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# REWRITE NOTICE #
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[This chapter is part of the rewrite batch released on March 3rd, 2025]
- For more information: See chapter titled "Update - Rewrite Status (1-6): Complete"
- All rewritten chapters contain this notice at the top
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"The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak."
- Matthew 26:41
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Himeko stared at Welt, his words about the Stellaron hanging heavy in the air. A missing piece of the puzzle clicking into place—though it only raised more questions. Her ears still rang from the explosion, mind racing to process everything they'd just witnessed. The man lay crumpled where Welt had caught him, smoke rising from his clothes. She couldn't shake the image of that golden light erupting from his chest, raw power that had torn through the Beast like it was made of paper.
The acrid smell of burnt metal filled her lungs as she approached, careful steps crunching over crystalline shards of the Beast's shattered armor. Welt had caught him before he hit the ground—thank the stars he'd arrived when he did. The residual heat made the air shimmer, waves of it rolling off the station's walls where they still glowed a dull red.
"Mr. Yang!" March's voice cracked with relief, the girl already pushing herself up from behind her fallen column. Even exhausted as she was, March managed a wobbly smile.
Himeko knelt beside Welt, who cradled their unconscious ally. The man's face was ashen beneath the soot stains, his breathing shallow and labored. She started to reach for his wrist to check his pulse, but pulled back as golden sparks still flickered across his skin. The Stellaron's power, she realized, remembering Welt's grim confirmation moments ago. No wonder it had nearly torn him apart.
"Is everyone alright?" Welt's voice carried that familiar note of calm authority, though Himeko caught the hint of concern underneath. "I apologize for the delay. The Legion's forces were more numerous than anticipated, though the Herta dolls provided invaluable support in pushing them back. One of them is on their way here now."
"What about Madame Herta herself?" Dan asked, his tone carefully measured. "Given the situation with the Stellaron..."
Welt shook his head, adjusting his grip on their unconscious ally. "The dolls will relay everything to her, but I doubt we'll see her in person. She's likely absorbed in her research at the edge of the cosmos." A slight furrow appeared in his brow. "Even an attack of this magnitude might not be enough to draw her attention from whatever experiments she's conducting up there."
Himeko nodded, her eyes drawn to the angry red burns visible through the man's charred clothing. "Your timing was perfect as always, Welt. We're fine, but..." She gestured to their unconscious ally. "I've never seen anything like that before. March, Dan—you found him with the researchers, right?"
Dan stepped forward, his usual stoic expression troubled. "We found him unconscious while searching for survivors and Arlan. No uniform, so we assumed he was a researcher or visiting scientist at first."
"He was really confused when he woke up!" March added, her voice tight with worry despite her attempt at her usual cheerful tone. "He thought we were joking about being on the Herta Space Station. Like he couldn't believe where he was."
Himeko watched as March fidgeted with her sleeve, clearly distressed. The girl had always worn her heart on her sleeve, and the day's events had clearly shaken her.
Dan's voice cut through her thoughts. "He showed signs of shock, possibly transient global amnesia. When we tried to calm him, he panicked and ran. We had to pursue him—we were in the middle of the Legion's attack." He paused, glancing at the unconscious man. "He handled himself well against the Reavers. Too well for just a researcher."
Something clicked in Himeko's mind, remembering how he'd moved during their fight with the Beast. Each dodge, each strike had been precise, like he'd rehearsed it a thousand times. And that golden power—the Stellaron's energy—had responded to him with devastating effect.
Welt crouched to examine the man more closely, his brow furrowing as he studied the burns. Himeko's eyes widened as she noticed the injuries beginning to fade, angry red giving way to healthy pink at an impossible rate.
"How curious," Welt murmured. He stood, turning to face them. "While his healing ability is remarkable, we should still exercise caution. We don't know the full toll this power has taken on his body."
March bounced on her heels, some of her usual energy returning. "Don't worry! Dan and I promised to help him contact his family and friends!" She rubbed the back of her neck, grinning sheepishly. "I might have also told him you two could answer his questions. He just seemed so lost..."
A small smile tugged at Himeko's lips despite everything. Classic March, always ready to help even complete strangers.
"Oh!" March's eyes went wide. "We need to make sure he apologizes to Dan Heng too!"
Himeko raised an eyebrow. "Why's that?"
March's hands flew up as she explained, "When we found him, we thought he needed CPR. Dan was about to do it, but the guy woke up and—" She mimed a punch. "Knocked him right back!"
Dan's palm met his forehead, and Himeko couldn't help but laugh. Even Welt cracked a smile, though his eyes remained focused on their mysterious ally. The man who'd appeared from nowhere, wielding the station's missing Stellaron with devastating—and nearly fatal—results.
Himeko sobered at the thought. They had their answers about the Stellaron now, but those answers only led to more questions. Who was this man? And how had he ended up with that kind of power?
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Alexander claws at the darkness, his mind a maelstrom of fractured memories and searing pain. Flashes of golden light, the thunderous roar of battle, and an overwhelming sense of otherness assault his senses. He tries to scream, but no sound escapes. His body isn't his own. Nothing is his.
What the fuck is happening to me?
Panic rises like bile in his throat. He'd been fighting, hadn't he? The station, the monsters, what he thought his own mind was trying to pass off as an honest-to-God, real Doomsday Beast. But after that... nothing. A gaping void where his memories should be, filled instead with a cacophony of impossible sensations.
I'm losing my goddamn mind.
Rage bubbles up, hot and irrational. He wants to lash out, to break something, anything. But there's nothing here. Just an endless expanse of... what? His own fractured psyche?
"Hello?" he calls out, his voice sounding distant and hollow. "Is anyone there?"
The darkness shifts. A presence materializes, and Alexander's breath catches in his throat. The figure before him is human-shaped but wrong—edges blurred and indistinct, yet radiating an authority that makes his skin crawl. Something about it feels familiar, but when he tries to focus on why, pain lances through his skull.
"What are you?" Alexander demands, trying to mask his confusion and fear with anger. "What did you do to me?"
The figure observes him in silence, its presence growing heavier, more oppressive. The air thickens, making it hard to breathe. Alexander takes an involuntary step back.
"That voice before," Alexander starts, his words tumbling out, desperate. "In my head, when we were fighting—what was that? Why did it want me to—"
The darkness around them writhes, and Alexander drops to his knees, choking on words he can't form.
When the figure finally speaks, its voice carries echoes of something Alexander can't quite place—something that makes his blood run cold. "Do not heed the voice. As long as you resist its whispers, you may yet control its power."
"I don't understand," Alexander gasps, struggling against the pressure crushing down on him. "What's happening to me?"
The figure's response is a wave of cold fury that sends Alexander reeling. Images flash through his mind—fragments of memories that can't be his. Battlefields strewn with bodies. A mechanical mask reflecting golden light. A fleeting glimpse of a small figure, their features lost in shadow. A woman with red-wine colored hair, smiling—
The figure turns away slightly, its voice carrying a bitter edge. "They did quite a number on our memories, didn't they?"
