with.

She took a bite of one of the donuts as she continued walking, her thoughts swirling around her condition.

She wasn't invisible. She knew that. People could see her if they wanted to, if they concentrated hard enough. But it was as if her presence was a blur, something the brain automatically decided to discard. An anomaly not worth noticing.

At first, she had thought it was great. Being able to slip through the world unnoticed, unimpeded, was a dream come true for a teenager. But now...

Madison let out a sigh, the coffee in her hands cooling as her mind drifted back to the moments when she had wished to be seen. The moments when she screamed, cried, begged for help, and no one responded.

"It's a fair price." She told herself, though the words sounded empty even in her own mind.

She finished the donut and coffee as the boardwalk began to fill with more tourists. Her power kept her apart, invisible in the crowd. It was both a blessing and a curse, all at once.

Madison adjusted her jacket, looking up at the horizon. Sometimes, she wondered if she could change her power, if she could get rid of it. But it was like asking if she could stop being who she was.

"This is who I am." She thought finally, letting the crowd engulf her as she continued on her way.

 

[Omniext]

oh? looks like things have happened