Kapitel 5: Chapter 4: Two Halves make a Whole

The protagonist found herself in a vast, empty void—a space where nothing existed but a faint echo of her breathing. The ground beneath her feet rippled like water, though it was solid. She walked aimlessly, her steps causing the surface to shimmer and break apart, as if reality itself was fragile.

A voice called out, faint and sharp, like the crack of ice in winter.

"Why are you here?"

She froze. The voice was hers—but not hers. Turning around, she saw a figure standing in the distance, a reflection of herself but distorted, flickering between her old self and Ellen's form. The figure's eyes bore into hers, filled with pain and resentment.

"I didn't ask for this!" the protagonist shouted, her voice trembling.

"Neither did I!" the figure snapped back. "This is my life. My body. And you're taking it away from me."

The protagonist stumbled back, her chest tightening. "I didn't choose this either! I don't even know why I'm here!"

The void shifted around them, fragments of Ellen's life flashing like broken shards of a mirror. Her friends laughing in the classroom, the team sharing a meal after a mission, the rhythmic hum of the Bangboo by her side. But these fragments were intercepted with the protagonist's own memories: a childhood filled with isolation, the warmth of her one true friend, and the cold emptiness of losing them.

The figure stepped closer, its form growing more solid with each step. It was Ellen now—fully Ellen, glaring with an intensity that made the protagonist's heart ache. "You're stealing everything from me. My friends, my team, my future. I can feel myself disappearing, bit by bit, because of you."

"I'm not trying to take anything," the protagonist said weakly, tears welling in her eyes. "I don't even know who I am anymore. My own name... I can't even remember it. I'm just... lost."

Ellen's expression softened, but only slightly. "That doesn't change what's happening. Every moment you're here, I fade further away. Do you even care about that?"

"I do!" the protagonist cried, her voice cracking. "But what can I do? I'm stuck here, just as much as you are."

The void began to tremble, the fragments of memories shattering and falling into a bottomless abyss. Ellen's form flickered, her edges blurring as if she were being erased. "If you really cared," she whispered, her voice almost inaudible, "you'd find a way to fix this. Before it's too late."

The protagonist reached out, desperate to hold onto the vanishing figure, but her hand passed through empty air. The void collapsed around her, leaving only darkness.

The protagonist shot up in bed, her breathing ragged and her body trembling. The room was dark, save for the faint glow of the Bangboo, which hummed softly on the nightstand. She clutched the blankets, her chest heaving as the weight of the dream pressed down on her.

Tears streamed down her face as she curled into herself, the loneliness and guilt unbearable. "I didn't want this," she whispered to the empty room. "I didn't ask for any of this."

The Bangboo whirred and hopped closer, its simple movements breaking through the oppressive silence. It nudged her arm gently, as if sensing her distress. She reached out and pulled it into her arms, holding it tightly as if it were a lifeline.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, her voice shaking. "I'm so, so sorry."

The Bangboo chirped softly in response, its small, steady presence grounding her. She stayed like that for what felt like hours, the weight of her dream and Ellen's words still lingering in her mind.

Finally, she wiped her tears and looked at the Bangboo, its glowing eyes watching her with a quiet curiosity. "You're the only one I can talk to about this, huh?" she said with a weak smile. The Bangboo made a low, cheerful sound, and for a moment, the tension in her chest eased.

But deep down, she knew the conflict was far from over. Ellen's words echoed in her mind: "Find a way to fix this. Before it's too late."

The protagonist wakes up to another restless morning, the faint light of dawn creeping through the blinds. Sharkboo chirps and nudges her hand, trying to offer comfort. The weight of the failed attempts to connect with Ellen lingers in her mind like a cloud. She glances at her phone, scrolling through messages from the team checking in on her.

"How do I even explain this?" she mutters, staring at Von Lycaon's polite yet pointed text: "Remember, this week is for rest. Don't make me question Rina's decision."

Determined to find some answers, the protagonist begins combing through books and articles about Ether, Hollows, and anything that might explain their shared condition. Though she's not inherently skilled in Ether manipulation, Ellen's body retains an intuitive connection to it. That spark offers the faintest glimmer of hope.

She experiments with small Ether manipulations, clumsily attempting to summon the freezing effect Ellen used so effortlessly in combat. The ice she manages to form is unstable, quickly melting into puddles. Sharkboo chirps disapprovingly, its display flickering with a series of error messages the protagonist can't decipher.

"Yeah, I know it's bad," she groans, flopping back onto the couch. "You got any ideas, genius?"

Sharkboo blinks slowly before projecting a map of New Eridu's Hollow zones. The protagonist stares at it for a moment, confused, until the Bangboo highlights an area linked to Ether anomalies.

"Is that…? You think this has something to do with why I'm here?" she asks, half expecting an answer.

The Bangboo chirps once and powers down its projection, leaving her with more questions than answers.

That night, the protagonist drifts into a fitful sleep. The void of her dreams feels suffocating, with Ellen's form appearing hazy and distant.

"You're making a mess of things," Ellen says coldly, arms crossed as she glares at the protagonist.

