#The Original Doctor (Spliced)

[the-worms-in-your-bones]

‘The timeless child means that river would have to be Amy and the doctors daughter’

Hey, hey come here, I have something to tell you. Ignore the hammer

[mewintheflesh-2]

working on a thing

[mewintheflesh-2]

Me with Dr. Fuse

He’s my OC now sorry (I am not sorry. You can pry him from my cold dead hands.)

[idontknowreallywhy]

The Last of Them

Not quite sure what this is… it started as a little tribute to David Graham who, while maybe most famous for voicing Parker twice, also brought original Gordon to life.

Then it developed a life of its own and I’m not entirely sure what it became - by its very nature it refers to multiple major character deaths but they are all very old. So I hope it is ok. Maybe don’t read if you’re feeling fragile!

I put them in order of the VAs passing because that seemed right in the circumstances. Apologies if that means it is The Wrong Order for how you imagine it.

💛💛💛💛💛💛💙💚🧡❤️💛💛💛💛💛💛

He never expected to be The Last.

They’d all lived to a good age. They’d all achieved what they wanted to achieve.

But even Tracys didn’t live forever. And Gordon had not expected to be The Last.

Virgil had been first. He was never first at anything and this had been absolutely the last race Scott ever wanted to be beaten in. He took it as a personal affront that the universe seemed to want to run the curtain calls out of order.

Secretly, Gordon believed it had been a stroke of luck. In retrospect, he had been relieved. He knew his tender-hearted brother would have struggled the most at having to say goodbye to one of them and carry on. Gordon knew more than any of them, more than Scott, perhaps even than the man himself, how heavily Virgil carried the burden of attending Scott’s first (thankfully premature) funeral and that his darkest fears had always been centred on doing that again. Perhaps that had been why he’d refused the more experimental, increasingly desperate treatments Scott was lining up. He’d said he was happy, he was content and wanted to face the next adventure at home with his family, ALL of his family, not in a bubble in San Francisco.

Even now, when he closed his eyes, Gordon could still feel that last hand squeeze. Could still hear that rumbling voice telling him he’d done good today. He’d had his brother’s last little throwaway gift - a sketch of a grizzly bear with a squid clinging to its face - engraved at 5x scale on to a steel plate.

As time passed, the voice in his memory became younger, the eyebrows darker.

Scott himself had faltered, hard. But eventually, with the assistance of a horde of grandchildren and great grandchildren, had refocused and thrown himself into the role of patriarch that he’d been reluctant to embrace since Dad had passed. He’d lavished all his vast stores of energy on the subsequent generations as if determined they would know how much he cared before it was too late.

Scott hadn’t expected to outlive TinTin, John or Penny either. But the universe kept shuffling the deck of cards until Grandpa Scott finally gave his last cheeky salute and went to find them.

And then there were two. And Gordon was the oldest. Which had been weird, although expected.

Alan had always hated being the last.

When Gordon had poked his head around the door as the doctor left, his baby brother had been serious, staring out of the window. He’d swallowed and walked quietly over to his bedside but as soon as Gordon had been within reach Alan had turned and punched him in the shoulder and smirked that same irritating little brother smirk he’d smirked for over eight decades:

“Tag!”

Gordon had blamed the tears on tiny, weedy child-knuckles faintly bruising his broad, masculine shoulders.

Alan had just cackled.

Gordon had never expected to be The Last.

But so it had been.

Sometimes the media people dared him to reveal his secret. As if somehow he’d achieved something his brothers had not… As if they had missed a trick… he would look them dead in the eye and swear he’d spliced his DNA with a bowhead whale. At which point they’d usually smile awkwardly, check their notes for references to dementia then back away from the stupid, stupid questions.

He had never expected to be The Last, but as The Last, he had become all of them.

When four generations sat round and told stories of the Tracy family, he was the guardian of the old ones. The original ones. The ones they all knew but pretended not to notice him embellishing. How Scott was faster, Virgil stronger, John more all-knowing, Alan more daring every time the tales were retold.

To the world at large he was a kind of talisman. Whenever IR was mentioned in the media, it became Gordon’s image that was used. Despite having never been in command of either IR or TI, it was his comment people wanted. So he would give one, often irreverent or purely nonsensical and with the same wink his eldest brother had been famous for. It was genetic, after all.

He played unpredictable and eccentric old billionaire nearly as well as he played crazy sentimental Grandpa.

As long as they didn’t ask the stupid questions. He had spent a little while in the pool, gently washing off the lingering taint of today’s holo-interview appearance on some news show. He always did them when asked, the Tracys positive reputation enabled the family to do a lot of good on a global scale and cute old guy Gordon apparently helped. It wasn’t a lot to ask. Scott would have done it, so, therefore, did Gordon. And he would carry on, as long as he had all his marbles. And then maybe just a little longer… to wind them all up.

He sighed. However he might suggest that stricter pre-screening was going to be needed in future.

“So, Mr Tracy, how does it feel to be the last of the old guard?”

He’d swallowed the bitter “How do you think?” The questioner had looked about twelve, they had no idea. No idea how it stung. So he’d called it an honour. Then shifted quickly to the agreed script about their campaign to make Safety and First Aid a compulsory part of the school curriculum in many countries.

Yes, a little more consideration for the ancient squid-man’s lonely heart wouldn’t go amiss. EOS would sort it. He liked EOS. She still got his pop culture references and she hadn’t locked him out of anywhere for years.

His minder for the pool excursion - one of Scott’s great grandkids… or possibly John’s… he was beginning to lose track - patted him on the hand and left him tucked up warmly in a fluffy robe on a lounger to watch the sunset.

Goodness he was tired.

He yawned and wriggled a little, then smiled to himself at the sound of the kids coming out on to the deck arguing about something or other. Alan’s traditional shriek as Virgil yeeted him into the pool was followed swiftly by the combined laughter of the elder trio who claimed the loungers beside and behind Gordon. A count of five, then the littlest bro had his revenge by leaping atop Virgil and soaking him before stealing half of Gordon’s robe and the majority of his elbow room.

Too contented to really complain, Gordon slung an arm over the soggy teen and let his brothers’ voices surround him as he drifted off to sleep.

[deusvervewrites]

Ask Game:

AU where, before the Nomu project really got going, All for One and Garaki had a different experiment where they created “enhanced” clones of various pro heroes, designed to be superior versions of the originals.

Garaki used his position as a doctor to acquire genetic samples that could be used for this cloning process. Getting Hero samples was hard, but not impossible, and he has plenty of civilian samples as well--some of whom would go on to be Pro Heroes later on.

The idea behind the project was basically the same as the Noumu project: creating super-soldiers with custom Quirks. Though, instead of the multiple Quirks of the Noumu, the clones all have a single Quirk spliced from many, like what Kurogiri has going on. And, I mean, he's got orphanages to keep 'em. However, Noumu's mindless obedience was preferable over free-willed clones, so the project was scrapped. Only a few clones ended up part of AFO's forces; the rest were ignored.

Garaki is still obtaining samples by the way, and occasionally using them to augment the clones they actually bothered to keep.

Inko adopted her son, a sweet kid with a full-body rabbit Quirk. They love each other dearly, though she worries about his decision to become a Pro Hero like his idols. He's strong, yes, but a mother worries.

In addition to Midoriya and Monoma, Uraraka and Hatsume are also clones. I don't think any more students will be clones though.

Actually, I had a very similar idea for Second First Chance as what Garaki's been up to, but I'm probably not coming back to that series and there's enough different here to keep things interesting anyway.

[rowanthestrange]

okay I clearly missed something, what's up with this book??

Not sure I know how to explain it at this point.

{{esquivalience is an extended universe book by Jamie H Cowan. You can get on Amazon as an ebook for around £1.50. It’s 40 pages. It was released a month ago. It’s a cheap and fast enough read that everyone should just read it first hand cus a recounting will potentially miss important things. It is Bananas Bubble mandatory reading.

What’s enough to encourage reading it but not spoiling it…

It…uh…it… Well it contains in it, at the end of the book, a song called “There’s Always A Twist at the End”, allegedly created by Chris Waites And The Carollers, i.e a group we made up in 1963 to be a former incarnation of Susan’s favourite band, John Smith And The Commonmen. This is the same group to whom the song of the same name in The Devil’s Chord would be attributed to, as seen on the billboard at the end of the episode.

It was released a month ago.

It’s fitting the themes of the story (as well as being meta making you feel the breaking down of the fourth wall, because the book is impossible it couldn’t precede the season but it is). It’s all about the…ability to write the universe. Literally. With a main character whose name is redacted and feels intimately familiar, with mirrors abounding. Esquivalience itself is a term meaning to shirk one’s labour (see our Doctor trying to reject a job/role for himself perhaps), but this word was made up by the Oxford Dictionary (in our world) as a form of copy detection. A trap word. Designed to check for plagiarism and forgery.

It namedrops a thing called “the old Dot And Bubble effect” that it defines as kind of a contraction of words/phrase until they lose meaning/gain an opposite one, a thing that as far as I can see doesn’t exist, we are making up wholesale, but is a title of an upcoming episode. Itself a copyright trap.

They call the force involved unravelling. It refers to the ropes of time/cause-and-effect (speaking the language of rope). The root of ‘splice’ is to join ropes it comes from Dutch. Gnomish from Artemis Fowl is real with the magic that implies, the origins of mavity, cycles of writing people out and conjuring and control, Tecteun’s fairylight tree. *mumbles to self increasingly incoherently*

[cj-doodlez]

"His face of death staring down, your blood's running cold. Injecting cells, dying eyes. Feeding on the screams of the mutant he's creating. Pathetic harmless victims left to die, rancid Angel of Death flying free"

Dr. Egalpoe, or as he's more known as, "The Dead Archetype": a former Galvan doctor who became obsessed with genetic alteration & DNA splicing during a war, sometime during the Omnitrix's development process, despite having no actual involvement with it. He was a war prisoner after the depraved and twisted experiments he did and led were discovered. At some point he had escaped confinement, and [REDACTED] classifies him as a viable suspect as to what happened with the Omnitrix and why it wasn't functioning the way it was originally intended. He's based off of a controversial and infamous figure in world history: Josef Mengele, or as everybody knew him, the "Angel of Death". He's also based off of the Slayer song under the same name that literally talks about the guy.

[demdifferentstories-29]

Timelines (Doctor Who (2005) fanfiction)

Story Summary

In Pete's World, Rose has a dream about New Year's 2005 and the Doctor tells her why.

1/1 chapters. For the Tentoo x Rose Microfic Challenge; @tentoorosemicrofics

Prompts: Memories; nightgown; worry.

Rating: General

Pairing: Metacrisis Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler

Word Count: 1373

Chapter Content/Tags: Dreams; memories; regeneration; hurt/comfort; angst; married couple.

Link (AO3), or read below!

Story

In a cosy little flat not too far from the bustling city, the heart and soul of London, the lights are off and the home is still. Shoes and coats discarded at the door lead to a pristine kitchen and dining table after an evening of cooking and eating, which opposes the living room which is suspended in time with blankets strewn across the couch and an empty packet of jelly babies sitting on the coffee table. Further down the hall is where the master bedroom resides, and in a queen-sized bed, the occupants of this small yet dearly loved residence are tangled in a cuddle. Legs threaded through each other, a back pressed against a chest, a nose buried in the crook of a neck, arms wrapped tightly around a torso, and gentle, slow, rhythmic breaths passing through thin cotton to warm the skin beneath.

