Stark approached the massive vault doors: wide, rectangular walls with soft edges with a deeply embedded black-plated sliding door.

And this was supposed to be the art show exhibit—Stark was thinking about tempering her expectations if this was the door to it all.

The A.R. arrow pixellated into a blur, that soon gathered into the entrance’s censors that was positioned near the top.

A beam of light was constructed, scanning Stark up and down, along with taking in what surrounded her before flicking away.

What she was faced with—what she got—were a series of flashes of red. Dangerous. Unwanted.

She quickly reached up for her forehead, the action based on instinct. She felt her temperature skyrocket, acutely aware of how much she was shaking then, feeling the pulse rocking through her body—against flesh—against skin.

What barely snapped herself out of the state, was the series of flashes blinking faster.

“R-right—just alert—just, uh—just uh, just—a warning system. Don’t give in, breakthrough…”

She looked up at the construct, taking very deep breathes—in through the mouth, out of the nose. Breathe through 1-3. Hold 5-8. Out in 9 and 10.

“Don’t stand down…” she still felt out of breath. “Breakthrough…”

She reached for her other shaking hand this time, the duo gripping each other as she purposely stared at them.

“Be angry, let it linger, but let it pass—I can’t fear myself like they fear me--it’s in my hands, always within my hands…”

With every steady breath, she eased off her hatred. Dormant or not—she refused to give it any reason—or excuse—to exist.

Looking up to the censor, she couldn’t help but tilt her head. “You’re concerned, I understand, but all I want is to look at things. It’s all I want. Am I allowed to look at things?”

There was another scan, and Stark stood her ground.

Within seconds, the door slid open, allowing her passage.

But, she elegantly walked backward, looking up to the censor again.

“Thank you.” She proceeded forward again.

The silence in the room was so palpable, it was—more like—Stark walked through the—“metaphysical-socio-barrier” and that’s the thing she noticed first, not the lack of sound.

A place—that should echo the chatter of others against its walls. Art—that should be looked at—but is being stared past because everyone was looking at her.

She sighed, sagging subtly as the weight she just cast aside returned with full force.

But she stepped forward with a purposeful and odd swagger. She was determined to have fun.

She gazed around, finally taking everything in.

The exhibits were surrounded by white, wispy constructs—clearly invoking Shift imagery. But instead of being purely waves crashing into each other—vectoring upwards, to the sides, across to form “unnatural” bridges—customized to emphasize the art more. Stark once again adored the subtle messaging and the clear effort. It excited her, as she walked past the cloak and gazed upon her first piece.

A painting. It was just—well, shades of black, only hints of other coloring—the only recurring “highlight” to use the term weirdly—was red. Scratches, sketchy lines that looked of nails raked over the canvas—all conforming to a lengthy blood puddle behind the painted figure—who’s white eyes only conveyed insanity.

…Odd piece to be in the front, but hey, Stark got it. She was never opposed to—she searched for the word in her jumbled mess of a head—something that her sister constantly uses—edginess. Especially not when it’s not misplaced—in terms of the emotion, of course, something she had to correct herself on, not in what she said before. It was… Just really sudden.

She walked across the floor, now getting an eyeful of the next work.

“Future: Fucked.

The Path Getting There: Fucked.

We Are: Fucked.”

The first Extant pamphlet, parodied—but emulated to give an edge. Stark only saw a few in her lifetime—the original didn’t say any of that of course. The background, where there was a subtle use of layering where one can see the various Extant—can’t say tools because there’s people along with the trucks and things—zeitgeist, but in this work—The Shift Terrain vehicles have crashed into already destroyed buildings, Researchers taking off their suits streaking—all while the foreground visage of Dr. Gia Taber giving an uncanny, smug smirk—versus the stoic gaze.

Stark quickly moved along. She didn’t need to give that one more time of her already rough day. Surely, there’s going to be a new, or excited—or crap, one life-affirming thing in this art-house, right…?

She bumped into a well-groomed gentleman for her trouble, was on the verge of apologizing until she laid her eyes on something utterly terrible.