Pain explodes behind his eyes. The void convulses around him.
"Survive," the figure commands, the word reverberating through Alexander's consciousness.
"Wait—!" Alexander reaches out, desperate for answers, but reality comes rushing back with brutal force. The sterile smell of the space station seeps in. The lingering taste of ozone from energy weapons coats his tongue. The dull ache of bruised muscles pulls him toward consciousness.
But his eyes remain closed, caught in that liminal space between darkness and waking, and that single command settles deep within him—not just an echo, but a permanent mark branded into his consciousness. A word that would haunt him in the days to come, through every battle, every choice, every moment of doubt:
Survive.
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Alexander opens his eyes slowly, blinking against the bright lights overhead. His head throbs, a dull, insistent pain. His body aches as he tries to sit up, realizing he's lying on a bed in what appears to be an actual infirmary room.
Could it be…?
The space certainly looks medical enough—white walls, that distinct antiseptic smell that always makes his nose wrinkle, monitoring equipment nearby. But something feels... off. The screens displaying his vitals are impossibly thin, almost like floating glass. The lighting doesn't come from any visible source, instead seeming to emanate from the walls themselves. Even the bed beneath him hums with a barely perceptible vibration, as if powered by something he can't quite identify.
No, he tells himself firmly, pushing away the creeping doubt. This is just a modern hospital. They probably brought me here after the crash. That's all.
For a fleeting moment, he wonders if everything that happened was just a vivid nightmare—the kind that feels so real you wake up disoriented, unsure where dream ends and reality begins. He's not hooked up to any IVs or monitoring equipment, and instead of his suit, he's wearing what feels like cotton hospital clothes—a loose, long white t-shirt and black sweatpants. Comfortable, utilitarian.
He takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly, a technique he learned years ago to center himself. Christ, that felt too real. Maybe this is what happens when you have a brush with death, though the last time... He stops that train of thought immediately. No point dwelling on old memories. Not now.
Need to make some calls, he thinks, mentally listing them out. Work first, then Summer, Sebastian, my parents... His girlfriend would be worried sick if he missed their dinner plans without explanation.
His hand instinctively reaches for a phone that isn't there. A spike of panic hits him, and he quickly scans the room, heart rate accelerating. There's a bedside table to his right, but no phone—just a glass of water waiting for him.
Don't worry, he tells himself, tamping down the anxiety. They probably stored it with my other belongings. Standard procedure.
Realizing how parched he is, his throat dry as sandpaper, he reaches for the glass. As he brings it to his lips, voices drift in from the hallway—a heated discussion growing clearer as it approaches his room.
"—still needs rest!" A familiar female voice protests. "The fight with the Doomsday Beast was—"
"Don't be stupid," a childish yet authoritative voice cuts in. "With a Stellaron sealed inside him, he should be fully recovered by now given the medical reports—something to take note of. I need to file that away for further investigation. Preferably later. The real question is how. How did they manage to seal something I couldn't inside a living being of all things? And using my property, no less!"
The voices draw closer, accompanied by the sound of rapid footsteps—an odd, uneven rhythm that doesn't quite match normal walking.
He turns toward the door, glass still raised, and several things happen in rapid succession.
First, the door slides open—not swings, but actually slides, like something out of a sci-fi movie. The sound of air rushing through the seal sends a chill down his spine.
Second, a familiar face appears: March 7th, her aquamarine and lilac eyes wide, pink hair bouncing as she practically beams at the sight of him. "You're awake!" she exclaims, the relief in her voice almost palpable.
Third, a small figure pushes past her, and Alexander's brain short-circuits. His mind screams recognition even as he tries to deny what he's seeing. The figure before him is a perfect recreation of a young girl, wearing a frilled white minidress with a lilac diamond motif under a black and purple coat that exposes her shoulders. But those shoulders... where human joints should be, there are mechanical connections, precise and intricate like an expensive doll. A black beret adorned with a purple flower sits atop her long ash-brown hair, and a purple choker with a small key dangles at her neck. Her footwear—dark purple and white heeled boots with gold safety pins—clicks against the floor with inhuman precision.
The doll-like figure studies him with unnervingly intense eyes, her gaze clinical and dissecting. Alexander remains frozen in place, cheeks bulging with water he hasn't swallowed yet, trying desperately to process what he's seeing. Every detail matches perfectly with what he remembers from the game—no, no, this can't be real, it was all supposed to have been a dream!—down to the golden lock and chain pinned around her torso.
"My, my," the doll says, her voice carrying that distinctive mix of childish pitch and mature condescension that only Herta could manage. "Have you never seen someone so beautiful that you've forgotten how to drink?"
Water sprays from Alexander's mouth as he chokes, coughing violently. His eyes water as he tries to catch his breath, the sheer absurdity of a child-sized doll's proud self-admiration being the final straw for his fragile composure.
March immediately rushes to Alexander's side, patting his back as he coughs up water. "Are you okay?" she asks, genuine concern in her voice. "Here, let me help—"
"Yes, thank you," Alexander responds automatically, then freezes. March's hand is warm against his back. Real. Human. He looks up at her face—those impossible eyes, aquamarine with hints of lilac, filled with worry. Not CGI, not pixels on a screen, but real eyes looking back at him.
Something fractures inside of his mind. The fundamental worldview that had anchored him for twenty-eight years shatters—a world explained by science yet created by God—at the very least, according to his own at times unanswered faith. A world where technology had clear limits, where magic remained firmly in the realm of fiction, where reality operated by rules he thought he understood. This reality that had been the bedrock of his belief through every hardship suddenly crumbles beneath him like sand washed away by a tsunami.
Before, when the adrenaline pumped through his veins, when death's shadow loomed close, he could rationalize it all away. His brain, faced with imminent death, had chosen to flood him with hormones that triggered not visions of his family or his life flashing before his eyes, but instead vivid hallucinations of being inside a video game he'd recently played. It made sense, in a twisted way—his mind grabbing onto recent memories rather than meaningful ones in its desperate bid to cope with death.
And for one blessed moment after waking up in this room, he'd believed it. The medical equipment, the antiseptic smell, the cotton clothes—it had all pointed to him being in a regular—slightly high-tech—hospital, recovering from the road accident. That everything before had been just that: a vivid hallucination, a dream his dying brain had conjured.
But this? The warmth of March's hand on his back, the genuine concern in those impossible eyes—it shatters that final, desperate hope. There's no more room for denial, no way to rationalize this away. His mind reels, desperately trying to reconcile what he knows should be with what undeniably is.
His thoughts spiral, fracturing like glass under pressure. This can't be happening. I'm Alexander Salvatore. I work at Nexus Technologies. I have a girlfriend named Summer. A brother in all but blood named Sebastian. A loving, caring mother. My father was shot nine times and survived back when I was fifteen. I did the unthinkable as a result and have been failing to make up for it ever since. I'm real. This isn't. It can't be.
