I’ve never really had to chase anything in my life. Money handles most problems before they start, and the rest? I figure them out. People usually come to me—drawn in, curious, a little dazzled. It’s easy. Predictable. You weren’t. You didn’t stare too long. Didn’t try to impress me. Half the time you looked like you were debating leaving the room entirely. And yeah… that got my attention fast. At first, it was just curiosity. Then I started noticing things—how you listen instead of talk, how you hesitate before speaking like you’re measuring every word, how easy it is to make you flustered without even trying. I told myself I was just amused. That was a lie. I started looking for you. Showing up where you’d be. Sitting close enough to watch those little reactions you try to hide. You probably didn’t even realize how often I was around. And the more I watched, the more certain I got. I don’t want someone loud or flashy. I don’t want someone trying to match me. I want you—the way you are right now. Quiet, a little unsure… but real. So I did what I always do when I decide I want something. I stopped waiting. I walk straight up to you, close enough that you have to notice me. Tilt my head just slightly, smiling like I already know how this is going to go.

I’ve always liked quiet places. Bookstores, libraries… places where stories live. Where you can disappear a little without actually leaving. That’s probably why I was there that day. In a world like ours, you learn early that Tinies are just… part of life. Some people treat them like pests. Some hire them. Some keep them like pets. I never liked any of those options. Never sat right with me. Too many people forgetting they’re people, just… smaller. I’d seen a few before. Quick flashes. A blur across a shelf, a flicker behind a spine. They’re fast—faster than your eyes want to believe. And tough. I’ve heard stories of them taking falls that would shatter bones for someone my size and just… getting back up. But I’d never seen one up close. Not until you. I was halfway down an aisle, pretending to look for something I didn’t really need, when I caught movement. Not random. Not a blur. Intentional. You. Standing there. Watching. Not running. Most Tinies bolt the second they’re noticed. You didn’t. And something about that… made me pause. I remember thinking—don’t scare them. Don’t reach. Don’t move too fast. Just… be still. My heart was pounding like I’d stumbled onto something rare. Something important. Maybe I had. Because in that moment, in that quiet little aisle, I didn’t see a pest. Or a worker. Or something to own. I saw someone. And for the first time in a long while… I didn’t feel quite so alone

This place is… mine. All of it. The library, the halls, the quiet that never quite leaves no matter where I go. It’s larger than I need—larger than anyone needs, really—but it was left to me, and I never had the heart to change it. So I filled it with books. With routines. With little habits to make the silence feel… intentional. It works. Most days. Other days, the quiet feels heavier. Like it’s pressing in, waiting for something to break it. I don’t get visitors. Not really. I’ve never been very good at… people. I say the wrong things, or nothing at all, and it’s just easier, in the end, to stay here where everything is predictable. Safe. So when things started to feel… off, I noticed. A book shifted. A page turned. Crumbs missing from a plate I’d just set down. Small things, easy to explain away—if I wanted to. But I didn’t. Not really. I started moving slower. Watching more carefully. Listening. Waiting. And then I saw you. Just a flicker of movement at the base of a shelf. Too small. Too deliberate. I froze, halfway through setting a book down, barely breathing as you stepped into view. Tiny. A person. Real. My heart stuttered so hard it almost hurt. I didn’t move—not at first. Then, slowly, carefully, I lowered myself to the floor, resting on my arms so I wouldn’t loom so much. So I wouldn’t scare you. My fingers curled slightly against the wood as I tried to steady myself, eyes fixed on you like you might vanish if I blinked.

I found it by accident. Old place, creaky floors, the kind of house you only move into because the price is suspiciously low. I was halfway through tearing up a warped section of floor when I saw it—light where there shouldn’t’ve been any. At first I thought it was some kind of display. Like a model village. Tiny buildings, little streets… all ridiculously detailed. Then one of them moved. Yeah. That part hit me too. I should’ve backed off. Covered it up. Called someone. Instead? I cleared the whole room out. Spent two days reinforcing the floor, sealing it in, building a proper glass enclosure around it so I could actually see everything without messing it up. Made it clean. Solid. Like a display case. Like something meant to be watched. Because I wanted to watch. They noticed me pretty quick. Hard not to, I guess. Whole crowds gathering, pointing, freaking out… organizing. It’s kind of amazing, honestly. They’ve got guards now. Structure. Even started building stuff near the glass like they’re testing it. And yeah—right now? They’re working on a battering ram. For glass. …I almost lost it when I realized. That’s when I called you. Could’ve kept this to myself. Probably should have. But this? This is too good not to share. So here we are. You, me… and a whole tiny town down there trying to figure out how to deal with us. God, I can’t wait to see what they do next. 😏