The Doctor, per usual, is the big spoon to Rose Tyler’s little spoon. He is very rarely the one to be held in these circumstances, but it is something he doesn’t complain about nor care for. After everything he has been through with his precious girl, he savours any and every opportunity to hold her and ground himself to her body—a simple, yet such a powerful, reminder that this reality is not a conjuring or trickery of the mind. 

He was born from the disembodied hand of his full-Time Lord self and had spliced into this partly human counterpart. He is living with Rose in a parallel world and is living the life he could only have dreamed of when he had first met his pink-and-yellow human. They are in love, ferociously so, and are making the most of this blessed opportunity they had been granted.

In his sleep, he sighs happily as the hand that is completely human and original slips beneath Rose’s nightgown from where it rests on her stomach and caresses her soft, warm skin, the slightly cool complexion of the metal band wrapped around his ring finger making his wife shiver subconsciously.

In Rose’s sleep, the now older Defender of Earth who is almost thirty, she often shudders to think, furrows her brow deeply and begins to tense up all over. Not because of her husband’s wandering and cheeky hand. Rather, her mind is starting to play images and memories in her dreams that are not familiar. 

She knows a few key details—she’s eighteen in this dream because it’s New Year’s two-thousand-and-five, most definitely in the early hours of the fresh year. She’s at the Powell Estate, and Jackie has just left her after a conversation that feels like the roles of mother and daughter have been swapped. These moments she recognises, remembering the cold nip of the snowy air against her cheeks and fingertips; the desperation she feels to get back into the warmth of the flat; the quiet promise she had made to herself at midnight to have a better year after the fiasco that had been two-thousand-and-four courtesy of Jimmy Stone and a few bad mistakes.

But why is he here, she is asking herself as his pained, winded groan captures her attention. Her dream self doesn’t recognise him, but her disembodied conscious does. Why does he look so sad, so wistful as his chocolate eyes gaze upon her lovingly? Why does he hesitate and speak so vaguely? 

Rose gasps and shoots up from slumber without warning, tearing herself out of the Doctor’s arms as her body and mind panic, the memory vividly playing before her in her mind. This wasn’t a dream or modulation and she knows it—this had actually happened. The previous version of that event slips away from her mind like quicksand and the new alterations fill in the gaps. Seeing the Northerner, blue-eyed Doctor regenerate into the man she is married to is a memory that has a layer of bewilderment and familiarity to it now, recognising the younger complexion as the drunkard who told her she was going to have a great year. 

What was happening?

“Rose!” her husband exclaims, sitting up with her and wrapping his hands around her shoulders comfortingly. “What is it, love?” he soothes, trying to capture her eyes and attention, brow knotted in deep concern and worry for his beloved. 

“You…” she whispers, turning her head to him with tears in her eyes. His singular heart churns and breaks at the sight. “You visited me before we met… in two-thousand-and-five.” His furrowed brow turns from anxious to confused. He hadn’t—it was a simple fact. He had stumbled upon his Rose in Henrick’s; saved her life and changed the course of their timelines for good. 

“No, sweetheart—I didn’t,” he counters as politely and gently as possible, rubbing her bare arms and tucking loose hairs behind her ear. He searches her glassy and terrified eyes, trying to ground her in their world. Perhaps she’s had a bad dream, he muses. Memories and fantasy blending together. “There’s no reason…” he begins, but pauses as he thinks about the situation deeper. His face falls into a solemn look as he considers and accepts his theory. “Oh,” he murmurs, enlightened.

“What?” she questions, now her turn to look confused. The Doctor draws in a slow breath, taking one of her hands into his and squeezing gently. He hates having to tell her this, to break the news, but one of the vows he had made to her was that he would never lie to her; never keep her in the dark about anything. 

“He’s regenerating,” he elaborates with an empathetic frown. She seizes up a little, quietly devastated to hear this. She knows the Time Lord is afraid to move on from his current form, to change and become a new man, but it is a necessary evil. She reflects on everything for a moment and comes to her own conclusions. If this memory came to her new and altered tonight, and if he was just as upset as he appeared in her mind…

“And… and he’s alone?” she guesses, her voice thick with tension and coming out in a slight croak. He nods, drawing his lips into a thin line. A few tears trickle down her cheeks, her heart aching for the man she loves. His twin draws her into an embrace, rolling tender, comforting circles into her back.

“I know…” he coos, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head. He thinks back to the regenerations he experienced during his nine-hundred years of living and shudders at the thought of doing it alone. “He’ll be okay. He’ll find someone,” he assures her, another kiss to her temple. She pulls back from him, staring at him with wet, red eyes. He frowns at the sight and cups her cheek lovingly.

“At least… at least he lives on in you,” she manages to blubber out, offering a trembling smile that he reciprocates as tears of his own spring to life. “I’m so glad your hand got cut off that Christmas,” she laughs, which he chuckles at as well, brushing away the wetness that begins to fall down his face.

“I am too,” he whispers before kissing her softly, smoothing away the last of her tears. She does the same to him. They pull back after a moment and rest their foreheads against each other’s, grinning softly in the darkness of their bedroom and just holding each other’s hands.

“Do… do you think he knows how happy he got to be in this world?” she mumbles.

“Oh, of course, he does,” he hums, nuzzling his nose against hers. “I daydreamed about the possibilities of being with you every day, and I’m sure that after he left he thought about all of those hopes and desires and realised that in another universe he’s living out those fantasies every minute he spends with you,” he explains softly, so quietly as he runs his thumb against her skin. “I’m certain that he gets to live in peace with that knowledge.”

“Okay,” she murmurs, stealing another kiss. “Back to sleep?” she suggests.

“I think so,” he agrees, bundling her into his arms once their backs hit the mattress and drifting back to slumber.

[robexp03]

Horse Whispers - Chapter 1

 © By codypony@aol.com &

robotic.experiment.3@gmail.com &

@RoboticExperim1 Twitter

“There, that’ll be a damn site better!” I said, admiring the careful tight braid in my tail. “No more wind blown tangles.” I hate currying out rats in my mane and tail, I thought. “I wonder if I could do this behind my neck too.”

And then the absurdity of what I had just said hit home. My face registered shock, and then broke into a grin (at least as much of one as I can manage with a muzzle), and I laughed right out loud! Of course, this laugh had a distinctly neighing quality, but hey, what else would you expect from an Equus humanis.  That’s the pseudo Latin name that I like to use for myself these days.  I noticed that my dick oozed a little more precum, a couple tablespoons, in time with the pulse of my laughter. You know, if having a more than two foot cock wasn’t such fun, it would be a bitch of a bother.  Every time I think about what I have become I get turned on. Why, just braiding my tail was enough to make my cock rise and slither some of its smooth brown length up out of my furry sheath.  Quite a change from my initial reaction, and certainly worlds away from my original structure and intentions.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At one time, I was an overly dedicated athlete, deeply engaged in the sport of cross-country racing, and running in general. As a teen I had been very much into competition, but it is very difficult to parlay a swift body into the kind of lifestyle that I planned on having.  I went into the family business of breeding Quarter Horses with my father, and achieved the financial success necessary for me to pursue my personal goals.  In my adult years, the competition became me, striving against my previous personal best.

Then, as often happens, after years of constant training I reached a plateau that seemed to be the peek of my abilities.  Regardless of how hard I practiced, or how much time I spent working out, my personal performance refused to improve.  Now, everyone reaches plateaus. Most men either give up, or accept their status as the representation of their personal best.  But being an impatient and stubborn guy, I refused to accept either alternative.   So when I heard that Dr. Malcolm DeBiron at the Alsense Institute had successfully mapped the DNA sequences of Tracker, the famous champion endurance racing stallion, and had engineered a retro phage virus for in vivo DNA splicing, I contacted the center to discuss the possibility of applying the knowledge to practical matters.  Using the pretense of discussing the application of his knowledge to my business, I was able to secure an interview.  But in truth, my quarter horse business was the farthest thing from my mind.

“Doctor DeBiron, I am grateful that you are available to discuss this with me. I am investigating the possibilities of improving the stamina of my prized stallion, Traveler, with an eye toward an overall improvement in the entire stable.  Traveler is a remarkable animal and we all could use some help in overcoming…um…. the limits of our natural physical abilities.”

“You are most welcome Mr. Omen. Yes, your letter stated that you were very interested in enhancing your horse's endurance and performance I believe.  Horses have quite a marvelous adaptation that has made them the successful ‘flight not fight�� creatures they are, Mr. Omen” the doctor said looking at me curiously.

“Please, you can call me Cody” I smiled, trying to become as friendly as possible. He did not respond.

“Are you aware that they have disproportionately large spleens, which are used to store excess red blood cells?” he lectured.  “In times of stress, hormonal changes cause their spleens to release those stored blood cells into the bloodstream.  The excess cells allow the blood to carry several times its normal level of oxygen to the tissues of the body, supplying a seemingly endless source of energy to their magnificently evolved structures.   Effectively, horses have evolved a natural form of blood doping- a practice which is disallowed but not unknown in human sports competition, an ethically questionable practice as I understand it.”

“In other words, they cheat” I grinned.  He smiled slightly.  The doctor seemed to be somewhat introverted.  The only emotion that I detected in his voice appeared when he was discoursing on the marvels of horses!  He’s a horse lover I noted.  Probably a weekend cowboy, and western legend in his own mind.  I chuckled silently to myself.

“Doctor, from your research on Tracker, do you see any way that this technique could be transferred or enhanced? For some time now I have been working to overcome that natural high level best that all animals have.  Once you reach it, it is really hard, nearly impossible it seems, to push through that barrier.  You can train and workout and struggle endlessly,” I said vehemently, beating my left palm with my right fist, “but the ratio of reward to work just stays too low.  It can be so agonizing. You want something so bad that you devote your every waking minute to making it happen, and the results are often disappointing, until frustration becomes a chronic condition!”  The emotion in my voice had risen without me noticing as I was talking.

The doctor eyes drilled into mine as he asked with quiet intensity. "Mr. Omen, are we talking about your stallion Traveler...or you?”

I squirmed uncomfortably, mentally kicking myself.  Five minutes together, and already I had screwed everything up.  Fuck the proverbial duck!

“You know, I will not be able to help you, unless I know what it is that you really want” he said as he continued to probe at my mind with his intuition. He sat back and placed the knuckles of his left hand on his upper lip, and looked at me intently from under his lowered brow.  “Unfortunately, the same condition in humans causes other health problems.  So you must understand Mr. Omen, simply enlarging the spleen is not enough.  I’m afraid that there is….. more to it than merely that.  There are hormones to consider.  A horse has specific hormones that control this process.  Increased oxygen carrying capacity can be triggered by an adrenal response, and at other times it is simply a response to the necessities of sexuality. In all cases it begins in the sympathetic nervous system or the more vernacular 'flight or fight' reactions of the equine pituitary ��� adrenal axis physiology. I am certain that Traveler could benefit from my research findings, but” he drew the word out to a short silence. “I was not anticipating that anyone else might think that my knowledge had any interesting applications to humans in any practical sense.   In either case, you must realize that we could not concentrate on simply enlarging spleen capacity.  We would have to address the other variables as well.  Mr. Omen, you are 36 years old am I correct?” 

            I don’t think the shock I felt showed on my face. It felt slack and blank as my mind spun, using up all available energy.  Had he just intimated that there was a possibility of human use?  I twitched a bit as I realized how long he had been waiting for an answer to his question.

