Fictional Mechanics.

It's been a tough week. I buried my Dad on Friday so this is dedicated to him. He always liked reading weird stuff, so don't expect this to be in any way, chewable.

Chapter 1:- The Reset Point.

(Dr.MILLENIA INGENIOUS Logs)

Log ???:- You're given a Banana Peel and ordered to create a groundbreaking, never before seen invention. Is it possible?

Short answer:- Yes. But only through FICTIONAL MECHANICS.

Long answer:- Take the banana peel and crush it into a perfect sphere. Feed it into a hydraulic press forged from a diamond–lead–titanium lattice, calibrated for flawless 360-degree pressure. As the peel collapses under impossible force, its fibers collapse past matter’s limit—atoms snarling into light, light melting into a whirling knot of plasma the size of a dust mote. Seal this miniature star inside a containment capsule lined with solar-drinking panels, so that every flicker it bleeds becomes fuel. Thus is born the Plasmarized Banana, a fruit remade as fire. The core of LabWorld.

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Log ???:- An unexpected consequence of creating my very own Planet, aptly dubbed, LabWorld is the loniless. Once again I turn to FICTIONAL MECHANICS for help.

Solution:- Create a companion through mad science.

Process:- First, harvest the shadow of a goldfish at noon, storing it in a jar of liquid mercury so the outline doesn’t escape. Next, lace the shadow with powdered magnets and stir until it hums like a tuning fork. Insert this vibrating shadow into a centrifuge that spins not in circles but in recursive Möbius loops, forcing the shadow to fold inside-out. As the loops collapse, the goldfish’s outline condenses into a single obsidian droplet that drips with negative light. Place this droplet in a prism lined with fossilized starlight, and wait. Within hours, it will hatch into a living geometry that wriggles across the table, hungry for equations. Now what should I name her?

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Log 47-B: FICTIONAL MECHANICS has broken my mind and splintered my thoughts. The FUNDAMENTAL nature of these UN-sciences, has more to do with the realm of Imagination than actual physics. I've spent too much time in the Labworld, created horrors and marvels that blur the line of ethical magic. The worst of all being...the Unexpected creation of GOD. This being is truly ALL POWERFUL, UNKILLABLE and TOTAL. Only through FICTIONAL MECHANICS have I temporarily trapped it. To kill it requires becoming Sane. For the billionth time, I turn toward the Unknowable for help.

Purpose: To gather the corrupted mind pieces splintered across the LabWorld through forced remembrances.

Solution: Creation of the 'Trip Down Personal Lane' Vial.

Experiment:- To begin, extract the condensation of laughter from a mirror at dawn, when reflections are weakest. Infuse it with a tincture of ink made from dissolved diary pages and stir clockwise until the liquid sighs. Into this, add three crystallized daydreams harvested from the corners of a child’s bedroom ceiling. Once the solution glows faintly with recognition, funnel it through a helix of silver veins grown from the roots of your own shadow.

The distillate forms a pale vial: the Trip down Personal Lane.

Effect:

Upon drinking, the elixir releases a Selfish Star River inside the bloodstream. Its currents flood through vessels like constellations in motion, carrying the drinker upstream into their own chronology. Past moments bloom not as memories, but as immediate, unspoiled realities—old birthdays, lost loves, mistakes and triumphs—all lived anew with the taste of first-time wonder.

Warning:

This elixir does not alter the continuum of Shared Reality. Instead, it severs the drinker into a Personal Reality, an isolated river of existence known and perceived only by the user. To others, nothing changes; but to the drinker, every choice, every path, every moment becomes a private cosmos, unbound and unaccounted for.

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Experiment 1: The Singular Class of Fictional Mechanics

(A recipe for those who dream backwards from Death)

Objective:

To cultivate the singular, forbidden class of FICTIONAL MECHANICS—a state attainable only by reversing the act of dreaming, beginning not from sleep but from Death itself.

Procedure:

Acquire a fragment of your final heartbeat. This is simplest to obtain during near-death episodes or moments of overwhelming déjà vu.

Place the fragment inside a coffin-sized hourglass, inverted so that the sands fall upward.