Panic claws at his throat, the room seeming to pulse and distort around him. His heartbeat thunders in his ears as disconnected thoughts collide—prayers to a God who suddenly feels impossibly distant, memories of a life that might no longer exist, questions with no answers. Reality itself becomes a roaring, screaming thing that threatens to consume him whole.
And through the fissures in his crumbling sanity, something else slithers in.
Why resist? A voice like silk slides through his thoughts. If none of this is real, then destroy it. Prove it's all illusion. Break it apart...
"DO NOT—" Alexander's voice comes out distorted, raw, torn from somewhere deep inside his chest. The room's temperature plummets as white and black energy begins crackling around him, dancing across his skin like lightning.
March's eyes widen in alarm. The Herta doll's reaction is instantaneous—a pillar of ice materializes between them, her tiny hands moving with practiced precision.
"—FUCKING TOUCH ME!" The words tear from his throat as his arm lashes out. Sparks of destruction energy explode outward, shredding equipment and gouging walls. March barely manages to raise her preservation shield as she leaps back, the ice wall further protecting her from the chaos.
The Herta doll's hammer materializes in a flash of purple light. She swings, catching Alexander in a block he throws up purely on instinct. The impact sends him flying into the wall with a thunderous crash that knocks the air from his lungs.
He slumps to the floor, wheezing—but a distant part of his mind notes that the hit should have broken bones. Should have left him crippled. The fact it hasn't only confirms that something with his body is fundamentally wrong.
"Do you need another hit to calm down and think like a rational—" The Herta doll stops mid-sentence, watching as white and black energy continues to pour off Alexander's trembling form.
"Wasn't the Stellaron supposed to be contained?!" March asks, her shield still raised, voice high with tension.
"It is contained," Herta responds, her analytical gaze taking in Alexander's state. Her expression shifts from annoyance to clinical interest as she observes his rapid breathing, his dilated pupils, the way his hands shake. "This isn't the Stellaron's influence. He's having some sort of psychological episode."
Think rationally, the voice soothes. If you don't fight back now, they'll—
Something snaps inside Alexander. Raw fury floods him—at being manipulated, at being told what to do by some phantom presence he doesn't understand.
With a force of will that feels both foreign and familiar, he turns that fury inward, directing it at the presence in his mind. The voice lets out an inhuman shriek of pain that echoes through his skull.
"Enough," Alexander growls, his voice carrying an edge of steel. His words directed at the invasive presence trying to corrupt his thoughts. "Whatever you are, you're making this worse. I won't let you."
Survive.
The command thunders through his consciousness. It feels both foreign and familiar, like muscle memory he doesn't remember acquiring. A part of him questions why this directive holds such weight, why he instinctively knows that antagonizing March or the doll would be catastrophic, why every fiber of his being screams at him to maintain control. He doesn't understand where this knowledge comes from or why he trusts it so implicitly, but in this moment of crisis, it's the only clear path forward he has.
The energy around him begins to stabilize, though his breathing remains ragged, his mind a battlefield of conflicting realities.
Alexander's world tilts on its axis as security personnel flood the room, Arlan at the forefront with his massive electrical sword crackling with energy, his eyes scanning the room for threats. Alexander's muscles tense, ready to spring into action if needed, his mind racing to process the surreal situation.
The Herta doll's voice cuts through the tension, her tone a jarring mix of childish pitch and authoritative command. "There's nothing to be concerned about," she declares, waving a mechanical hand dismissively. "Our patient simply experienced a manic episode due to stress. The Stellaron remains fully contained and harmless." Her purple eyes lock onto Alexander, a hint of challenge in their depths. "It won't happen again. Isn't that right?"
Irritation flares within him, his jaw clenching at her condescending tone. Who does this doll think she is? But as he opens his mouth to retort, his gaze catches March's. The fear in her impossible eyes—aquamarine with hints of lilac—hits him like a physical blow. Guilt crashes over him, dousing the anger. He'd nearly hurt her, lashed out at the one person who'd shown him genuine kindness in this madness.
Alexander forces himself to take a deep breath, then another. This isn't the time for an existential crisis. He needs to stay calm, to think clearly. It wouldn't do him any good to antagonize Fuli's—
Pain explodes behind his eyes, a migraine threatening to split his skull. Alexander crashes to the floor, his body wracked with violent tremors. Involuntary sparks of destruction energy lash out around him as one hand claws at his hair, the other stretching forward of its own accord.
Through the haze of agony, a desperate thought surfaces: Is this my penance? The pain is excruciating, unlike anything he's ever experienced—worse than the broken ribs from that bar fight in college, worse than the time he'd sliced his hand open trying to fix Sebastian's car. In his moment of crisis, his mind grasps for explanations, no matter how illogical. Did he die in that crash? Is this some version of hell or purgatory, punishment for his past sins?
He quickly realizes what triggered it—trying to recall something about March, about her connection to... to what? The memories scatter like ashes in the wind, each attempt to grasp them sending fresh waves of agony through his head. Blood fills his mouth—he'd bitten through his lip without realizing it.
A warm hand grasps his outstretched one, squeezing tightly. "I've got you," a familiar voice says. "You're fine." Alexander clings to that hand like a lifeline, anchoring himself against the waves of pain that threaten to pull him under.
The security personnel shift uneasily, weapons still trained on Alexander. Arlan's massive electrical sword crackles with barely contained energy, casting moving shadows across his stern face. But the Herta doll keeps her arm raised, holding them back, her analytical gaze never leaving him.
In desperation, he turns his will inward, toward that presence he'd fought earlier. Stop this pain, he commands. To his surprise, the migraine begins to recede, though attempting to recall those specific memories still feels like prodding at broken glass embedded in his brain.
He opens his eyes, his breath ragged, sweat pouring down his face. March 7th crouches beside him, her hand still gripping his. The Herta doll stands nearby, one arm still raised to halt the security personnel, her gaze clinically observing him as if he were a particularly intriguing puzzle.
"Do you feel better now?" March asks, her voice laced with concern. "Can you describe the pain? The space station has all sorts of equipment—I'm sure we can find treatment for whatever you have."
Alexander's heart sinks at her words. He's connected enough dots to suspect there's no treatment for what ails him. How do you cure being ripped from your reality and thrust into a world that shouldn't exist? What pill fixes that?
The Herta doll steps forward, her mechanical joints whirring softly. "Stand down," she orders the security team. "But remain on alert." She turns to March. "You mentioned something about his personal effects?"
March nods, though she doesn't release Alexander's hand. "They're in the cabinet. Should I...?"
The doll makes an impatient gesture. "Yes, yes. Show him. Perhaps it will help stabilize his mental state further." Her purple eyes narrow at Alexander. "Though any more outbursts will be met with decisive action."