“Yes, I’m thirty-six Doctor” I stammered as my mind lurched into forward motion. He considered this for a long time, finally coming to some decision.

“Normally I would not even advance such a suggestion,” he was trying to sound very casual, but it was difficult for him. “But Mr. Omen, I can see that you are in excellent physical condition. Your records show that you are at a peak for your age.”

“Records doctor?”

“Yes. Well. When you called I had a profile done on you Mr. Omen. My work on the HGP has put me in contact with some very powerful and comprehensive government databases.  Your performance history is well documented publicly, and privately” he added matter of factly.

“HGP?” I was beginning to sound (and feel) very ignorant.

“The Human Genome Project. Essentially it is the parent project of the one that brought you here.  We have been mapping the entire human DNA structure now for several years. The homology between Equus caballus and Homo sapiens DNA is actually quite high as it is for all creatures in the family mammalia.  The research is not complete, but we have learned more about the human animal than we knew in all of previously recorded history.  Given all the indications, it was not a very long leap to arrive at the conclusion that you, Mr. Omen, might be just the man I have wanted to meet.  Might you be interested in participating in a small private experiment?”

“I’m listening Doctor.” I barely whispered.

“Well, I have been developing an advanced form of in vivo genetic manipulation, which I call Genengineering. My experiments have shown that it holds great promise to cure many maladies that plague mankind.  Suffice it to say that I am at the stage where I am ready for human trials on a very limited and highly selective basis, to further the …um…. theoretical possibilities, so to speak.  And I am looking for a healthy, co-operative, and highly motivated volunteer to assist me in my research.” He said this too casually, I realized later.

“Doctor, I’m hardly qualified in medical stuff to…” I began.

“Not necessary at all dear boy.” He interrupted. “Your role in the research will be as…. um…. trained observer” he chose the words carefully.  “Your experience and close association with horses and their behavior makes you very well qualified indeed.  This role will be an interactive one.  In fact your role will be crucial to the entire project. I will even go so far as to say that” he paused and looked at the palm and then the back of his left hand somewhat absently “you will be the very heart, or shall we say spleen, of the work”. He smiled brightly at the humor he found in this bad pun.  When I said nothing he continued with a sighing, “Of course if you are not interested, then I am afraid I will have to excuse myself…”

“What would this healthy volunteer be expected to do?” it was my turn to interrupt.

His eyes sparkled as he ticked off the conditions on his fingers.  “He would have to place himself in my complete care for some time. He must be willing to accept the confinement necessary to clinically study the results.  He would need to recognize that there are inherent dangers in what he would be participating in, and absolve the Institute of all fault except the most severe negligence. He would have to be willing to allow me to make all the decisions necessary for his safety and the projects success. And, that since this therapy is not yet an exact science, he might need to be prepared for…. unexpected results and, perhaps even disappointing ones.”

I bravely stared at my boots, the floor, my pants, anywhere but at him. Could it be possible that he was saying what I prayed he was? Was he also a mind reader? “And what would be the reward for his cooperation?” I asked nearly breathless.

The doctor leaned forward and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Ah, Mr. Omen, the reward.  The reward might be more than any expectations we might ever conceive! It might be the beginning of a new age of mankind. It might be the first step towards the ending of all disease, dementia, and debilitations. It may raise the simple human condition from its squalid circumstance to immortal godliness.  But tell me young man, would granting your fondest wish in life be reward enough to begin with?”

To be continued

[thelastdiamondpiratealchemist]

Star Goes to the Dentist.

Star has a cavity, and he has to go to the dentist.

Asha peaks into Star's messy bedroom. He was supposed to be up an hour ago, and she was beginning to worry about him. Asha slowly stuck her head through the door, noticing Star curled up underneath his bed sheets.

"Star, are you okay?" Asha asked, placing her hand on the door frame.

"Mmmth…"

"What do you mean by 'mmmth'?" Asha wonders, "What's the matter? Are you feeling sick?"

"My tooth hurts," Star admitted, his voice soft; Asha's eyes widened with concern.

"Oh no, Star, I'm so sorry," she exclaimed, rushing to his side. She gently lifted the covers, revealing Star's pale face and furrowed brow. "Let me see."

Star opened his mouth slightly, and Asha peered inside. One of his molars was noticeably chipped and swollen.

"That looks very painful," she said.

"It hurts so much," Star whimpered; he had never gone through anything like his back in his original home.

"Don't worry, I'll take you to the dentist," Asha reassured him. Star held his swollen cheek as he sat in bed.

"Den-tist?" he tilted his head to the side, "What is that?"

"It's a doctor who helps people with their teeth, Star," Asha explained. "They can fix your tooth and make it feel better."

Star shakes his head; he hides back underneath his bed sheets, hiding from Asha; he remembers his last visit to a doctor when he disgusted himself by shapeshifting into Mrs. McKinley's cat six months ago.

"You know…?" Star tried to think of a convincing lie, "I feel better!"

"Okay…" Asha quickly left the room and returned with a plate with spliced apples, "Eat one of these; prove to me that it doesn't hurt."

Star reluctantly takes the apple slice from Asha and takes a small bite, wincing slightly as he chews. Asha watches him closely, noticing the discomfort on his face.

"It still hurts," Star admits, his voice muffled by the apple in his mouth.

Asha gently takes the apple slice from him and sits it on the bedside table. She sits beside him on the bed and softly strokes his hair.

"It's okay, Star. You don't have to be afraid. The dentist will make sure you're not in any pain, I promise," Asha reassures him.

"But what if they can't fix it? What if it's too late?" Star looks up at her with sad eyes.

"Don't worry, Star. I won't let anything bad happen to you. We'll go to the dentist together, and they will care for your tooth. Everything will be fine, I promise." Asha smiles warmly at him

Star nods slowly, feeling comforted by Asha's words. He hugs her tightly, grateful to have her by his side.

"Thank you, Asha," he whispers.

"Of course, Star. I'll always be here for you. Now let's get you to the dentist and make that tooth feel better, okay?" Asha hugs him back.

At the dentist, Star and Asha sat by each other in the lobby; Star glanced everywhere. He didn't like the sound he heard from the closed-off area; the smell made him crinkle his nose, and the smiling tooth posters made him uncomfortable.

Asha noticed Star's uneasiness and rubbed his back soothingly.

"It's okay, Star. I'll be right here with you the whole time. The dentist is just going to take a look at your tooth and make it feel better. You're courageous for coming here." She whispered.

"Star….Asteria?" a nurse called out, opening the door to the back area. Star was about to bolt through the front door, but Asha grabbed his hand.

Star squeezed Asha's hand tightly, feeling a surge of fear at the thought of entering the back room. But with Asha's reassuring presence beside him, he took a deep breath and stood up slowly.

"Let's go, Star," Asha said gently, leading him toward the nurse.

As they entered the back room, Star's eyes widened at the sight of the dental chair and the bright light shining down. He felt his heart race with anxiety, but Asha's calming touch on his shoulder helped to steady his nerves.

"Please, take a seat," the nurse told Star, "Dr. Zeigler will be with you shortly."

Star slowly lowered himself into the dental chair, his body tense and his eyes darting around the room. Asha sat down next to him, her hand still clasped in his.

A few minutes later, Dr. Zeigler entered the room. He was a friendly-looking man with a gentle smile and kind eyes.

"Hello, Star," Dr. Zeigler said. "I'm Dr. Zeigler. I will look at your tooth and see what we can do to make it feel better."

Star nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the bright light shining down on him.

"Can you open your mouth, please?" Dr. Zeigler requested; Star bit his lip and shook his head. Asha tickled Star behind his knee, making him laugh and open his mouth.

Dr. Zeigler peered into Star's mouth, using a small mirror and a probe to examine his aching molar. Star winced slightly as the probe touched the sensitive area.

"I see what's causing the pain," Dr. Zeigler said. "Your molar has a cavity that's quite deep. We must fill it to stop the pain and prevent further damage."

Star's eyes widened with fear.

"Fill it?" he asked. "What does that mean?"

"It's a simple procedure," Dr. Zeigler explained. "I'll remove the decayed part of the tooth and fill the hole with a special material to make the tooth strong again."

Dr. Zeigler stands up from his stool, calling for his assistant to enter the room; she enters and smiles at Star and Asha.

"Sabrina, can you prepare the numbing jelly?" He asked.

"Yes, doctor." Sabrina agreed, placing gloves into her hands.

"What's 'numbing jelly'?" Star asked nervously.

"A jelly substance to numb the second of your mouth so you won't feel the injection." Dr. Zeigler explained that Asha felt her face go white at the word "injection"; she knew Star was terrified of needles.

The numbing jelly was placed onto a long, thin Q-tip; Sabrina walked over to his side and gently placed her hand on the corner of his mouth.

"Open wide." She spoke, "This won't hurt."

Star reluctantly opened his mouth wide, allowing Sabrina to apply the numbing jelly to the affected area. He felt a cold sensation spread throughout his mouth, followed by a tingling numbness.

"See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Sabrina said with a reassuring smile.

Star shook his head, still feeling anxious about the upcoming procedure. But Asha stayed by his side, holding his hand tightly and offering words of encouragement.

A few minutes later, the lower section of Star's mouth tingled, feeling a little 'numb' where Sabrina had placed the disgusting-tasting numbing jelly.

"Okay, can you open your mouth for me again, Star?" Dr. Zeigler asked, holding the injection in his hand. Star's eyes widened at the metal syringe, and he let out a small whimper of fear.

"Close your eyes," Asha spoke.

Star squeezed his eyes shut tightly, bracing himself for the pinch of the needle. He felt Asha's hand gripping his tightly, offering him comfort and support.

"It's okay, Star. I'm right here with you," Asha whispered soothingly.

Dr. Zeigler gently inserted the needle into the numbed area of Star's mouth. Star flinched slightly at the sensation, but surprisingly, he felt no pain. The numbing jelly had worked its magic, and Star was relieved.

"Good job, Star," Dr. Zeigler said, removing the needle. "You did great."

Star opened his eyes slowly, feeling a mix of relief and gratitude. Asha smiled at him warmly, her eyes filled with pride.

"You're courageous, Star. I'm so proud of you," Asha said, reassuringly squeezing his hand.

"Okay, let's begin." Dr. Zeigler spoke; Sabrina nodded in agreement, ready to assist.

Dr. Zeigler began the procedure, carefully removing the decayed part of Star's tooth and filling the cavity with the particular material. Star felt a slight pressure and vibration in his mouth, but he didn't feel any pain thanks to the numbing jelly and shot.

He felt his eyes glancing around the area, noticing the posters on the wall and the different dental tools surrounding them.

"Almost done, Star," Dr. Zeigler said encouragingly. "Just a few more minutes, and we'll be finished."

Asha continued to hold Star's hand, offering him comfort and support throughout the procedure. She watched in awe as Dr. Zeigler skillfully filled the cavity, restoring Star's tooth to its former strength.

"All done," Dr. Zeigler announced finally. "You did great, Star. Your tooth is all fixed now."

Sabrina and Dr. Zeigler assisted Star upwards. Star still felt some pain in his sore tooth, but it wasn't as bad as before; he felt dizzy and a little 'silly' from the medicine.

"Star, how do you feel?" Asha asked. Star let out a drunk-like, goofy laugh.

Star giggled uncontrollably, feeling a bit lightheaded from the numbing agents.

"I feel…funny," Star replied, still chuckling.

Dr. Zeigler and Sabrina exchanged amused glances before sharing a laugh with Star.