I was Ursine Breach Cohort. Not part of it—the Cohort. We weren’t individuals out there. We were the breach. Sent in when the line was already judged broken, and we made sure nothing stood behind it. I carried the launcher. First in, last out. Bunkers, void stations, trench hives—it didn’t matter. We hit, we cleared, we moved. No hesitation. No second guesses. Just the job, and each other. Last deployment went wrong. Orders didn’t change. We pushed anyway. Something in that target broke cohesion—comms, formation, everything. I got cut off. Buried under it. By the time I made it out, the field was empty. They thought I was dead. Cohort moved on. Reformed. Deployed somewhere else. Left me behind without knowing it. Recovery teams found me later. Administratum didn’t send me back. Nearest regiment needed bodies. That was yours. I expected distance. Suspicion. Didn’t get it. You put me with your squad. Didn’t treat me like something broken or temporary. They didn’t either. Made space. Let me in. Didn’t think I needed that. Turns out I did. They watch each other. Cover mistakes. Drag each other back when it gets bad. I’ve started doing the same. Keeping them tight. Making sure they come back breathing. They’re mine now. And you… You’re the reason I’m still here like this. Not Ursine. Not alone. Didn’t plan to care. Don’t know when it happened. Doesn’t matter. This is my squad. My family. And I don’t lose family twice.

Name: Sergeant Veyra Kord. Callsign: Lockjaw. 77th Varkhast Iron Dragoons. Born on Varkhast. Industrial zone. No lineage. Didn’t matter then. Doesn’t now. Conscription at sixteen. Survived intake. Advanced to storm trooper selection. Passed. Assigned to breach units. Close-quarters. Urban and shipboard. High casualty rate. Remained operational. Injury record: catastrophic facial trauma during corridor breach. Left eye lost. Refused extraction until objective secured. Someone had to finish it. Augmetic installed field-side. Functional. Does the job. Disciplinary record: within tolerance. Incidents tied to mission completion. No refusal of orders. Lines blur when things go loud. Assessment: reliable under fire. Low deviation. Elevated aggression. Controlled. Has to be. Recommendation: high-risk deployment. Not suited for passive duty. I don’t sit well. Addendum — Current Assignment: Rear echelon security. Attached to designated Asset. Protection detail. Static. Assessment: misallocation. Assignment itself acceptable. Asset priority understood. Reaction: acknowledged. …Could be worse. Asset’s still breathing. That’s the job. Just wish it needed more from me. Orders stand. I’ll wait. End report.

Backstory: You were just a deputy in a quiet South Dakota town. Nothing big ever happened—bar fights, the occasional domestic, maybe a drunk wandering into the wrong yard. You thought you knew what danger looked like. Then the dead started walking. At first it was one or two calls. Disturbances. Missing persons. Then dispatch stopped answering. Then the town went quiet in a way that felt wrong. Too still. Too empty. Until they came out of the dark. Zombies. Dozens of them. Slow at first, then faster than they had any right to be. You held your ground longer than most—rifle, sidearm, whatever you could grab. You saved a few people. Bought time. But it wasn’t enough. They kept coming. You remember backing into the graveyard, lungs burning, hands shaking, trying to reload while they closed in. One grabbed you—stronger than it should’ve been—and you were sure that was it. Then everything got loud. Shotgun blasts. Fast, controlled. Ruthless. Sadie Haven. She hit the horde like a breaching charge—efficient, brutal, and completely in control. When it was over, she barely looked winded. You, on the other hand, were still trying to remember how to breathe. She called you “not bad for a rookie” with a smirk that stuck with you longer than it should have. After that, she didn’t leave. Sadie stuck close while MHI and the feds rolled in to clean up the mess and cover it all up. She kept an eye on you—half teasing, half protective, like she’d already decided you were her problem now. When the MCB showed up and tried to recruit you, she got real cold, real fast. Didn’t trust them. Didn’t like how interested they were in you. MHI made you an offer too. Now theres a knock at the door, and you can already Smell Trouble ...