March leaps to her feet and hurries to the nightstand, now in disarray from the earlier chaos. Rummaging through a cabinet, she retrieves two small objects nestled in soft fabric.
"After you were knocked unconscious," she explains, returning to Alexander's side, "we found some personal items in your suit pocket. It was badly burned after your clash with the Doomsday Beast, but these survived."
Alexander struggles to process her words, having lost all track of the fight after that first migraine hit. But as he uncovers the items, his eyes widen in disbelief, a small gasp escaping his lips.
In his hands lie his mother's cross pendant and his father's stainless steel watch. A jolt of recognition courses through him, followed quickly by confusion. The watch is missing its strap, crystal, and internal mechanism. The cross pendant lacks its familiar cord.
Noticing his bewilderment, March elaborates. "The necklace was burned to a crisp, and parts of the watch were damaged too. But for the most part, they're intact—as if they were reinforced to be extremely heat resistant." She continues explaining the extent of the damage, but Alexander barely hears her, lost in wonder as he examines the impossibly familiar objects.
These items are from his world. The real world. How can they be here? Then he remembers—that very morning, before leaving for work, he'd put on the cross pendant and strapped on his father's watch. They never left his side. He just... never made it to the office.
Alexander clutches the items tightly, feeling an unexpected sense of calm wash over him. These small, battered objects serve as tangible proof of his reality, anchors in the storm of impossibility surrounding him.
He looks up at March, his gaze intense. She shifts nervously under his scrutiny, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. "Thank you," Alexander says, his voice rough with emotion. He pushes himself to his feet, still unsteady but feeling more grounded than he has since waking in this insane world.
"I really like the design of the pendant," March comments, clearly relieved to see him more composed. "Does it have some special meaning? Where did you get it?"
Alexander stares at the cross, considering her question seriously for a second. It means so many things: sacrifice, love, faith, commitment... "Victory over death," he whispers, a shiver running through him at the words. He stops himself from explaining further, his throat tightening as he contemplates discussing the symbol of his faith in this impossible scenario. The weight of everything that's happened threatens to overwhelm him once more.
Instead, he clutches the damaged watch and scorched pendant, drawing strength from their familiar contours. Whatever madness he's found himself in, whatever cosmic joke or divine test this might be, these small pieces of home remind him of who he is. And right now, that's enough to keep him from falling apart completely.
His gaze snaps to the Herta doll as she addresses him, her mechanical eyes dissecting him with cold precision. He feels like a specimen pinned to a board, every twitch and reaction cataloged for later analysis. The sensation crawls across his skin, setting his teeth on edge.
"Have you calmed down sufficiently?" the doll inquires, her childish voice at odds with the clinical detachment in her eyes. "Or should we expect further... outbursts?"
Alexander opens his mouth to retort, but the words die on his tongue as he catches the hint of challenge in her gaze. He forces himself to take a deep breath, wrestling his irritation under control. Getting into a verbal sparring match with a robotic child isn't going to improve his situation.
The Herta doll's lips curl into a smirk, clearly noting his internal struggle. "My, my," she says, her tone dripping with false sympathy. "If I'd known you were so sensitive, I wouldn't have made that comment about my beauty earlier. Though I suppose it must be overwhelming for someone like you to be in the presence of such perfection."
Alexander scoffs, torn between disbelief and grudging amusement. The sheer audacity of this pint-sized automaton is almost impressive. Despite himself, he feels some of the tension drain from his shoulders. The absurdity of the situation provides a welcome distraction from the existential crisis threatening to consume him.
His gaze sweeps across the room, taking in the security personnel clustered around Arlan, their weapons still at the ready. A chill runs down his spine as the reality of his predicament sinks in. He turns back to the Herta doll, unable to keep the edge from his voice. "What the hell is going on here? Why does it look like I'm scheduled for death row?"
The doll's expression shifts to one of exaggerated innocence. "Oh, that? Well, I was on my way to see you—along with March 7th here, who was annoyingly concerned about your well-being—to try and... how shall we put it? Double-cross you."
Alexander blinks, thrown by her blunt admission. "Double-cross me?"
"Indeed," Herta continues, her tone growing sharper. "You see, we're quite interested in learning how an unknown individual with no records in our database managed to find himself within this station. No entry logs, no one recognizing you, not even arriving as a passenger on any ship in the last 48 hours." Her purple eyes narrow. "We want answers."
Alexander's mind races, desperately trying to piece together a coherent explanation. But the truth is so absurd, so impossible, that he can barely wrap his own head around it. Still, he forces himself to speak, knowing silence will only make him look more suspicious.
"I don't have any recollection of how I got here," he says, his voice rough. "The last thing I remember, I was on my way to work. Someone crashed into me, and I was knocked unconscious." He runs a hand through his hair, frustration mounting. "Instead of waking up in a hospital, I find myself here, with people trying to kill me and... and you." He gestures at the doll, at the impossible reality surrounding him. "Why the hell am I the one with guns pointed at me?"
The Herta doll stares at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, to his surprise, she bursts into laughter. It's a disconcerting sound, too perfect to be truly childlike, yet carrying an undercurrent of genuine amusement.
"Well," she says, once her laughter subsides, "I suppose I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. You genuinely look bewildered, and that explanation is so cartoonishly bizarre—" She pauses, a hint of something like recognition flashing in her eyes before she continues. "It's such a stupid justification with no sense or basis. And it's clear you don't understand the implications of the security risk you represent."
She waves a hand dismissively. "We'll cut this short for now. There are other interested parties who should participate in your examination." Her gaze flicks to March 7th. "The Astral Express crew, for instance. There's much to discuss, and clearly more to your story." She hesitates, then adds, "Plus, there's the matter of you having..."
Alexander leans forward, his heart pounding. "Having what?"
But the doll doesn't finish her sentence. Instead, she turns to Arlan. "Please escort our guest out of the room."
Arlan nods, motioning for two of his subordinates to approach. Alexander tenses as they draw near, his muscles coiling in preparation for... what? Flight? Fight? He's not even sure anymore.
His eyes widen as Arlan produces a set of high-tech handcuffs. "Is that really necessary?" Alexander asks, unable to keep the edge from his voice. "I've been here this whole time without restraints. Why suddenly treat me like a prisoner?"
Arlan's expression remains impassive, but there's a hint of sympathy in his eyes. "After your recent... episode," he explains, "we need to take precautions. For your safety as well as ours. These aren't just restraints—they're designed to dampen any uncontrolled energy emissions."
Alexander wants to argue further, to point out the absurdity of it all. But he bites his tongue, knowing it won't do any good. As Arlan moves to secure the cuffs, March 7th steps forward, her eyes shining with concern.
"It'll be okay," she says softly, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "Remember, I promised to help you. We'll figure this out together." Her smile is warm, reassuring. "The Astral Express crew—they're good people. They'll listen to your story, help us understand what's happening."