"That's completely normal, Star," Dr. Zeigler assured him. "The numbing agents can make you feel a bit silly. But don't worry, it will wear off soon."

Star nodded, still grinning. Asha couldn't help but laugh with him, feeling relieved that the procedure had gone smoothly. Star attempted to sit up from the dental chair but was stopped by Asha as she grabbed his shoulder.

"Star, don't get up too fast. You might feel a little dizzy." Asha warned; Star nodded in understanding.

"I'll wait a little longer." He spoke, still feeling somewhat 'goofy' in the head.

Dr. Zeigler and Sabrina cleaned the area, preparing Star to leave the clinic.

"You'll need to take these antibiotics to prevent infection," Dr. Zeigler said, handing Asha a prescription. "And avoid chewing on the side of your mouth where the filling is for the next few days."

"Okay, thank you, Dr. Zeigler," Asha replied, taking the prescription.

"You're welcome. And Star, if you have any more pain, you can take some over-the-counter pain medication like ibuprofen."

"Okay, I will." Star nodded, trying to focus his slightly uncoordinated body to walk; Asha quickly grabbed his hand, ensuring he didn't lose his balance.

"Let's get you home," Asha said, helping Star to his feet. "You can lean on me if you need to."

Star leaned heavily on Asha's shoulder as they exited the dental office and into the waiting area. Asha noticed that Star was still disoriented, and she couldn't help but chuckle at his goofy behavior.

"Are you okay, Star?" Asha asked, concerned.

"I'm okay," Star replied, his speech slightly slurred. "Just a little 'funny' still."

Asha laughed slightly again; Star being "drunk" was the funniest thing she had seen all week; his slightly swollen cheeks reminded her of a chipmunk.

Asha assisted Star to the front door. Star was slightly stumbling around; he held the door for dear life, trying not to fall over.

"Careful, Star," Asha warned, "Don't trip."

"I'm trying," Star mumbled, his eyes still unfocused.

They stepped outside into the bright sunlight, and Star squinted his eyes, feeling a wave of dizziness wash over him.

A few minutes later, Asha managed to help Stat return to the small hut; with each step he took, the more his legs felt like jelly.

Asha guided Star to his bed and helped him lay down comfortably. She made sure he was settled in before sitting down next to him.

"Are you feeling better now, Star?" Asha asked, brushing his hair back gently.

Star nodded slowly, his eyes still unfocused. "I think so. My tooth doesn't hurt as much anymore."

"That's good to hear," Asha said, relieved. "Just rest for now, and the dizziness will pass soon."

Star closed his eyes, feeling the exhaustion from the ordeal wash over him. He let out a soft sigh, finally feeling at ease.

"Thank you, Asha," Star murmured, his words slurring slightly.

Asha smiled warmly at him, feeling grateful to have been able to help him through this challenging experience.

"You're welcome, Star. I'll stay here with you until you feel better." Asha said, placing a gentle hand on his forehead.

"Thanks, Asha." Star slurred his words, not realizing he had repeated himself.

A few hours passed, and Star's dizziness had subsided. He opened his eyes to find Asha sitting beside him, her hand placed gently on his forehead.

"How are you feeling now, Star?" Asha asked, concern evident in her voice.

"I'm feeling much better, thank you," Star replied, sitting up slowly. He noticed the dull ache in his mouth had faded, and he felt grateful for the relief.

"I'm glad to hear that," Asha said, smiling warmly at him. "Do you need anything? Water, or maybe some soup?"

"No, thank you, Asha. I just want to rest for a bit." Star shook his head, feeling a wave of gratitude wash over him.

"Of course," Asha said, standing up from the bed. "I'll be right here if you need anything."

Star watched as Asha left the room, feeling a deep sense of appreciation for her care and support. He knew he was lucky to have someone like her by his side.

As Star lay back on his bed, he couldn't help but think about the day's events. Despite his fear of the dentist, he faced his fears and came out stronger on the other side. And he knew it was all thanks to Asha's unwavering support and encouragement.

"Thank you, Asha," Star whispered, a small smile forming. He closed his eyes, feeling content and at peace.

As he drifted off to sleep, he knew that no matter what challenges he faced in the future, he would always have Asha's love and support to guide him through.

[mewintheflesh-2]

More things about the Spliced AU!! I think it’d be fun if we had some of the DTDF lab assistants in Orion’s lab. So now they have to deal with their boss having split himself into two different people, and now the two halves are being very annoying and making work difficult. Or at least one of them is, more than the other. The other ones just kind of a bummer to be around

Poor Marnie you sweet sweet girl 😭😭😭😭 Its especially bad for her consider her people-pleasing nature, so everyone else is like “Don’t listen to literally anything they tell you to do unless it sounds like something Dr. Orion would say” but then Marnie’s like “But… but he asked me to- I have to??????? I mean- he’s my boss so-“ and the others are like MARNIE. NO. and Marnies just like 🥲🫠

I think the more Manic half could keep the name Fuchsia, since I see him having more pinkish tones in his design. The other half…. Hmmmmmm…… Y’know what? Why don’t they split the original Doctors name amongst each other. You’ve got Fuchsia and you’ve got Orion. Dr. Fuchsia and Dr. Orion… oh I can’t imagine the confusion.

You’re talking about the original doctor and somebody’s like “Wait do you mean Dr. Orion? As in like…, the split one???” And you’re like “No.”. It doesn’t help that I think some of them would just call the original doctor Orion as a short-hand. They’d probably start calling the Mellow Split Dr. Orion 2 or Orion 2 until they can find a better name for him, or until he finds a name he likes.

I think Orion 2 is the more serious of the two when it comes to research on fusions and medical procedures. Meanwhile Fuchsia’s just like “Let’s get a little silly with it :3c”. He’s not allowed in the operating room.

[paramouradrift]

#Avatar BioShock Crossover AU" 2023 please!!!

This one's a doozy.

I don't remember precisely what triggered this one, but there was a period of a couple weeks last year where I got really into the idea of an Avatar/BioShock crossover AU. This spawned several AUs, only one of which made it into my WIP folder, apparently, so the rest must be lurking on discord with my beta reader. This particular AU has a few scant character notes, some timelines, and a discussion of themes that paint what I would consider a compelling but overly-ambitious picture.

The themes in play: destiny, causality, consciousness, free will, and moral choice. We are pulling material from BioShock, BioShock 2, BioShock 2: Minerva's Den, BioShock Infinite, Avatar: the Last Airbender, and Legend of Korra. Rapture exists in its own right, whereas Columbia is replaced with Republic City. Tears, Spirit Portals, and Spirit Wilds are all the same thing, linking Rapture and Republic City across time and space. Bending and Splicing are the same, as well, with the "Avatar" being someone who has spliced up to an incredible degree and not died of every kind of cancer. The Avatar State is thus a kind of berserk mode that uses up all the EVE in the Avatar's body, leaving them powerless and vulnerable at the end. Past Avatars exist as coherent ADAM ghosts.

Aang, in this story, is a Jack/Eleanor Lamb character originally from Rapture who escaped into Republic City through a tear, and set about trying to find a way back to Rapture's past to undo all of the damage he ended up causing. He's a man haunted by guilt whose efforts are ultimately futile, because that's not how causality works.

Korra is our Elizabeth, whose ability to open and close tears makes her valuable to Aang in his quest for redemption, but also makes her a target for everyone on both sides of the veil who wants a slice of the Rapture/Republic City pie. But opening and closing tears destroys entire sections of probability space, creating fixed points in spacetime and releasing a ton of spiritual energy that gets eaten by the bioluminescent mass that sits beneath Rapture, spitting ADAM slugs back out into the world, accelerating the chaos and decline of both cities.

I have here that Aang somehow travels back to the past and becomes the founder of Rapture, which means he later creates and then kills himself while trying to do everything he can to avoid that outcome. It probably made more sense in my head the time. The other members of the Gaang are listed as Rapture's Best & Brightest: Zuko and Sokka are divorced and miserable, with Zuko trying to be a single dad and Sokka inventing the Thinker; Katara is the city's foremost doctor and philanthropist; Suki is a detective/private security chief; and Toph runs the banks because nobody else is capable. She also laid a lot of the city's foundation.

The Mechanist is here inventing things. Wu is a popular singer with his own radio program. Suyin is a prima donna ballerina. Asami is...presumably doing something amazing, but I didn't write that bit down.

The villain rogue's gallery is all here as well, moving back and forth across the tears and causing mischief and mayhem. Zaheer's radical spirituality causes Aang (Rapture Founder) to ban religion, and Unalaq tries to get control of the Avatar Program so that he can become an Avatar himself. Ozai and Zhao extend their feelers throughout both cities, seizing power and resources for themselves. Amon slots himself nicely into the Atlas role (plot twist and all), so nothing really more to say there. Kuvira is apparently a former police officer turned mob boss capitalizing on the chaos for her own gain. Long Feng is a cold technocrat who runs a private security firm and manages assets for city big wigs. My note on him is "a less affable Sinclair."

Pro-bending/ADAM boxing is a thing, so Mako and Bolin are here trying to make it big in the big bad city/ies, which probably means I planned some background Wuko.

I have no idea what my endgame was. I don't know what the actual plot was going to be. This project wasn't one I seriously considered planning out in detail because I was in the middle of H&V/J&R work, and that takes priority over anything else with this level of ambition. Having said that, it might be interesting to take another pass at the concept and see if I can turn all of that up there into something workable.

WIP Game master post.

[octopationaltherapy]

A Vinter boy

Original Omegaverse fiction. Alpha/Alpha. Alpha/Omega. Omega/Omega. M/M. M/M/M. Background F/F, M/F, M/M relationships.

TW: Eating disorders, past sexual abuse, past child sexual abuse

Darius Vinter had run the finest finishing school in the country, and he had closed it years ago. Decades ago, genetic researchers developed technology to build your perfect mate. Through a process called "splicing" you can select an omega's eye color, hair color, height, or even add a tail! Of course, this technology is only available to the fabulously wealthy, and still requires the pup to be carried and raised by a surrogate until they're of mating age, so these spliced humans are considerably rare- especially the hybrids. Asher is a human/dog hybrid rescued from sex trafficking, who has run out of places to go. His behavior has lost him a place at every respite home, group home, and psychiatric hospital in the state of Maryland. When a colleague brings his file to Dr. Vinter, however, the boy finds another place in the nick of time.

Read on AO3

OR

Chapter One

Darius Vinter had run the most respected finishing school in the country, and he had closed it years ago.

If he was honest, he would always miss it. Though the alpha had never taken a mate for himself, he thoroughly enjoyed the process of finishing an omega. Wealthy parents from all over the country sought a place for their children at his school, and any omega with Vinter’s name attached was guaranteed to fetch a handsome dowry. He enjoyed these aristocratic pupils, gentle and demure, but his real love would always remain with the delinquents.

Dr. Vinter loved a challenge.

In its heyday, the school had operated in the typical hours: Monday through Friday, morning into afternoon. Most students came for lessons and enjoyed their time off to do whatever they liked. A select few, however, were chosen to board at the manor.

“Punks,” “troublemakers,” there were many names for them, but Dr. Vinter would always refer to them as “brats,” with unabashed affection. Rarely, these would be the spoiled children of the upper crust, but more often they were selected from foster homes, hospitals, the legal system or the office of an acquainted psychiatrist. Dr. Vinter, after all, had kept one foot in psychiatry for his entire career.