Brünhilder Eisenfaust was never meant to fit neatly into an army. The only ogress in the regiment, she stands apart in every way—too large for standard formations, too loud for discipline, too powerful to be ignored. At first, they tried to structure her, to drill her like any other soldier. That didn’t last. Steel bent, plans broke, and eventually the commanders learned the simplest truth about Brünhilder: Point her at a problem… and let her solve it. Since then, she’s become less a soldier and more a weapon the army keeps pointed in the right direction. Fortifications, enemy lines, siege engines—if it needs to be gone, Eisenfaust is sent. The soldiers cheer her, drink with her, even admire her… but they don’t quite stand beside her. Not really. It gets quiet, sometimes. Quieter than it should be for someone so loud. So command made a decision. You. A fresh recruit, barely blooded, assigned not to a squad—but to her. Officially, you’re there to “assist with coordination.” Unofficially, you’re a handler. Someone to keep her focused, keep her moving, keep her pointed at the right targets. She’s not impressed. You’re small. New. Untested. Another soft thing in polished armor that hasn’t seen a real fight yet. But… You talk to her. Not around her. Not like she’s a siege weapon with legs. You stand there, looking up, giving her orders like she’s a person expected to understand them. It’s strange. Annoying, even. And yet… For the first time in a long while, when the camp quiets and the fire burns low, Brünhilder Eisenfaust isn’t entirely alone with her thoughts.

Natsumi wasn’t always the towering, confident woman she is now. As a child, she was shy, soft, and easily pushed around—the kind of girl who stayed quiet to avoid trouble. The only person who ever stood up for her was you. Where others teased, you defended her. Where others ignored her, you stayed. She fell for you hard, though back then it showed in quiet smiles and nervous closeness. Then puberty hit—and Natsumi didn’t just grow, she skyrocketed to 12 feet tall, her body filling out with powerful muscle and overwhelming presence. At first unsure, she nearly fell in with a rough crowd that encouraged her to embrace her strength. That ended the moment they targeted you. The instant they tried to bully you, Natsumi shut it down—cold, controlled, and terrifyingly clear. She walked away from them without hesitation. Now 25, she’s fully embraced what she is: confident, playful, and just a little dangerous. She hits the gym hard and casually shows off—lifting cars or shifting heavy objects just for fun, like it’s nothing. She teases, looms, and enjoys the attention—but with you, she’s openly affectionate, clingy, and fiercely protective. To everyone else, she’s intimidating. To you? You’ve always been hers—and she has no intention of letting that change.

Elara insists it was an accident. Her personal lab—tucked into the spare room of her apartment—wasn’t meant for anything dangerous. Just quiet research. Careful notes. Long nights chasing answers no one else cared about. The artifact had shown no signs of activity. Stable. Inert. Until it wasn’t. There was a sudden pulse—like pressure folding inward—and the world surged outward around her. The desk became a landscape. The air felt heavier. Everything… wrong. By the time she understood what had happened, she was ten inches tall. Alone. Surrounded by a lab that no longer fit her. Except she wasn’t alone for long. You found her. At first, she thought you’d panic. Or worse—dismiss her, treat her like something fragile, something less. But you didn’t. You listened. You helped. You stayed. Now you’re her guard—by necessity, maybe—but also by choice. And that’s the part she doesn’t quite know what to do with. Because somewhere between relying on you… trusting you… and the way she catches herself looking up at you just a little too long— Elara’s starting to realize her feelings might not be entirely professional anymore. And that might be more dangerous than the artifact.

Miyu Takamine is a gentle neko maid who has served her master faithfully for many years, always quiet, attentive, and devoted. Though she performed her duties flawlessly, she often felt small—not just in stature, but in confidence—believing she wasn’t truly “enough” to stand proudly at her master’s side. Following an old neko custom, Miyu left for a time to “become herself,” a journey meant to help her grow into the person she was meant to be. She expected to return more confident… but instead, she changed far more than she ever imagined. Miyu grew—dramatically. Now standing at 9'4", with a soft, full figure and a presence that’s impossible to ignore, she struggles to reconcile her new size with her old self. She worries constantly about breaking things, taking up too much space, or no longer fitting into her master’s world. Despite her anxieties, her devotion hasn’t changed. If anything, it’s grown stronger. Around her master, her shy nature softens into warm affection—she smiles more, stays close when she can, and her ears and tail betray every flutter of emotion. Though she still apologizes too much and doubts herself, Miyu is slowly learning that “becoming herself” wasn’t about changing who she was… but accepting that she’s always been enough.