Alexander meets her gaze, searching for any hint of deception. But all he sees is sincerity and kindness. He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to relax as Arlan secures the handcuffs.
"Are you quite finished acting like a child?" the Herta doll asks, her tone dripping with impatience. "We have places to be, mysteries to unravel. Do try to keep up."
With that, she turns on her heel and marches out of the room. Arlan gently guides Alexander forward, March 7th falling into step beside them.
The procession through the station's corridors draws stares from every direction. Alexander keeps his eyes forward, jaw clenched, trying to ignore the whispers that follow in their wake. The cuffs feel impossibly heavy on his wrists, though he suspects that has more to do with what Arlan called "energy dampening" than actual weight. Security personnel flank them on all sides, their weapons held ready, faces grim with purpose.
March walks beside him, her usual bounce noticeably subdued. Her eyes keep darting to the crews working throughout the station—particularly when they pass another covered body being documented by solemn-faced personnel. Each time, she seems to shrink a little more into herself.
"I'm sorry about this," she says quietly, gesturing to his restraints. "After what you did for us with the Beast, it doesn't seem right."
Alexander's step falters slightly. He opens his mouth to respond, but movement catches his eye—a research team carefully transferring a body bag onto a gurney. The sight shouldn't affect him; he's seen worse in his life. But something about the clinical efficiency of it all, the way it fits so perfectly into this impossible reality, makes his stomach turn.
Alexander stares at his restraints, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. "Energy emissions?" The words come out strained. Everything that's happened since he woke up here feels wrong—impossible. And now this? He cuts off, remembering the chaos in the infirmary, the power that had erupted from him. His hands begin to shake. "That wasn't... I don't know how I did that. I shouldn't be able to do that."
The Herta doll, leading their group, lets out an exaggerated sigh. "Whether you understand it or not is irrelevant. The fact remains that you nearly destroyed my infirmary with powers you claim not to comprehend. Hence," she gestures to the cuffs without turning around, "precautions."
More whispers follow them, growing louder as they pass a group of researchers. Their eyes lock onto Alexander's restraints, then dart away when he meets their gaze. One woman actually takes a step back, pressing herself against the wall to let them pass. Her reaction seems excessive until Alexander notices the fresh bandages on her arm—likely from the Legion's attack.
"Your friends are waiting," the Herta doll announces as they approach a sealed door. "Try to behave yourself. I'd hate to have to explain to The Herta why I had to freeze you solid."
The door slides open to reveal a conference room dominated by a massive holographic display. Himeko and Welt stand near the center, their conversation cutting off as the group enters. Their eyes immediately go to Alexander's restraints.
"Is this really necessary?" Himeko asks, her tone carefully neutral but her disapproval clear.
"After his episode in the infirmary—" Arlan begins, but Himeko cuts him off.
"Episode? What episode?" Her eyes narrow, gaze shifting between Arlan and the Herta doll.
"He nearly destroyed the medical equipment in one of my infirmary rooms," the Herta doll states matter-of-factly. "Almost hurt March 7th in the process."
"That's not fair!" March protests immediately. "He was confused and scared. You saw how he reacted when he realized where he was. He didn't mean to—"
"Intent doesn't matter when dealing with unknown power signatures," the Herta doll counters. "The restraints stay on until we better understand the situation."
Welt observes the exchange thoughtfully before stepping forward. "Perhaps we should start with proper introductions. That might help ease some of the tension." He inclines his head slightly. "I am Welt Yang. This is Himeko, and you've already met March 7th and Madame Herta."
"Really?" The Herta doll's mechanical joints whir as she turns, indignation clear in her voice. "That's how you introduce me? 'Madame Herta'? Not 'the brilliant mind behind this entire space station' or 'renowned genius society member'?"
Welt's lips twitch slightly. "My apologies. And you are...?" He directs this last question to Alexander.
Alexander's fingers dig into his palms, nails leaving crescent marks. His mouth feels dry, tongue like sandpaper. These people—these impossible, fictional people—are waiting for his answer. Part of him wants to give a fake name, but he's already neck-deep in lies and half-truths. Better to keep it simple.
"Call me Xander," he manages finally, the words feeling inadequate even as he says them. The silence that follows makes it clear they expect more, but he keeps his jaw locked tight, shoulders tensed like he's expecting a blow.
Welt nods, accepting the bare minimum of information with grace. "Well, Xander, I believe I owe you my thanks. According to Himeko's account, if you hadn't held off that second Beast, I might not have arrived in time."
"What?" Alexander's brow furrows, genuine confusion coloring his voice. "I... there must be some mistake. I remember seeing it appear and aiding March 7th, but after that..." He glances between them, searching their faces. "Are you sure you're not confusing me with someone else?"
Himeko steps forward, her expression a mix of concern and disbelief. "You fought alongside us. Dan Heng and I were there. You helped us corner it, used that golden power—"
"That's impossible," Alexander cuts in, head shaking. "I never..." He trails off, his mind struggling to reconcile their words with his memories.
"But we saw you!" March interjects. "You collapsed first, grabbing your head like you were in terrible pain. Then when you got up..." She hesitates, fingers fidgeting with her camera strap. "You were different. More focused. Almost like..."
"Like a different person," Himeko finishes quietly.
Alexander's hands begin to shake. The presence from his dream floods back—that cold authority, the command that still echoes in his mind: Survive. But something deep inside warns him against sharing this, the same instinct that's kept him alive through countless fights.
"Have you experienced headaches like this before?" Welt asks, his tone deliberately casual. "Any history of medical conditions we should know about?"
A harsh laugh escapes Alexander's throat. "Been healthy as a horse my whole life." His mouth twists into a bitter smile. "Unless I've developed some kind of tumor without knowing. Wouldn't that be ironic?"
The Herta doll's mechanical eyes narrow at his choice of words.
"Can you remember anything else?" Himeko presses gently. "What you were thinking about when the pain started?"
Alexander runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every movement. "I was trying to remember something about..." His eyes flick to March, then away just as quickly. Fresh pain stabs behind his eyes, but duller now, like an echo. "There are things—memories—that feel like they should be there. But every time I try to reach for them, it's like hitting a wall made of knives."
"Yet you seem perfectly fine now," the Herta doll observes, sudden interest sharpening her tone. "The pain's gone?"
"It..." Alexander starts, then stops. How can he explain that something else is keeping the pain at bay? That voice that had tried to soothe him, promising relief if he'd just give in... and the other presence, the one that had helped him resist. He settles for, "It doesn't hurt when I'm not trying to remember."
"The Stellaron's power," the Herta doll states matter-of-factly. She gestures to a nearby screen where footage plays—Alexander, surrounded by golden light, facing down the Beast. "Our security feeds captured everything. You channeled it without being corrupted. Quite remarkable, really."