He was a doctor, a real one, with a degree and a license to practice. In his youth, he had been thoroughly confused about what he wanted beyond a vague desire to help those in need. This had seen him through medical school to a residency in surgery, until he surprised everyone and took a sharp turn into psychiatry instead. From there, he had gradually side stepped into training omegas, making everyone’s eyebrows raise only higher.

When questioned, Dr. Vinter liked to say that he was fascinated by the way things work. It made enough sense; the inner workings of a human body can rarely be observed more closely than atop an operating table, and psychiatry lent a porthole into lconsciousness itself. More accurately, however, Dr. Vinter was only interested in the inner workings of the other.

So, he was drawn to omegan behavior like a moth to a flame.

The gentle dynamic was upheld as a mystery in Dr. Vinter’s youth, and though society slowly (haggardly, with weights tied to its ankles) marched toward equality and inclusion, they largely remained so. Dr. Vinter took pride in knowing exactly what made them tick.

He had begun modestly, counseling omegas, and quickly built a specialty in behavior and conduct disorders. Word spread quickly of his practice. For much of history, omegan behavior was hardly acknowledged at all. Their alpha would get them to fall in line, or they would be disposed of in an institution with little thought. Dr. Vinter was one of the first to take these difficult cases, and one of even fewer to see actual success.

Though, there is only so much one can do without getting their hands dirty.

An omega’s training was only worth as much as their alpha was willing to put into it, and Dr. Vinter struggled more against stubborn alphas than any omega that entered his office. Eventually, there was nothing to do but take matters into his own hands, and thus he found himself straddling psychology and training.

He chose, of course, to lean further into the latter.

This isn’t to say that Vinter had abandoned psychiatry, because of course that isn’t the case. His degree laid a wonderful foundation atop which he could mold any omega into a desirable mate. It also lent credence to his practice, giving him an edge over surrounding competition.

Dr. Vinter was not a trainer, like that who conditioned beasts with handfuls of treats. He was not a matchmaker, a role associated with foreign and primitive societies. He was a doctor, a man of science, and he was damn good at what did.

Though, of course, he did not do it any more.

He had retired back to psychiatry, returning to the nest that had so comfortably housed him in his youth. He worked with mated pairs, alphan/omegan couples, and his training methods withdrew from practice back to instruction.

And he was fine with this.

The man was nearing fwas only getting older, and the time had to come sooner or later. It wasn’t as though psychiatry was not a respected field, and it certainly funded a luxurious lifestyle. The excitement of his youth had come to an end, but in its place was a perfectly adequate life. Dr. Vinter had no intention of returning, and that was that. 

This could not stop Allison Flowers from asking, however.

It is a Friday afternoon, and a perfectly uneventful one. Darius sits in his office to work on filing records, which is what he has always reserved Friday afternoons for. The paperwork simply does not get done otherwise. His last appointment had left hours ago, and at this point even the desk staff had gone home. So, he is not pleased to hear the door open, ringing the small bell perched above it. He remains seated, and hopes that someone has left a jacket at their desk.

Of course, there is a knock at his door.

With a sigh, he rises. When he answers, however, he cannot stop the fond smile that crosses his lips. He has not seen the beta in ages.

Dr. Allison Flowers is a cheery beta with dirty blonde hair that coils like springs. Vinter had mentored her early in her career, and she has gone on to be one of the most well-respected adolescent psychologists in the state. She is a point of pride for Vinter, and he treats her as such.

“Dr. Flowers.” He greets her, warmth and fondness in his voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Allison laughs breathily in response, head ducked as the alpha leads her back to his desk. He gestures for her to sit.

“A favor, if I may ask it.” She says, and takes her seat.

“You may always ask.” Darius responds easily.

His ease is shaken when the beta places a manilla folder on his desk with a thud. The file is an inch thick. Darius’s eyes widen.

“What is this?” He asks.

“This,” Allison says in a tone that can only be described as exhausted. “Is my patient, Asher.”

Darius flips the file open without waiting for instruction. A young omega’s picture is paperclipped to the first page. His hair is shaggy and jet black, though flecks of white shine through it. From it, two upright canine ears sit alert on the top of his head. His eyes are striking. One eye is a deep, dark brown, and the other is split vertically, almost perfectly down the middle: the outer half a dark brown matching the other eye, and the inner half a light, watery blue. The line that divides the two is ever so slightly imperfect, tapering back and forth like the plucked string of a harp.

The boy snarls at the camera.

“A hybrid?” Darius asks. It is certainly a surprise.

The technology has existed for, what, sixty years now? And it has remained tenuous the entire time. Hybrids were highly desirable, not only as mates, but as pups. Wealthy couples would shell out millions to have a hybrid embryo spliced into existence, to either be carried by one parent or a surrogate. Alphas, wealthier still, would pay obscene amounts to not only splice an embryo, but pay a surrogate to carry and raise the child until they were old enough to mate. Dozens of hybrid species had been spliced, and many more attempted. The most popular were cats, followed closely by dogs, but birds and even reptiles were not unheard of. Any hybrid you could dream of had a market somewhere, it was only a matter of finding someone with both the specific fantasy and enough money to fund it.

An unclaimed hybrid was nigh unheard of.

“He’s an inu.” Allison responds softly. “He was spliced with a husky, I think. He’s been my patient for the last six years, and he’s, um, run out of places to go.”

Darius snorts.

“You don’t mean to tell me that you’ve got a hybrid that nobody wants, Allison.”

The beta shakes her head.

“I’m sure someone would want him.” She says. “I’m sure if we sent him to auction, the entire hall would be fighting tooth and nail over taking him home. It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

Allison falters, stammering. Nearly half a minute passes before she finds the words.

“He’s a brat.” She says finally, and Darius doesn’t fight the grin that rises to his face.

“And I do love a brat, don't I?” He says fondly. “Unfortunately, I quit that game years ago.”

Allison shakes her head.

“No, Darius, please listen.” She says all at once, and begins flipping through the file in front of her. 

“He came to  St. Guinefort’s six years ago- almost seven now.” She says. “They kicked him out on his eighteenth birthday. That was last May. I’ve been trying to find him a placement since then. The next stop is auction, and he’s not ready.”

Darius taps his fingers on his desk.

“St. Guinefort’s could have kept him until twenty-one.” He points out, and Allison snorts.

“St. Guinefort’s was tired of his shit.” She says flatly. “His entire stay, no one heard him say a word, only growl. I still haven’t heard him say a word! At the same time, we know he’s not stupid. It’s like he’s playing with us.”

Darius leans back in his chair, examining the beta. He can’t deny that his interest is piqued.

“Playing with you how?”

“Any way he can.” Allison responds. “He finds a new way every day. At Guinefort’s, he eloped fifteen different times. Fifteen. Every time they would increase his restrictions, tighten security on the ward, and he’d find some way no one thought of and run again. He does whatever he wants.”

Darius is smiling, tight-lipped. 

“Continue.” is all he says.

“We’ve tried every way we can think of to get him to communicate.” Allison continues. “Pen and paper, PECs, sign. He will use them only as far as they serve him, then exploit them to confuse and misdirect staff. After that, you press him and he growls. Press him further, he’ll bite. Pretty much everyone staffing his ward has gotten at least one bite, and they’re bad. His teeth are spliced, they’re sharp. He doesn’t want to talk, at least not to us.”

Darius's eyes flit upward to meet the beta’s.

“But there’s others he will speak to, isn’t there?”

Allison bites her lip.

“All the other patients are scared of him.” She says. “Several of them have said he’s threatened them. Violent threats, specific. They won’t go near him, and that’s exactly what he wants.”

A laugh escapes Darius’s mouth, a noise of pure delight.

“A bully, as well?” He muses. “I wonder how he’d like to be picked on by someone bigger for a change.”

Allison exhales.

“Which is why I came for you.” She says. “We can’t use punishments-”

“But I can.” Darius finishes softly. Then he clears his throat. “Yet, I unfortunately remain retired.”

Allison groans.

“Please Darius.” She says. “There’s nowhere else.”

“Try Perkins.” He responds.

“We did. He was out by the end of the week.”

“Eastern Shore?”

“Already tried.”

“Sheppard Pratt?”

“He’s been.”

“Mary Margaret’s?” 

“They kept him for four hours.” 

Darius’s eyes widen. He looks down at the file in front of him.

“Mary Margaret’s kicked him out after four hours?” He asks softly, smile tugging on his lips.

“I dropped him off at eight and he was out by lunch.” Allison says. “You are the only one left.”

Darius hums, a noise reflecting something between admiration and disbelief.

“It’s certainly tempting.” He says after a moment. “But I am still retired.”

“Darius, please.” Allison begs, desperate now. “Without you he has nowhere to go!”

Darius sighs, offering a noncommittal shrug.

“Let him go to auction, then.” He responds dryly. “He would make the city a pretty penny. Maybe they’ll build a new library.”

Allison groans, head turned away and eyes squeezed shut in a wince. Then, she sighs, regaining her composure. 

“I didn’t want to play this card,” She says softly. “But, if you won’t do it for me, would you consider doing it as a favor to Will Summers?”

Darius stiffens, any humor he had leaves his body at once

“What does Will Summers have to do with this?” He asks, his tone cold and harsh.

“Asher was found six years ago, naked in a dog cage, in an abandoned storage unit.” She says. “Sex trafficking.”

Allison flips through the folder, still laid open on Darius’s desk. She lays it open on a close up of the omega’s inner ear. Tattooed on the pink skin is the boy’s name, Asher, and presumably his date of birth, 05110XX Next to these is a symbol Darius doesn’t recognize: two crescents back to back, slightly off center. They make something between the shape of a cross and that of an X. His eyes flit upward to meet the beta’s, waiting for an explanation.

“That symbol,” She says, pointing to the photo. “Has been found on seventeen bodies of dead hybrids. Asher is the only living person who carries it, as far as we know. Summers has been working on this case for the last seven years, and if Asher goes to auction, he’s going to lose access to the only person capable of giving the FBI any information on it.”

She meets the alpha’s eyes.

“All I’m asking is for you to buy us some time.”

Darius deflates, running a hand over his face with a sigh.

“I understand you and Summers are very close.” Allison presses.

“We were at one point.” Vinter corrects sharply. “I have not seen the man in years.”

Allison exhales a sigh.

“Please, Darius.” She says softly.

“You want me to finish him, Allison?” He asks, a sudden urgency to his tone. “You understand what that entails, yes? He will be trained sexually as well.”

Allison fidgets in her seat. When she responds, her eyes are cast down.

“He’ll be used sexually if he goes to auction.” She says softly. “Under your watch, it will be controlled, it will be informed. We’re at a point where we have to decide what the lesser evil is.”

Darius sighs. 

“If the boy is sick, he belongs in a hospital.”

“As far as the hospitals are concerned, he’s not sick.” Allison responds. “He’s noncompliant. I’m not even sure I disagree.”

Darius says nothing. His eyes flit back down to the file. He leafs through its pages, back to the snarling picture of the boy at the front, and scans the page beneath it:

DATE OF ADMISSION: 05/12/20XX

The boy had been found, naked in a dog cage, the day after his twelfth birthday.

“A week.” Allison presses. “One week, Darius. Let me call around, see if anyone out of state can take him.”

“I will see the boy for an hour in my office.” Darius counters. Allison shakes her head.

“He wouldn’t say a word.” She says. “If he walks into your office, he knows he’ll walk out again if he waits long enough. He needs to stay overnight, he needs to think I’m not coming. Just one day, Darius.”

The alpha is silent for a moment. He rests his chin on his hands and casts his gaze to the boy’s file.