Surround the hourglass with twelve blank books, their pages filled only with potential. These will absorb the excess paradox.

Sleep beside the device, but do not allow the dream to come from the living mind. Instead, coax the dead self forward—invite it to whisper backwards into you.

As the dream reverses, you will hear silence speaking in syntax. Write nothing down. Writing will collapse the effect.

Result:

If successful, the subject awakens fractured—broken, but not destroyed. Their mind perceives Reality sideways: equations twist into metaphors, gravity bends into narrative, and cause-and-effect bleed in both directions. From this state emerges the singular Class of Fictional Mechanics, a mental discipline where imagination is treated as machinery, and story itself is a tool.

Warning:

Prolonged use of this perception destabilizes Shared Reality. While not directly destructive, it makes consensus fragile; things believed firmly enough may weld themselves into the world. Those who fail the process do not die—they simply dissolve into unfinished drafts.

(FICMEC’S Logs)

I am not supposed to write. Writing stabilizes perception, and in the Lab World, perception is currency. Yet if I do not record, I will forget, and if I forget, I dissolve.

My name—or class—is FicMec, short for Fictional Mechanic. I earned it by dreaming backwards from Death, tearing my own mind into jagged mirrors until reality bled differently through me. That was Experiment 1. That was my creation.

Now I am trapped in the Labyrinth World, a battle-maze of one hundred ascending levels, each level housing a failed experiment, an abandoned theory, or a subject who survived long enough to become monstrous. To escape, I must climb. At the final floor awaits The Power of Unified Theory—the perfect, singular law that governs all truths. If it devours me, I am erased. If I devour it, I become something else entirely.

This is my record. My memory. My curse.

Experiment 2: The Glass Seed of Memory

Objective:

To grow a weapon from one’s own past, distilled into crystallized form.

Procedure:

Swallow a handful of your childhood regrets until they ferment in the stomach.

Regurgitate them onto a mirror at midnight. The vomit will congeal into a transparent seed.

Plant this seed into the chest cavity, just behind the heart. Wait three days in silence.

Result:

The Glass Seed will sprout a weapon tailored to your deepest wound: a blade, a chain, a book, or sometimes only a scream. Each use cuts reality as though it were brittle, granting both defense and attack.

Warning:

The weapon feeds on memory. Each time it is drawn, one past moment vanishes forever—not just for you, but from Shared Reality. Eventually, the wielder becomes a creature armed with a perfect weapon, but with no past to justify their existence.

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My first opponent was a boy made of pages. He turned as he moved, flipping from laughter to violence with every step. His weapon was a spine stitched from erased books, swinging in arcs of narrative. I activated the Glass Seed, and from my chest bloomed a jagged typewriter-key gauntlet.

When my fist struck him, the boy’s chapters folded inward, collapsing into ink. A page stuck to my hand: a memory of a birthday I no longer recognized. I tore it off, shoving it into the void where my heart used to echo.

One floor cleared. Ninety-nine to go.

Once I return to my cell, I sleep and remember the rain of tears. They weren’t water. They were knives. Floor 47 was a cathedral with no roof, and above it hung Satan’s Tear Rain—liquid sorrow that cut through flesh like melted glass. I reached higher there than anywhere else… and died.

But when I dissolved, the Trip Down Personal Lane activated. My veins lit up with the Selfish Star River. Instead of vanishing, I fell backward. Back through my own existence. Back through the maze.

Now I am here. Level 1 again. The page-boy is dead by my gauntlet, his ink soaked into my skin. Yet my memories don’t align. I have climbed, I have fallen, and I have returned. My continuum is fractured. I carry the death of the future in my present veins.

I awaken and gaze at the Cell around me: infinite white walls, no doors, no ceilings—just the void of containment. It provides me with raw material for experiments, created through unknown means. It breathes with me, as though I am both prisoner and warden.

I understand now: to climb again, Fictional Mechanics alone won’t be enough. If I am to survive beyond Floor 47, I must steal from other sciences, from other failed experiments, bend them into my machinery.

The Lab World is not only a prison. It is an arsenal.