"Stellaron?" Something cold settles in Alexander's chest at the word. Despite everything he knows—everything that feels like memory but shouldn't be—hearing it spoken here makes his blood run cold. "What are you talking about?"
"Let me explain what we've discovered," Welt says, his measured tone carrying an edge of gravity. "During our examination while you were unconscious, we confirmed that you are currently hosting what we call a Stellaron within your body."
Alexander's fingers dig into his palms. Every instinct screams at him to show recognition, to reveal what he knows, but something else—that cold presence at the edge of his consciousness—keeps his expression carefully neutral. "I don't understand," he manages, the words coming out strained but genuine-sounding. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"A Stellaron," Welt continues, watching Alexander's reactions closely, "is a mysterious phenomenon that spreads across the universe like a cancerous growth. It's earned the name 'Cancer of All Worlds' for good reason. When one appears within any civilization, any ecosystem, it triggers catastrophic changes that inevitably lead to ruin."
The Herta doll steps forward, her mechanical joints whirring softly. "I had one contained here, in this station's most secure research facility. The containment protocols were beyond top secret. Its exact location was known to less than five individuals in the entire station." Her purple eyes fix on Alexander with laser intensity. "Yet somehow, during the Legion's attack, someone managed to breach our security, locate it, and..." She gestures at him. "Well."
The implication hangs heavy in the air. Alexander's mind races, but that presence helps keep his breathing steady, his expression more confused than panicked. "Are you suggesting I had something to do with this? I told you—I was in an accident. Then I woke up here." He lets his voice crack slightly. "I don't even know where 'here' is supposed to be."
"An extraordinarily convenient story," the Herta doll observes, tapping one mechanical finger against her arm. "One that explains nothing about how a Stellaron—one of the most dangerous forces in existence—ended up sealed within you."
"Perhaps we should focus on the immediate situation," Himeko interjects, her tone diplomatic but firm. "The fact is, you channeled this power during the battle, though you say you don't remember it. And somehow, you managed to do so without being corrupted."
"Corrupted?" Alexander lets the genuine fear he's feeling color his voice. After all, it's not an act—the implications of having a Stellaron inside him, something he knows is capable of destroying entire worlds, are terrifying.
"Stellarons aren't just destructive forces," Welt explains, leaning forward slightly. "They're conscious entities, capable of influencing their hosts. No one has ever successfully contained one within a living body without catastrophic consequences. Until now, apparently."
Alexander's hand moves unconsciously to his chest, where that strange warmth pulses in sync with his heartbeat. The truth hovers on the tip of his tongue—about the voice he'd heard, about the other presence that had helped him resist it. But something holds him back. In this impossible situation, surrounded by people who shouldn't exist, discussing powers that shouldn't be real, every instinct tells him to keep those cards close to his chest.
"I don't—" he starts, then stops, searching for words that won't give him away. "How is this even possible?"
"That," the Herta doll states, her childlike voice dropping an octave, "is exactly what we intend to find out."
Her joints whir as she takes a step forward, the sound unnervingly mechanical. "Let me be perfectly clear about your situation," she says, her clinical tone at odds with her doll-like appearance. "You're currently hosting an incredibly dangerous entity that could destroy this entire station if not properly contained. Whether you're being willfully uncooperative or genuinely have no memory of recent events is, frankly, irrelevant to me." Her purple eyes narrow. "You will remain contained within this station until we better understand the situation."
A small smile plays across her mechanical features. "Moreover, I'm particularly interested in studying your body's properties. A normal human being shouldn't be capable of containing a Stellaron's power as you are, let alone channeling it without corruption. The research possibilities are... fascinating."
Alexander recoils visibly, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. "I'm not some lab rat for you to dissect," he snaps, hands clenching into fists.
The doll's smile widens. "Do you truly not understand your position here?" Her voice carries an edge of amusement. "This is my station. That Stellaron inside you was my property. Whatever conjured horrors you're imagining are likely exaggerations, but ultimately..." She spreads her mechanical hands. "You're in no position to argue."
Something shifts in Alexander's mind—that cold presence pushing forward, guiding his gaze toward March. His eyes find hers, desperate and pleading in a way that surprises even him.
March catches his look and straightens suddenly. "Wait," she says, turning to Himeko and Welt. "Isn't there another option? Couldn't he... couldn't he join the Astral Express?"
Himeko and Welt exchange glances, clearly caught off guard by the suggestion.
"The Nameless are always open to those who can walk the path of the Trailblaze," March continues earnestly, words tumbling out faster. "No matter where they're from! And we have experience dealing with Stellarons. We could guide him, help him understand what's happening." She gestures toward Alexander. "He already proved himself fighting the Beast alongside us!"
"March," Himeko starts carefully, placing a hand on the girl's shoulder, "becoming a Nameless, joining the Express... it's an enormous responsibility. While it's true that anyone can potentially join, regardless of their origin—"
"There's still a thorough vetting process," Welt finishes. "For good reason."
"Oh, I'm fine with either scenario," the Herta doll interjects, waving a hand dismissively. "Contained here or aboard your Express—as long as I get to study his unique properties, the arrangement is irrelevant to me."
Alexander's fingers find his cross pendant, gripping it until his knuckles turn white. Everything in him wants to lash out, to reject this farce where these fictional characters debate his fate. But that presence in his mind keeps him steady, guides his next words: "What would it take?" His voice comes out hoarse but controlled. "To join the Express?"
Himeko and Welt both turn to him, surprise evident in their expressions. "Why would you want to?" Himeko asks carefully.
That presence in Alexander's mind seems to steady him, guiding his words with unnatural clarity. He raises his cuffed hands, palms up—a gesture of openness that feels both natural and calculated.
"Look at me," he says, his voice raw with emotion that isn't entirely feigned. "I have no idea where I am. One moment I was driving to work, the next I'm in some space station that shouldn't—" He catches himself, swallows hard. "That I've never heard of before. I don't want to be trapped here any more than you want an unknown variable walking around your station."
His hands begin to shake slightly, but he forces himself to continue. "My family—" The word catches in his throat, a sharp pain lancing through his chest. "I need to find my way back to them. The answers have to be out there somewhere, not locked away in some research lab."
He meets each of their gazes in turn, letting his desperation show. "Whatever verification you need—lie detectors, psychological evaluations, anything—I'll do it. Just... please. Help me find my way home."
March practically bounces forward. "See? He's willing to cooperate! And if he joins us, we can help him search for answers while keeping an eye on the Stellaron. It's perfect!"
Himeko and Welt exchange long looks. Something passes between them—years of shared experience condensed into subtle shifts of expression. Finally, Welt gives a slight nod, and Himeko turns back toward Alexander, her mouth opening to speak—
"I'll conduct the questioning," the Herta doll announces, her mechanical voice cutting through the moment like a scalpel.