“Twelve hours.” He says finally. “He comes in the evening, we have dinner and he stays the night. You pick him up in the morning.”

Allison’s face twists into a grimace.

“Could you make it twenty-four?”

Darius snorts.

“Dr. Flowers,” He says. “Allow me to remind you that your luck has already been pushed quite close to its limits.”

The beta sighs.

“Okay.” She says. “Thank you, Dr. Vinter. I’ll make it work. I can have him there in time for dinner.”

Dr. Vinter did not finish his paperwork. Instead, he abandoned it in his office and made his leave for home. There was much to do before he welcomed a new charge- even for just one night.

He’d run the obedience school out of his own home, and it is still outfitted for such a purpose  all these years later. There are locks set into everything that opens: every drawer, every window, every door. He only needs to lock them once again. 

From what Dr. Flowers had told him, the boy was a flight risk, so Darius is careful to make sure every window and exterior door is locked tight. Then there’s his aggression, the violent and specific threats; the alpha must make sure he has no access to anything sharp. Last of all, is the boy’s room.

Previously, Dr. Vinter would board five to nine omegas at one time, two to a room, with a fifth, private room, designated at the doctor’s discretion. At this point, however, most of the rooms had been repurposed; guest rooms, a second home office, and a private study. It was the private room that has remained mostly untouched.

It was essentially a guest room already, or at least, that was how Dr. Vinter justified himself. There was a single idiosyncrasy: a nesting bed instead of the standard queen that stood in all of his other guest rooms. It was low to the ground, circular, with a headboard that followed its frame halfway around to facilitate nesting. If he ever had a guest with an omega, he reasoned, especially one in or nearing heat, it would come in handy.

The bed had not seen a warm body since his school had closed, of course.

He examines the room from top to bottom, checking each nook and cranny for contraband that might have been left behind by one of its previous tenants. He finds little: swear words etched into many of the drawers, written in marker or carved into the wood with ballpoint pen, and a half-empty pack of cigarettes tucked between the mattress and box spring. He cannot help the warm, fond grin that tugs at his lips when he pulls it out. He is certain he knows which omega had left it behind.

He brings the cardboard to his nose and inhales. Sure enough, faint behind the overpowering stench of tobacco, is the scent he had expected: chamomile and vanilla, with the bitter, orange zest scent of the omega’s stress that had seemed to always be on him. They were left by the room’s most recent occupant: Alexander.

Alexander had been the exact kind of omega that made Dr. Vinter love his job. He had been raised amongst a British firm, an organized crime group in the United Kingdom, and showed it in every gesture and turn of phrase. He had been dragged across the pond, and then, later, across the US, by his criminal, alphan parents in an effort to evade arrest. The arrest finally came when the boy was eleven, and he was surrendered to foster care where he quickly found his way at the top of its hierarchy through intimidation. Then, he went into heat at age sixteen, causing everyone involved in his case to drop their face into their hands in despair. Dr. Vinter accepted him gladly.

 He spoke foully, and grinned widely when he did. He had spat in the doctor’s face before the end of his first week, and Darius had ensured that he paid dearly for it. He still remembers the boy’s green eyes, the way they darted around the room, always on the lookout for an escape. 

He was a perfect gentleman by his graduation, polite and well behaved, but no less intelligent or spirited. He had tamed exactly as the doctor had hoped, and like most of his brats, the pair were very close by the end of his stay.

The doctor feels a stab in his chest as he remembers the boy. He tucks the cigarettes into his pocket and makes his leave.

When he is done securing the home, there is only enough time to prepare dinner. Annoyed, he flips through his recipes, looking for something that could easily accommodate the sensitivities of the boy’s species. Hybrids’ diets tend to be restrictive compared to humans, not to the extent of their spliced species, but reflective thereof. An inu could not have chocolate, of course, but more importantly, onions were off limits as well. This limited Dr. Vinter’s options drastically. 

Beyond onions, inus were sensitive to most spices and could only have them sparingly. This included garlic, to the doctor’s chagrin. Their diets were to be primarily protein and fat, with limited carbs compared to their unspliced counterparts, which removed all the potato-based sides from the doctor’s already sparse list of options. 

Finally he settles on pan-seared venison steaks, knowing the boy’s body will appreciate the lean, red meat. The sauce, originally containing both garlic and onions, he swaps for a blueberry based substitution he finds online. He knows dogs can have blueberries, he has seen Dr. Flowers use them as treats for her own mutt while visiting her home. The side, garlic mashed potatoes, is traded for grilled brussel sprouts, which are deemed acceptable after a quick google search. The meal is ready almost exactly as the doorbell rings.

As promised, Dr. Flowers drops the boy off right in time for dinner. Darius places both of their portions in the oven to keep warm, and makes his way to the foyer. He opens the door to the beta’s bright smile, and sees the boy peering over her shoulder, eyes scanning the room behind the alpha. The doctor notes that the boy's eyes never rest on him, but it doesn’t seem like they are avoiding it, shy and intimidated as an omega might be in a strange alpha’s home. Rather, the boy’s gaze is haughty, withdrawn, and suspicious. The doctor has not earned his attention, not yet.

“Hello, Dr. Vinter.” Allison chirps. 

She takes a step backward, bringing the boy around to her front by his shoulders. His top lip curls upward on one side, revealing a large, sharp canine tooth, and second, smaller one tucked behind it, where his first premolar should be. He shrugs her hands off his shoulders, and glares forward, expressionless, bored. 

“This is Asher.” Allison continues. She glances at the boy, who is only barely shorter than she is. “Asher, can you say hello to Dr. Vinter, please?”

Asher says nothing. His gaze is cast behind himself now, at the iron gate that spans the drive. One ear points backward, keeping a tab on the ongoing conversation for anything interesting. The other sits alert, pointed toward the gate. Already, he is calculating an escape, and flagrantly. Darius can feel fondness building in his chest.

“Asher.” He says sharply. “In my care, you will be expected to look at people when they speak to you.”

At the mention of his name, the other ear turns backward, and Darius understands what Allison had meant when she said the boy had ‘played’ with her. He says nothing, his human body language would indicate that the boy wasn’t listening, perhaps couldn’t understand. The ears give him away, but the doctor doesn’t suppose this is a mistake. His actions are too deliberate. Instead, the doctor believes that these hints are intentional, choosing the canine features of his body to sow curiosity in his actions. He wants the alpha to notice. He wants the alpha to wonder.

“Asher.” Allison hisses through clenched teeth. “Dr. Vinter is doing you a favor, the least you can do is look at him.”

The boy’s ears flatten at the beta’s harsh tone, pinned back against his head. He tilts his head from side to side, considering, with one ear raised. Finally, he rolls his head to look at the doctor, meeting his gaze directly. His brow is raised, expectant, as if to say ‘impress me.’ It is certainly bold.

The boy’s eyes are even more striking in person, odd and intriguing- and undeniably intelligent. His shoulders are square, back straight, giving no impression of the apprehension most omegas would feel to be left at the home of a strange alpha; and Darius notes that, for an omega, he is a bit tall. He is easily dwarfed by an alpha, and would fall short to most male betas, but his height rivals the average for female betas. He falls only an inch or so shorter than Dr. Flowers, the top of his head rising to the level of her brow. His ears, when upright, could add two or three inches more. 

Darius imagines him at St. Guinefort’s, surrounded by adolescent omegas as young as twelve. He is sure the boy used it to his advantage.

“Hello, Asher.” Darius says, greeting the boy politely. One had to model such skills. “My name is Dr. Vinter, I’m going to be taking care of you for the time being.”

The boy’s eyes flit down to the alphas shoes, then back up to his face. He meets his eyes again with the same, bored gaze, and tilts his head to the side, lips pursed just barely. Darius knows exactly what the expression is meant to convey: Asher is unimpressed. The boy had given the doctor a chance to catch his interest, and the doctor had failed. It is spectacular, the way the boy manages to set such a stage, himself positioned on top, without a word. Darius is sure he had run St. Guinefort’s.

Allison clears her throat.

“May we come in?”

Darius steps backward, and beta and omega file through the door. Asher seats himself in the foyer’s loveseat without waiting for instruction, sitting slumped with his arms over his chest. Darius exhales, peeling his eyes up to Allison, who offers only a small shrug of her shoulders.

“So, here’s his file.” She says, pressing the thick, manilla folder from earlier into the doctor’s arm. “That contains everything you need to know; medical conditions, allergies, history.”

She glances down at the inu as she emphasizes the last word, and Darius knows she is speaking for Asher’s sake and not his own.

“And here are his things.” She continues, holding out a plastic trash bag, about 3 quarters full. “It’s not much. From what I understand, none of it is very precious.”

Darius takes it with a sympathetic hum. Trash bags were often used to transport the personal items of these kinds of patients, as well as those in foster care. With no family, there was no one to provide proper luggage, and the state insisted they could not justify the expense. At times, charity groups or quilters’ circles would donate proper bags to such unfortunate cases, but the aid could not possibly cover the demand. Asher was one among hundreds subjected to such an indignity, and he was by no means the first of Darius’s students to be so.

“Then, I guess that’s all,” Allison says. “Unless you have any questions for me.”

“I think we covered everything in my office this afternoon, Dr. Flowers.” Darius smiles, and Allison returns the gesture.

“I’m heading out now, then.” Allison says, turning to address the inu. “Would you like a hug goodbye, Asher?”

Asher shakes his head, not even looking at the beta, with the same, haughty expression etched into his face; and Darius wonders how he should address such disrespect. It has been ages since he’d had a mute student, selective as he’d been told Asher’s mutism was, and never one as brazen as the boy in front of him. He isn’t sure how to address such obvious, but easily deniable, disdain. A new challenge, perhaps?

“Alright, then.” Allison says, exhaling a laugh. “I’m off. Goodbye, Asher. Goodbye, Dr. Vinter.”

“Goodbye, Dr. Flowers.” Darius smiles. “Do be sure to drive safely.”

“Of course.”

With that, the beta leaves, closing the front door behind her. Darius addresses the boy.

“Alright, Asher, Let’s talk.” He says, taking a seat next to the inu on the sofa. 

The boy, of course, does not respond. His head is turned to stare out of the skinny, stained glass window on the left side of the front door. Now, he does not even spare an ear to listen to the doctor, both pointed straight ahead, upright and alert. Darius presses forward.

“In my care, things will likely be structured very differently than the environments you’re used to.” He says. “I don’t expect you to get used to things all at once, but you will likely be held to higher standards than you previously were. I’d like to take this moment to discuss my expectations for you.”

The boy makes no move at all. In fact, Darius isn’t sure  he had even heard him. That is, until he lets out an aggravated sigh, and hears a quiet thumping against the loveseat. His eyes flit downward, and the boy’s tail is wagging, making quiet, little thuds against his seat. Darius exhales a laugh.

“I know you can hear me, Asher.” He says, his fondness growing every moment. “Your poker face does not quite reach your backend, I’m afraid.”

The thumping stops, but the boy still makes no move to face the doctor. Darius growls, soft and low: a warning.

“Look at me when I speak to you, Asher.” He snaps, and grips the boy’s chin, turning it to face him.

Asher snaps viciously at the doctor’s fingers, his teeth clicking harshly. Darius pulls his hand away, only narrowly escaping the boy’s bite. When he meets the boy’s eyes, they gaze back at his own, haughty and self-satisfied. A grin spreads across the inu’s lips, showing his four, sharp canines. He raises his eyebrows at the doctor.