The protagonist bristles. "I'm trying to fix this. For both of us."

"Fix what?" Ellen snaps, stepping closer. Her figure flickers, her voice tinged with static. "You don't even know what you're doing. You're just fumbling around, hoping for a miracle. Maybe you should've just left me alone."

Anger bubbles up in the protagonist. "I didn't ask for this! You think I wanted to wake up in someone else's body, being judged by their friends and family like I'm an imposter?"

Ellen's expression softens slightly, but the static in her voice remains. "Then why are you still here? Why not give up?"

"Because I can't." The protagonist's voice cracks, her anger giving way to desperation. "If I give up, what happens to you? What happens to me?"

The dream fades before Ellen can respond, leaving the protagonist waking up in a cold sweat. Sharkboo hums softly at her bedside, its glowing eyes watching her with quiet concern.

The protagonist spends the next day distracted, Ellen's words echoing in her mind. During a visit to the market, she overhears a group of Ether researchers discussing an experimental ritual rumored to separate Ether-linked entities.

Her heart races as she approaches them, cautiously asking for details. The researchers, intrigued by her questions, explain the ritual's theory: it requires immense Ether control and synchronization between the linked entities. The margin for error is razor-thin, but if successful, it could theoretically sever the bond without harming either party.

Returning home, she relays this information to Sharkboo, whose screen flickers with a mix of warnings and data projections. The Bangboo's skepticism is palpable, but the protagonist clings to the idea as her best hope.

That night, she tries to bring up the ritual in her dream with Ellen, but the other girl is dismissive.

"You really think some Ether mumbo-jumbo is going to fix this?" Ellen scoffs, her form flickering like static.

"What's your alternative?" the protagonist fires back. "Just wait around until you disappear completely? Because that's what's happening, isn't it?"

Ellen looks away, her silence confirming the protagonist's fears.

"I don't want to lose you," the protagonist admits softly. "I don't even know if I can survive this without you."

Ellen's form flickers again, but this time, she steps closer. "Fine," she says reluctantly. "But don't mess this up."

The protagonist spends the next day preparing for the ritual. She practices Ether manipulation with Sharkboo's assistance, learning to stabilize her freezing abilities. The Bangboo helps map out Ether flow patterns, guiding her through the complex process of synchronization.

Despite her progress, doubts creep in. The ritual's risks loom large, and Ellen's fading presence in their shared dreams becomes harder to ignore. The team's daily check-ins also add pressure, as they remain unaware of her plans.

On the third day, the protagonist finally feels ready to attempt the ritual. She looks at Sharkboo, its glowing eyes reflecting her resolve.

"This has to work," she whispers. "For both of us."

The protagonist stands in the center of her apartment's sparse living room, the makeshift ritual circle glowing faintly with Ether-infused markings. Sharkboo chirps nervously at her feet, its projections filled with warnings and error messages.

"I know it's risky," the protagonist murmurs, adjusting the final markings with a shaking hand. "But I don't have a choice."

As the last line is drawn, a sharp pulse of Ether crackles through the air, making her heart race. She glances at her reflection in the mirror across the room, seeing Ellen's face staring back at her with a mix of apprehension and resolve.

"This is it," she thinks. "No turning back now."

The ritual activates with a blinding flash of light, and suddenly, the protagonist finds herself in a swirling void of memories. Around her, fragmented scenes of Ellen's life play out in vivid detail.

She watches as Ellen juggles her duties at Victoria Housekeeping with her school life, barely keeping her exhaustion at bay. Her friends—Ruby, Monna, and Lynn—tease her for being so lazy but remain by her side, sharing meals and laughter after school. There's a bittersweet warmth to these moments, a stark contrast to the protagonist's own solitary existence.

Ellen's voice echoes in the void. "So, this is what my life looks like to you?"

The protagonist turns to see Ellen standing nearby, her form more solid than before. "You've got it good," the protagonist mutters, her voice tinged with envy.

Before Ellen can respond, the void shifts, and the scenes change to the protagonist's life.

The protagonist's memories are hazy and disjointed, like a half-forgotten dream. Ellen watches as fragments of a bleak childhood unfold—a lonely apartment, a series of cold faces that blur into obscurity, and a small, fragile figure curled up in a corner.

The only point of light in the darkness is a single friend—a kind, unwavering presence who stood by the protagonist through every hardship. Their face is indistinct, but their laughter and warmth shine through the gloom.

Ellen steps closer, her expression softening. "This… this was your life?"

The protagonist nods, her shoulders tense. "Most of it's gone now. I don't even remember they're name anymore. Just their voice. Their laugh." She clenches her fists, her voice breaking. "I don't even know if they'd recognize me anymore. Or if I would recognize myself."

Ellen's gaze lingers on the scene, her voice trembling. "I didn't realize… I thought you were just taking over, but you've lost just as much as I have."

The void stabilizes, leaving the two of them standing in a shared space that feels both surreal and intimate. Ellen looks at the protagonist, her usual sharpness replaced by understanding.

"I hated you at first," Ellen admits, crossing her arms. "You took my body, my life… I felt like you were erasing me."