"Herta," Himeko starts, frowning. "This is about joining the Express. Our criteria—"
"Are irrelevant," the doll interrupts, her purple eyes fixed unblinkingly on Alexander. "He's carrying my property within him. The Stellaron that I contained, that was stolen from my station." Her childlike face takes on an unsettling smile. "That makes him mine to examine, mine to question, and mine to evaluate—regardless of whether he or the Express prefer otherwise. The decision of his fate rests ultimately with me."
"While I understand your position," Himeko says carefully, her voice carrying a hint of steel beneath the diplomacy, "if we're discussing Express membership, we need to be present for the questioning." She straightens, meeting the doll's mechanical gaze. "It's an incredible responsibility. He needs to understand exactly what would be expected of him, and we need to thoroughly evaluate his character and background."
The Herta doll's head tilts slightly. "Are you questioning my judgment, Himeko?"
The trap in those words hangs heavy in the air. To deny it would be to imply that a Genius Society member, an Emanator of the Erudition, lacks proper judgment. Himeko chooses her next words with diplomatic precision.
"Your judgment has always been sound, Herta. But I fear you might not fully grasp the weight of what it means to be a Nameless, to carry the responsibilities that come with Express membership."
The doll lets out an exaggerated sigh, her small shoulders rising and falling dramatically. "How obvious. Of course I'm no Express member, nor do I care to be." Her mechanical joints whir as she gestures dismissively. "But really, Himeko, I'd expect you of all people to know I would never act against your interests or damage our working relationship." A sharp smile crosses her features. "And surely you're aware of my... thorough nature when investigating matters that interest me."
She adds, her tone deliberately casual, "You're free to conduct your own questioning afterward, of course. But I must insist on speaking with him first. Alone."
Alexander watches the exchange with growing unease. Something about the doll's insistence on privacy makes his skin crawl. He notices a flicker of suspicion cross Himeko's face as well—clearly, he's not the only one who finds this arrangement troubling.
Himeko holds the doll's gaze for a long moment before closing her eyes. Another soft sigh escapes her. "Very well. As long as you provide me with all details afterward."
"Naturally." The doll's smile widens. "Now then, please make yourselves comfortable. Asta will be joining you shortly to discuss the Express's resupply details." She turns to Arlan and his security team. "If you would be so kind as to escort our guest to my office?"
Alexander's muscles lock up. That presence in his mind, which had been so steady, so controlled, suddenly radiates anxiety—a feeling that only amplifies his own mounting dread. He tries to catch March's eye, Himeko's, anyone's, but a guard's hand lands heavy on his shoulder, pushing him forward.
Something snaps inside him. The urge to break the guard's jaw, to feel bone shatter under his fist, floods his system with such intensity that his vision blurs red at the edges. Only that presence—that echo of someone else's will—keeps him from acting. But he can't stop himself from turning, fixing the guard with a look of such visceral hatred that the man actually takes half a step back.
"No need to feel nervous," the Herta doll says, her childlike voice carrying an edge of amusement. "If you truly have nothing to hide, this will be quite painless." She starts walking, her mechanical footsteps echoing in the corridor. "Though I should warn you against any... unfortunate impulses. You're entitled to your feelings, of course, but compliance is non-negotiable."
A dozen caustic responses rise in Alexander's throat—each more violent than the last—but that presence keeps his jaw locked tight. Still, he can't stop the thoughts from racing: Mechanical little dictator. Self-important tin can. Arrogant piece of—
The guard's hand pushes again, and Alexander forces himself to walk, every step feeling like surrender.
———————————————
His muscles tense as he follows the Herta doll down the corridor, every step echoing like a death knell. The guards' proximity makes his skin crawl—their hands hovering near weapons, fingers twitching occasionally, as if he might lash out at any moment. As if I could, he thinks bitterly. As if I'm not completely at their mercy.
The office door slides open with a soft pneumatic hiss, revealing a space that sends a jolt of recognition through Alexander's system. Every detail matches his memory of the game with painful precision: the sleek, futuristic design with its flowing lines, the array of screens displaying incomprehensible data that flickers and changes almost too rapidly to follow, and there—at the far end of the room—the entrance to the Simulated Universe.
The sight of the three-petaled portal, pulsing with ethereal blue light, makes Alexander's breath catch in his throat. It's beautiful and terrifying all at once, a reminder of how far he is from anything resembling normalcy. The hum emanating from it seems to resonate with something deep inside him, vibrating in his bones, setting his nerves on edge like plucked strings.
Arlan clears his throat, drawing Alexander's attention. "Madame Herta," the security chief says, his tone careful, one hand still resting on his holstered weapon, "are you certain about this? Given the... sensitive nature of certain projects—"
The Herta doll waves a dismissive hand, the movement just a touch too smooth to be human. "Your concern is noted, Arlan, but unnecessary. I'm more than capable of handling this situation." Her mechanical eyes fix on Alexander, unblinking, reflecting light at all the wrong angles. "Please, make our guest comfortable and take off his restraints."
The guards guide Alexander to a chair, their grip firm but not cruel. One of them produces a small key and unlocks the handcuffs, the metal restraints falling away with a soft click. Alexander rubs his wrists reflexively, the skin beneath red and slightly chafed. As they step back, Arlan's gaze lingers on him. There's something in the young man's eyes—pity, perhaps, or a flicker of empathy—before he schools his expression back to professional neutrality.
"Will that be all, Madame?" Arlan asks, adjusting the cuff of his uniform.
The doll nods. "Indeed. I'd appreciate not being disturbed for the duration of our... conversation." Her joints click softly as she gestures. "If any matters require attention, kindly direct them to one of my other units."
Arlan hesitates for a heartbeat, then nods. "Understood." He spares Alexander one last glance—a look that speaks volumes about what he expects to happen—before leading his team out. The door slides shut with a soft hiss, leaving Alexander alone with the Herta doll.
Silence stretches between them, thick and oppressive. The doll's unblinking gaze bores into him, mechanical eyes revealing nothing. Alexander's heart pounds in his chest, each beat feeling like it might shatter his ribcage. Sweat beads on his forehead, trickling down his temple, but he grits his teeth, refusing to be the first to break.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the doll speaks: "Well? Aren't you going to start talking?"
Alexander scoffs, incredulity momentarily overriding his fear. "About what, exactly? You're the one who wanted to question me. I can't exactly answer questions you haven't asked."
"My, my." The doll's mechanical features shift into an expression of genuine surprise, head tilting at a precise angle. "I must say, I'm seriously impressed by how well you maintain this act. This commitment to complete cluelessness about your situation, your current status, the mess you're actually in..." She leans forward slightly, the chair creaking beneath her. "Your secrets are safe with me, you know. I thought I'd made it obvious that you're free to speak now that we're alone."
Alexander's brow furrows, genuine confusion flooding his system. The doll is implying... what? That he's covering for something? That they can "talk freely" now? About what?
"I don't understand," he says slowly, fingers digging into the armrests. "What exactly do you think I'm hiding?"