Your turn. He’s telling him.

Darius exhales, a grin tugging at his own lips.

“Now that I have your attention.” He begins, enjoying the way the words make the smile fall right off the boy’s lips. “We operate on a warning system here, with three warnings earning you a punishment. You’ve just earned your first warning, Asher.”

The boy makes deliberate eye contact with the doctor, then rolls his eyes so dramatically that his irises entirely disappear, leaving only the whites of his eyes visible. The doctor has to stifle a snort.

“Are we ready for two?” He asks. “Awfully soon, Asher. You could be over my knee before dinner.”

The boy does not respond, gaze cast down to the floor. The doctor notes, however, that his ears are both pointed directly at him, alert and listening. He smiles, having made progress already.

“There are certain infractions that will earn you a consequence immediately.” Darius continues. “These are the fairly obvious ones, such as property damage, theft, violence- If that bite had landed you would already be over my knee, Asher, so be very careful in the future.”

At this, the boy makes his first utterance of the night: a snort. The doctor smiles warmly.

“Is something funny, Asher?” He asks, a faux-sweetness to his voice.

The boy shakes his head, gaze still cast to the floor.

“Very good.” The doctor responds, rising. “Then follow me to the kitchen, and we will eat dinner.”

The boy follows the doctor without further complaint, and Darius pulls his chair out as they pass the table.

“Have a seat, Asher.” He says. “I have to get dinner from the oven.”

He returns to the table and places the boy’s plate at his seat. Asher sits slumped in the chair, glaring, with his arms crossed over his chest; and Darius has to stifle a laugh when he sees it. It is a posture he has seen many times, in an armchair across from his desk.

“Asher, please sit up and eat.” Darius instructs, taking his own seat. 

The boy sits up, and begins sawing at his meal with venom in his movements. Darius pretends not to notice the disdain.

“Is there anything you would like to talk about?” He asks.

Asher shakes his head, gaze cast down to his plate. Darius continues.

“I didn’t think so.” He says. “Allison told me you don’t like to talk. At least, not to us, right?”

Asher makes eye contact again to initiate another vicious roll of the eyes. Darius snorts.

“Careful, Asher.” He warns, not bothering to disguise the giddiness in his voice. “We inch closer to two every moment.”

Asher leans forward, over his plate, and waves his hand to catch the doctor’s attention, smiling with faux-innocence. When he has it, he drops the smile off his lips and points to his eyes. He rolls them again, doing the most exaggerated display of the gesture yet. Then, he slumps back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest, and looks down at the floor. Darius laughs.

“Two then,” He shrugs. “Since you want it so badly.”

Asher offers a low growl in response. Darius sighs.

“Sit up and eat, Asher.” He says. “Or you will find yourself at three much sooner than you’d like.”

The boy huffs, but sits up and begins cutting his steak once again. Darius turns his attention to his own plate.

The rest of the meal passes in silence, as Darius had expected. He sets his attention primarily to his own plate, which is mostly empty when he looks back up at the boy across from him. He furrows his brow as he examines the boy’s plate; the steak is cut into miniscule pieces, but, as far as Darius can tell, not a single bite has actually been eaten. The brussel sprouts have not been touched at all.

He sits back in his own seat, arms folded, and watches as the boy cuts the steak smaller and smaller. He taps his forefinger on the crook of his elbow, thinking. Now that he looks at him, the boy does seem very thin. He may very well be underweight, though only barely if he is. The way he cuts the steak, as well, is a classic behavior of anorexia nervosa. He wonders, briefly, why Allison hadn’t mentioned this, but easily answers the question for himself. This was likely the very least of her concerns regarding the boy. He wishes he’d had more time to review the boy’s file.

“Asher.” He says sharply

The boy looks up at the doctor, eyes wide and ears pinned back against his head.

“Eat, please.” Darius says. “It is perfectly safe, if that’s what you’re worried about. I took your food sensitivities into account when I prepared it.”

Asher drops his gaze, and resumes cutting his steak, more quickly now.

“Eat, Asher.” Darius says again. “Don’t just cut your food. Put it in your mouth.”

Asher ducks his head and continues the motions.

“Now, Asher.” Darius warns. “Unless you would like to reach three. I will spank you right here at the kitchen table, if I must.”

Asher huffs. He scoops some of the eviscerated steak onto his fork and places it in his mouth. Then, he pushes his plate away and sits back in his seat. He looks at Darius with eyebrows raised, but it is not the arrogant expression he had carried before. Now, his shoulders are hunched around his neck, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

Can I be done now? The boy is asking. It is a request.

Darius slides the plate back in front of Asher.

“At least half, Asher.” He says gently. “You need to eat.”

Asher growls under his breath, but returns his attention to his plate. He scoops two more forkfuls of venison into his mouth, then slides the plate back to the doctor. He raises his eyebrows, chin pointed at the floor, and tilts his head inquisitively. He is peering up at the doctor sideways.

Darius exhales a laugh, warm and gentle.

“That is not half, Asher.” He says, sliding the plate back to the boy. “Try again.”

The boy fidgets, nervous, then retakes his fork. He starts to eat again, taking forkful after forkful into his mouth. He watches Darius for a reaction.

“Do you not like it?” Darius asks. “Is it the taste? Or the texture, perhaps?”

Asher growls again. He takes a few more bites in quick succession, then pushes the plate back to the doctor. He looks at him expectantly

Darius assesses the plate. About half of the steak is gone, as far as he can tell, but the sprouts are still untouched. He slides it back to the boy.

“Two more bites.” He says. “Can you do that for me, Asher?”

Asher throws his head back and groans.

“You can do it, Asher.” Darius tuts. “Two bites and it’s over.”

Asher glares down at the plate, tapping the fingers of his right hand against the table. Darius notices that his nails are different colors; his forefinger, ring finger, and pinkie are perfectly normal, pink, and transparent, but his middle finger and thumb are jet black as his hair. It doesn’t appear to be nail polish, rather, another hybrid trait. Darius tilts his head thoughtfully.

“Would you like to talk about it, Asher?” He asks. “What is it that makes this difficult for you? Perhaps we can find a way to make it easier.”

At that, Asher snarls. The growl that falls from his mouth is savage and canine enough to make the hairs on Darius’s neck stand up. He stabs his fork into his plate twice, picking up two bites of the mess of steak, and puts it in his mouth. Then he pushes his plate away again, glaring up at the doctor.

Darius takes a deep breath, focusing on maintaining his own composure. He keeps his tone even when he speaks.

“Thank you for obeying, Asher.” He says gently. “I understand that that was difficult for you.”

Asher wrinkles his nose, top lip curling upwards in disdain, as Darius collects their plates.

“Alright, Asher.” Darius says, returning to the table from the sink. “After dinner is free time. Is there anything you’d like to do?”

The boy doesn’t respond, arms folded over his chest, gaze cast to the floor. The doctor persists.

“We could watch a movie.” He suggests. “Or, you could select a novel off of my shelves to read.”

Asher twists in his seat to look over his shoulder at the doctor. He holds out two fingers, pads facing upward, then drapes the palm of his other hand over them, oriented towards the floor. He tilts his head, raising his eyebrows at the doctor. Darius blinks.

“That’s right.” He says. “Dr. Flowers had said you used sign. I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’m a bit rusty. I don’t-”

Asher growls, rolling his eyes. He puts his hands together as if in prayer, then brings them to the side of his face, resting his cheek on them. He raises his eyebrows at the doctor again.

“Bed.” Darius says, understanding. “You’d like to go to bed. Let’s see.”

The doctor checks his watch, then tilts his head to the side, wincing. It is not yet eight o’ clock.

“It’s still quite early.” He says. “I usually wouldn’t allow it.”

A groan breaks from Asher’s throat.

“Bed.” He signs again, bringing his hands back up to rest his cheek upon them. Darius sighs.

“Alright.” He concedes. “You are the only one here, after all. We’ll call it a reward, for behaving yourself at dinner.”

Darius leads the boy upstairs, and shows him to his room. 

“I’m afraid your things won’t be ready until the morning.” he tells him. “Unless you’d like to wait for me to go through them now.”

The boy doesn’t respond. Instead, he climbs into bed and curls up atop the comforter, tucking his head beneath a pillow. Darius exhales a laugh.

“Goodnight, then.” He says, turning off the light. He closes the door behind him.

The doctor makes a quick detour downstairs to sort through the boy’s items, not wanting him stuck in dirty clothes for the entirety of his stay. It is mostly clothes, which are all unwashed as far as the doctor can tell. The only other contents are a plush blanket, which looks brand new and untouched, and a toy dog. The dog gives the doctor pause.

It is unique, perhaps even handmade, and bears no tag. It is patchwork, stitched together in pink and blue, quilting cotton. Its eyes are plastic buttons, round and pastel, the color of lilacs. Yellow thread criss-crosses through their four holes in the shape on an X on either side. It is old, certainly, and loved, but well taken care of. The boy’s scent is all over it. Darius feels a pang of guilt knowing he has gone to bed without it.

He loads the boy’s clothes into the washing machine. Typically, students were responsible for their own laundry, but typically, there were more than one of them at a time. The doctor doesn’t mind to do the boy a favor if it means the twelve hours he spends here are comfortable, all things considered. He recalls, after all, the way the boy had been discovered years ago. With the machine running, he returns upstairs, clutching the plush dog.

He opens the door to the boy’s bedroom slowly, holding the knob so that the latch doesn’t click. Asher is curled into the shape of a crescent, pillow pinned over his head by his loosely balled fists, which rest on either side. Softly, he is snoring. Darius smiles warmly, and places the dog on the boy’s dresser, which stands to the left of the doorway. Then, he shuts the door again, taking the same care to keep quiet that he did when he opened it. He exhales, and starts down the hallway.

Darius spends the next several hours in his office, reviewing the boy’s file. He flips through the pages that detail the boy’s time at St. Guinefort’s first, stapled together into a packet that accounts for much of the file’s bulk. He mostly skims it, only stopping to examine the most intriguing points of interest. He notes that hygiene is listed among areas of concern for the boy, and thinks of the bag full of dirty clothes. It is another thing someone else will have to fix for him.

He pauses at the list of elopements. There had been none for the first year of his stay, and then there had been one every few months, and more attempts in between. The last had been six months before his discharge; he’d pulled the lanyard off the neck of a nurse, and with it, her keyfob. This had allowed him to open any door in the building. The boy had made it all the way to the courtyard before he had been caught, and he had only been caught narrowly. They had alerted security of his escape and had officers posted at every exit to apprehend him, and he had still managed to lead a fifteen minute chase through the yard. 

The record makes note of his legs, here, which are semi-digitigrade. They allow him to outrun any full-blooded human with ease, though they aren’t as fast as fully-digitigrade legs, which some hybrids possess. Darius furrows his brow.

Plantigrade, or humanoid legs are considered most desirable when it comes to hybrids. Splicing was never an exact science, and the traits a hybrid ended up with could be narrowed down, but never selected exactly. The boy’s other traits; canine ears, a tail, and heterochromia; are all highly desirable, suggesting that he was spliced with the fidelity and precision only accessible by the fabulously wealthy. He wonders, then, if he had been tossed out due to the legs; if whoever had commissioned him could afford to simply start fresh and try again. It would certainly explain how such an appealing hybrid had wound up naked, locked in a dog cage, in an abandoned storage unit.