It was a thick, rough mask. The subject’s face broke off—streaming ahead in various places, pieces of the forehead going in different directions, nose bending backwards, the ears twisting in different clockwises… All capped off with the subject, their separated eyes closed as much as they could have in this awful moment, screaming.

“Yeah, my good friend made that one~” the dapper man chirped at Stark, causing her to dart her gaze to him. “He was actually in a Terminsys City, said… Something about ‘death masks’—apparently, they did wicked shit like that, but anyways yeah, he used one on this guy who was warped. Now he’s the talk of the show for showing how bad it is. Pretty cool, eh~?”

“Awful—the worse—” Stark could only speak in fragments, trying in vain to figure out what to say when nothing became clear. “Horribly terrible—Terrifyingly maddening—”

From the corner of her eye, she saw the gentleman lean towards her, before his brown eyes nearly shot out of his own eye sockets. So vain, he didn’t realize who he was chatting up…?

Stark tried to use her words, reaching out with her long arms towards the man, but he clearly was afraid—and bolted the moment he could. That in turn, caused everyone to stare again.

She had to stay still. She had to keep calm. Even refuse the urge to pound on her head to make sense—she knew that it was mad—bad bad bad bad bad bad—she knew it was bad practice, but. But…

She continued on. It’s all she could do.

Avoided looking at people, avoided looking at this—she then shook her head. Maybe there are no words for any of this…

“Don’t ruin this for us, you little shit—"

But she couldn’t control what she heard.

A flash of siVis use, so she could control her head from looking at where that noise was coming from. She then looked at something else, but used the corners of her eye to scope out the scene.

A suit that was barely worn properly, let alone fashionable. A gangly man, waxy-skin, black eyes with red veins not-so-subtly at the edges with brown hair that had to be slick back multiple times.

His grab on his son—barely dressed, gaunt in appearance, and vacant—was by the wrist, tight, as he continued to rant as he swung his arms around, yet stayed close to the boy so he could hear him. If it wasn’t for siVis’ latent hearing enhancements, she would’ve been like the others.

“—I’m not going to let you ruin something good happening in our shitty lives—STAY PUT until me and Roxanne come back from whatever her painting stuff stops—and MAYBE you’ll get a stupid lollipop!”

The man tried to jerk his son back down to his seat, but lacked the power to properly do it, as he staggered away.

Stark twisted around on the spot, craning her head about, letting her awareness expand.

Until she stopped a roaming concessions’ person, wearing a—Stark guessed should be called a “pounces suit”—as the person sported various treats in their hand. One of them, a lollipop that looks exactly like the crystal in the middle of the fair.

“Marketing, thy name is Davenport…” Stark walked towards the person, stopping before them as their eyes widened. Stark just shook her head, pointing to the loli, holding up one finger. She was quickly given one without a word—she just as quickly bit her lip as she turned away, not going to dwell on the manner of how that happened when something this important is on the line.

She slowly stopped walking at her normal pace, and slowly approached the poor boy—who only looked up at her in confusion. His hair mostly trying-to-tame spilt ends and mess.

Kneeling, she gives the candy to him, with a warm smile and a wink.

Only for the child to quickly grab it and slam it onto the floor.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” he shrieked. “IF MY DAD SAW THAT, OR YOU, OR-OR-OR—I’LL BE FRIED! GET AWAY FROM ME!”

“…Yeah,” Stark got up. “Silly me—I wanted to help, I didn’t—figure out that logic. Either way. I hope that you’ll get your deserved peace and quiet soon. It doesn’t feel like it, but people can and do love you. You’ll figure it out, I hope you will.”

It took everything for her to smile against—the shame, the failure, the weight of the world— all of that.

She soon turned on her heels, making her way out, only to hear “W-weirdo” behind her back—just when she was tuning her awareness back. Making the silent journey out of the exhibit more so.

Walking down the strip, as people made way for her, and soon left her to be alone, she took off her glasses. Pinching the bridge of her nose as she squeezed her eyes shut.

If only they realized. It’s not her losing control, “snapping” as they termed it, that’s not what she’s afraid of.

It’s everyone else losing themselves, and barely noticing it.