The doll's purple eyes narrow, genuine annoyance creeping into her mechanical features. "Is this truly how you want to play this? I went out of my way to allow you to speak directly to me. Are you not taking this seriously?" A hint of static distorts her voice at the end, betraying her irritation.
Something inside Alexander begins to crack. Every word from the doll's mouth just adds to his confusion, his frustration. That presence in his mind—the one that's been helping him maintain control—radiates increasing anxiety, like hands frantically trying to hold back floodwaters.
"You must have me confused with someone else," he manages, fighting to keep his voice steady, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "I seriously don't know what you're talking about."
"A numbskull and uncooperative." The doll's tone drips with disappointment, her mechanical fingers drumming against the desk. "And here I thought you'd appreciate the opportunity to discuss your fascinating interactions with Droidhead, or perhaps explain the nature of your existence as the Unanswerable Question."
"What?" Alexander's voice cracks with genuine confusion, his hands trembling slightly. "What interactions with Droidhead? What the hell is an 'Unanswerable Question'? I don't have any idea what you're talking about!"
The doll's mechanical features contort with growing annoyance, joints whirring as she shifts. "Why do you insist on this pretense? If you're worried about who might be listening, don't be." She leans forward, purple eyes intensifying, glowing just a touch brighter. "Think about it - who else would I clear my entire office for? Who else would I speak to directly, rather than through a proxy? I recognize what you are—the one being even Droidhead couldn't categorize. The anomaly that made an Aeon question its own understanding. Is it your status what you're worried about others finding out about?"
Alexander's head spins, a dull pressure building behind his eyes. Nothing she's saying aligns with anything he knows about himself. It's like she's speaking a language he almost understands but can't quite grasp.
"I can protect you," she continues, her childlike voice taking on an almost conspiratorial tone, dropping to a whisper that somehow fills the room. "The Garden of Recollection would do anything to learn about a being who conversed directly with Nous. But I can keep you safe from them." Her mechanical fingers tap against the arm of her chair, an uneven rhythm that grates on his nerves. "All I need are answers. How did you breach my station's security? The Stellaron's containment? Did someone help you?" Her eyes seem to bore into him, searching for something he doesn't possess. "And most importantly—have you discovered why you exist outside Nous' calculations? I'm fascinated, truly. Whatever your answers, I won't judge. I just need to know."
That presence in his mind radiates pure panic now, but Alexander barely registers it through his mounting frustration. She keeps talking about him like he's some kind of cosmic anomaly, throwing around terms and concepts that sound like nonsense, all while acting like he's playing dumb—
Something inside him snaps, a cord pulled too tight finally breaking.
"I get it now," he snarls, rage finally breaking through, blood rushing to his face. "You've already decided who and what I am. You're so convinced you're right that you won't even consider the possibility that you've got the wrong person. That maybe, just maybe, I really am just some guy who woke up in this impossible place with no idea how he got here!"
He stands abruptly, the chair skidding backward, trembling with a rage that overwhelms even that presence's desperate attempts to restrain him. "I don't know anything about your Droidhead, your Aeons, or any of these cryptic ramblings you keep throwing at me! I'm not playing some game—I genuinely have no idea what you're talking about!"
His voice rises with each word, hands clenching into fists so tight his knuckles turn white. "But you can't accept that, can you? Because that would mean the great Herta made a mistake. That would mean this whole interrogation, this—this power play you're putting on, it's all based on nothing but your own fucking delusions!"
That presence in his mind is screaming now, trying to force his jaw shut, but the words keep spilling out like acid. "You want to know how I got here? I was driving to work in my bike. Someone hit me on an intersection. Next thing I know, I'm waking up in this—this impossible place, with impossible people, dealing with impossible things! And now I've got what? A glorified toaster with a god complex telling me I'm some cosmic anomaly while threatening me with your cryptic bullshit?"
He leans forward, teeth bared in a snarl, spit flying from his lips. "You want to know what I think? I think you're just a broken toy playing at being important. A mechanical freak so desperate to matter that you've convinced yourself you're some kind of genius. But you're not, are you? You and your troop of fucking dolls with delusions of grandeur. You're not special. You're not important. Stuck away in that corner at the far side of the universe, figuring out shit for shit's sakes, or so you say. Guess what? No one fucking cares. So why don't you and the rest of your toys do everyone a favor and throw yourself in the scrap heap where you belong?"
The moment the words leave his mouth, that presence screams through his consciousness—a sound of pure desperation that nearly blinds him with its intensity. What have you done? Take it back. Take it back NOW! The command slams into him with such force his knees nearly buckle. Alexander's rage evaporates instantly, like water on hot metal, replaced by ice-cold dread as he realizes just how catastrophically he's overstepped.
"I—" he starts, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead, his throat suddenly dry as sand. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to —the stress, I just—"
But it's too late. The doll before him simply... deactivates. Her mechanical form goes limp, purple eyes dimming to lifelessness, head dropping forward on her chest like a marionette with cut strings.
Behind her, reality tears open with a sound like shattering glass—not a clean break but a jagged, painful rending. A portal materializes in the shape of an ornate mirror, its edges rippling with hues of violet and rose. The temperature in the room plummets so rapidly Alexander's breath clouds before him. He stumbles back, his legs hitting the chair, nearly sending him sprawling. That presence in his mind radiates pure terror, and for once, he completely agrees with it.
From within that impossible tear steps The Herta—and Alexander's breath catches in his throat. Where her doll was small and mechanical, she is tall and impossibly elegant, power radiating from her in waves that set his teeth on edge and raise the hair on his arms. Deep purple eyes, so different from her puppet's artificial ones, fix him with a gaze that could pierce the veil of reality itself. Her ash-brown hair frames a face that manages to be both youthful and timeless, beauty and danger intertwined.
Her attire alone is a statement of dramatic flair—a black, white, and purple corset-style dress that exposes her back, adorned with white frills and keyhole embellishments that seem to catch impossible light, shifting and shimmering. The wide-brimmed black hat perched atop her head is decorated with purple flowers that look almost alive, moving slightly despite the still air, petals opening and closing like they're breathing. In her hand, she carries what looks like a key-shaped scepter, its surface catching and reflecting light that doesn't exist in the room.
Her smile, when it comes, carries all the playful malice of a cat that's cornered particularly interesting prey. Here stands the true genius of the Clock Tower, the sorceress who lives at the edge of the cosmos, who finds the mysteries of the universe itself barely entertaining enough to hold her attention.
"So," she says, her voice melodic yet carrying an edge sharp enough to cut stars, each word precise and measured. "You want to do things the hard way?" She takes a single step forward, reality seeming to bend and warp around her movements, light refracting at impossible angles. "How fascinating. I do so rarely get to handle these matters personally." Her smile widens, showing teeth that seem just a touch too perfect, too sharp. "Let's proceed."
And Alexander knows, with perfect clarity, that he has made a terrible mistake.