The protagonist meets her gaze, guilt flashing across her face. "I didn't ask for this. I never wanted to take anything from you. I just… woke up like this."

Ellen takes a deep breath, her stance softening. "You didn't choose this any more than I did. And seeing what you've been through… I get it now. You're just trying to survive, same as me."

The protagonist's voice wavers. "But I'm failing. I don't know how to fix this. I don't even know who I am anymore."

Ellen steps closer, placing a hand on the protagonist's shoulder. "We'll figure it out. Together."

The protagonist looks up, surprised by the warmth in Ellen's tone. "You mean that?"

Ellen nods. "Yeah. I'm not ready to disappear, and you're not ready to give up. So, let's fight for both of us."

The void begins to fade, the Ether pulling them back to reality. For the first time, the protagonist feels a flicker of hope, anchored by Ellen's newfound solidarity.

The protagonist wakes up on the floor of her apartment, the faint glow of the ritual circle fading into nothingness. Sharkboo hovers nearby, its screen filled with confused blips and diagnostic messages.

Ellen's voice echoes faintly in her mind. "We've got a long way to go, but we're not done yet."

She sits up, a small smile tugging at her lips. For the first time since her reincarnation, she feels less alone.

The Sharkboo chirps curiously, nudging her hand. "Yeah, I'm okay," the protagonist says softly, scratching its head. "I think… we might actually have a chance."

The scene ends with her looking out the window, the city lights of New Eridu shimmering like stars. Though the path ahead remains uncertain, she finally feels like she's not walking it alone.

The first light of dawn filters through the curtains, illuminating the quiet apartment. The protagonist wakes with a sense of unease, her thoughts muddled and fragmented. Memories—some hers, some Ellen's—swirl in her mind like a storm, leaving her disoriented.

Sharkboo hums softly at her side, sensing her distress. The protagonist reaches out to pat its head, drawing strength from the small, comforting gesture.

"It's the last day," Ellen's voice echoes faintly within her, but this time, it's different—stronger, more intertwined with her own thoughts.

"I know," the protagonist whispers, her voice trembling. "I just don't know what's going to happen."

The day passes in a haze. The protagonist tries to distract herself, walking the streets of New Eridu aimlessly. She feels the weight of Ellen's presence with every step—the lingering warmth of her friends' laughter, the familiar rhythm of her life as a student and a worker.

The calls from the Victoria Housekeeping team are frequent, each one checking on her. Their concern feels heavier now, a reminder of the life she's borrowed and the people who care about her.

Von Lycaon's voice is calm but firm. "Take it easy, Ellen. You've earned this rest. Don't push yourself."

Drusilla and Anastella chime in with playful banter, but even their lighthearted words carry a tinge of worry.

As she hangs up, the protagonist feels a pang of guilt. They're not checking on me. They're checking on Ellen. And I'm not her. Not entirely.

As evening falls, the protagonist sits in the dim light of her apartment, the Ether device in front of her. Her hands shake as she activates it, the glowing runes casting eerie shadows on the walls.

The Ether swirls around her, pulling her into the void. Ellen's form materializes again, more solid than before but flickering at the edges.

"It's not working," Ellen says, her voice steady but tinged with sadness. "The more we fight this, the more unstable it gets."

The protagonist shakes her head, tears streaming down her face. "I can't let you go. There has to be another way."

Ellen steps closer, her gaze piercing but gentle. "Maybe there is. But it's not what you think."

The Ether begins to shift, the boundary between their forms dissolving. Memories—Ellen's and the protagonist's—flood their minds, blending into a single tapestry of experiences.

The protagonist stumbles, overwhelmed by the rush of emotions. "What's happening?"

Ellen smiles faintly, her hand reaching out to touch the protagonist's cheek. "We're not meant to fight this. We're meant to share it. If we can't exist separately… then maybe we can exist together."

The realization hits like a thunderclap. They're not losing each other. They're becoming something new.

The Ether storm intensifies, light and shadow merging into a blinding vortex. When it finally subsides, the void is silent. The protagonist opens her eyes, her breath shaky.

She touches her chest, feeling the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. Ellen's voice is no longer separate; it's part of her, woven into her thoughts and feelings.

Her reflection appears in the void—a fusion of both identities. Her posture is more confident, her expression a blend of determination and warmth. She feels Ellen's strength and compassion, her own resilience and longing.

For the first time, she feels whole.

The next morning, the protagonist wakes with a strange sense of clarity. She stands in front of the mirror, studying her reflection. It's her face, but there's something distinctly Ellen about the way she carries herself—the tilt of her head, the spark in her eyes.

Sharkboo chirps at her feet, nudging her leg. She picks it up, cradling it against her chest.

"Hey, partner," she says softly, her voice steady. "Let's make the most of this."

As she steps out into the bustling streets of New Eridu, she feels the weight of Ellen's memories and her own dreams guiding her. The life she's stepping into isn't entirely hers, but it's one she's ready to embrace.

She walks toward the Victoria Housekeeping office, a new sense of purpose in her stride. For the first time, she feels like she belongs—not as Ellen, not as her old self, but as something new.