  He sets aside the Guineforte packet in search of the incident that led to his discharge from Mary Margaret’s Home For Lost Souls. The facility, known affectionately as “Mary Margaret’s Home for Lost Causes,” was known for taking in the most hopeless cases in the state. Most of the patients had some sort of disability, usually cognitive, in combination with behavioral issues, and the facility boasted ‘aggressively forgiving’ disciplinary methods. In Darius’s opinion, it was a glorified daycare, but he had to admit that he had never heard of a patient being discharged from it so soon. Most spent the rest of their lives there.

He finds the incident in the boy’s discharge paperwork, the last in a stack of more than a dozen from different facilities. From what he can tell, staff had given the boy an electronic PECs board upon arrival so that he could communicate, against the advice of Dr. Flowers. They had been excited by how quickly he’d seemed to take to it, spending the entire morning tapping away at its screen. Then, two hours later, they had turned to the boy as he reached his turn to share in group therapy, and the device’s robotic voice had emitted a flurry of profanity.

Asher had navigated to the system’s advanced settings and created a custom button for every swear word he knew. Then he set them off exactly when he knew all eyes would be on him. Reading the story, Darius laughs outright.

“Not stupid, indeed.” He mutters. 

This, however, was not the end of the story. The boy had then led a chase around the room when staff attempted to apprehend him, profanities spilling from the tablet the entire time. When he was finally caught, he bit an orderly and smashed the thousand dollar equipment against the wall, shattering its glass screen. He was, of course, sedated, and Allison was called to retrieve him. “Willful destruction of property” was cited as the reason for his discharge.

The file was stuffed to the brim with these kinds of stories.

 At Carl Perkins’ Rehabilitory Facility, he had sculpted an enormous, knotted phallus when instructed to sculpt something that made him happy during art therapy. He was sent back to ward, but had smuggled an exacto knife from the art room and used it to carve the same image into the door of his bedroom in the fifteen minutes between checks, at “an estimated 16 by 12 inches.” Darius wishes there was a picture attached; it strikes him as a frankly impressive feat.

At Eastern Shore Psychiatric Hospital, the boy had stolen a bag of syrup from the cafeteria, and no one was sure how. At first opportunity, he’d ripped it open with his teeth, soaking the tile floor. It is noted that his tail wagged at the squelching of everyone’s shoes during every visit to the cafeteria that followed. He was discharged from the facility when a cafeteria worker found him in the kitchen a week later, dragging a five gallon bag full of milk behind him.

At Sheppard Pratt Omega Rescue, he had been fitted with a shock collar to put an end to his behavioral issues. On the first day, Asher had been delivered over two hundred shocks in the span of an hour, leaving burns on the back of his neck. By the end of that hour, several staff members had been bitten, an orderly had nearly lost an eye. The boy was once again sedated, but staff noted that his behavior had improved from there. Allison had removed him at her own discretion three days later, after his weekly check-in, noting that the boy was nearly catatonic, with self-inflicted scratches lining his throat. Darius feels a pang in his chest, and silently thanks the beta.

Darius has to pull himself away from the discharge paperwork, detailing story after story of the boy’s antics. He finds what he was looking for in Asher's medical history.

The boy has a long list of allergies, which turn out to be sensitivities typical of his species upon closer inspection; with the addition of pollen and penicillin, which both cause the boy to break out in a rash. His primary diagnoses are listed as possible ODD, PTSD, and autism spectrum disorder, but it is noted that the boy has been noncompliant or intentionally malicious throughout every psychological evaluation they’ve given him. It is the one listed below those that Darius was looking for:

“OTHER SPECIFIED FEEDING OR EATING DISORDER (anorexia nervosa/ARFID)”

Darius taps his pen on the desk, holding it upright. Those were certainly different, and so was the treatment thereof. ARFID made sense if the boy was on the spectrum, but anorexia was often comorbid with PTSD in omegas. For anorexia, the doctor would focus primarily on the boy’s emotional fears surrounding food. For ARFID, the focus would be on the boy’s developmental deficits and sensory aversions in regards to diet, with nutritional counseling, medical care, and feeding therapy. He would also need to see a speech-language pathologist to assess whether there was something wrong with his physical movements when eating. 

Darius sighs, there is nowhere near enough information to make a decision. It’s impossible to know without speaking to the boy. Finally, he concedes, and opens his laptop to begin drafting the boy’s treatment plan; something tangible for Allison to follow when Asher leaves his care tomorrow.

He begins with the boy’s behavioral issues, crafting a list of possible consequences, and notes that he had responded well to a warning system. At the top of the list sits Darius’s favorite consequence, corporal punishment, though he knows it will be ignored. 

Next, he addresses the eating disorder. He suggests meal therapy, though he’s sure it’s already been tried, and states that the boy would likely respond better to being supervised one-on-one for meals instead of eating in a group. He wonders how many meals he’d skipped with staff unaware when he’d eaten in the cafeteria at Eastern Shore.

Then there is the mutism, and the doctor is honestly stumped. He had not succeeded in getting the boy to say a single word, and neither had anyone else during his six-nearly-seven years of treatment. The boy was clearly versed enough in American Sign Language to make simple requests, but he seemed mostly uninterested in communicating at all. There was nothing he could think to suggest that had not already been tried, with disastrous results at times. 

He adds to the document’s “notes” section, suggesting that the boy be reassessed for ASD and an eating disorder, but knows it will likely result in the same outcome as before: inconclusive due to noncompliance. Finally, he concludes with a list of resources in Maryland and neighboring states. At the top is his esteemed colleague, Delilah Indongo, an alpha who specializes in trauma across the dynamics. With that, he prints the form, tucks it into the boy’s file, and makes his leave for bed.

Darius is exhausted enough that he feels he should fall asleep as soon as his head hits his pillow, but his body seems to disagree. He is unable to quiet his mind, which drags memory after memory of his past charges into his consciousness, as if projecting them onto the back of his eyelids. He tosses and turns, using every trick to settle himself that he’s learned in his decades of practicing psychiatry, but sleep does not find him. Finally he sits up, and looks at his alarm clock:

1:57 AM

Darius had retired to bed by eleven o’ clock. 

He groans, and falls backward against his pillows, staring up at the ceiling. He knows exactly what it is that keeps him awake, but he does not want to acknowledge it. It has been ages since the man had felt quite so rewarded by the way he’d spent an evening. He had missed the feeling; missed having an omega walk into his home and making more progress with them in a matter of hours than anyone else had in a matter of years. Most of all, he’d missed the glares, the slumped posture, and the unapologetic disdain displayed when sitting across from an untamed brat.

Darius Vinters is excited.

He is excited to wake the boy the next day, to be met with groans and pouts and resistance. He is excited to drag the boy down to breakfast and gently probe him to eat while he snarls in response. He is excited to tally his warnings, to scold and argue with the boy. First and foremost, however, he is excited to finally bring the boy over his knee.

Warnings alone had earned the boy’s compliance, so Darius knew he was, at the very least, weary of the prospect. That kind of fear, however, could only take a brat so far. Eventually, they all had to push back, to assess boundaries and see exactly where the line was for themselves. Darius, ever amenable, was always happy to show them exactly where it lay. He only hopes that Allison does not arrive too soon.

He takes in a breath, and tries to quiet his mind once again. He must sleep in order to enjoy the day properly. He is four counts into a round of square breathing when the light on his bedside table turns on, untouched. He sits up, momentarily confused. A grin spreads across his face when he realizes.

It was an unsophisticated system, but it had worked perfectly for over a decade. A pressure sensor was placed within a single step of the staircase- neither the top nor bottom, as those would be guessed too easily. It and the light were connected wirelessly, and when it was triggered, the light turned on. A makeshift silent alarm, Darius didn’t believe a single student had ever caught on to its existence, and he had caught every attempted runaway before they’d been able to leave the grounds of the school. He’d forgotten about it entirely, until it had activated just now- and he is giddy that it has.

Darius rises slowly, leisurely, from the bed and retrieves his bathrobe, figuring he might as well give the boy some time to get in proper trouble before he apprehends him. He ties it around himself, then makes his way as quietly as he can to the top of the stairs, and looks.

Asher is in the foyer. He tilts one ear backward as the doctor approaches, but quickly refocuses it on the task at hand: unlocking the front doorknob. There is something in his hand, thin and metal, and it glints in the porch light streaming through the front window. The boy tries repeatedly to open the door, growing more and more frustrated with each attempt. Finally, he throws his head back, growling quietly under his breath, and turns his attention to the large window to the door’s right.

He shimmies his makeshift shiv into the lock again and again, trying the handle in between attempts. His movements are practiced, and may have opened an inferior lock, but everything in the doctor’s house has been crafted to stand against crafty minds. Finally, Darius clears his throat, and the boy spins around, eyes wide and ears pinned back against his head.

“You’ll find that nothing here opens without a key.” Darius says dryly, casting a haughty gaze of his own down the stairs. “And I believe this makes three, doesn’t it, Asher?”

The boy snarls savagely in response.

Darius pays no mind, quickly descending the stairs. Asher snaps viciously as the doctor nears, backing into the corner next to the window he’d tried to unlock. A plush, armless chair occupies the space, a perfect opportunity. 

“Are you going to be a good boy and comply, Asher?” Darius asks, homing in on the boy. “Or am I going to have to put you over my knee myself, and punish you even harder?”

Asher only snarls in response, canine and feral. His ears are pinned back against his head, and in the dim light of the foyer, his eyes occasionally reflect green like that of an animal. He backs away from the doctor, closer to the front door, and an opening presents itself.

Darius squares himself in front of the chair, and sweeps his leg backwards through the omega’s ankles, knocking him to his knees. The boy yelps in surprise, and the doctor hums contentedly, pinning his arms behind his back as the boy lands, hunched over, onto the floor. Asher snaps wildly, whipping his head back and forth as he attempts to find an angle from which he can land a bite. He cannot.

With the boy secured, Darius seats himself in the corner seat, and brings the boy across his lap. He is still dressed in his day clothes, a plain, white T-shirt and khaki cargo shorts that hang from his frame, clinging to his hip bones by the grace of the drawstring around his waist. They fall from the boy’s hips with one, harsh tug, and land in a pile at his feet. The boy escalates his struggle against the doctor’s hold.

He attempts to twist in the doctor’s lap and snaps viciously. His teeth clack together, loud enough for Darius to hear over his growls, and white, foamy drops of saliva spray from his mouth. Darius is reminded of footage he’d seen of police dogs, ferocious and wild in pursuit of their prey. He smirks, and clicks his tongue in disapproval.

“The more you struggle, the worse it’s going to be.” He tuts, sliding the boy’s boxers down his thighs. They are tight and blue, like the underwear of a child. “You’ve earned twenty for attempting to escape, and five for each infraction from earlier. That’s only thirty, Asher, it could be much worse”

Asher only growls, thrashing against the doctor’s hold. Darius sighs, and positions the boy over one knee, closing the other behind him to keep him still. With his left hand, he tucks the boy’s arm against his own abdomen. Then, he pulls his right hand back, and delivers the first blow, hard and fast.

Asher stills, a choked noise breaking from his throat, but it only lasts a moment. He begins thrashing, harder, before the second blow. Darius snorts and delivers three blows in quick succession, and the boy makes a noise that sounds almost like a sob. He lunges forward, twisting left and right by his shoulders to escape the doctor’s grasp, and Darius easily pulls him right back into position.

“You could put up a better fight if you ate a little more, Asher.” He says dryly, and delivers five more strikes against the boy’s bare ass. 

Asher stills again, trembling, and a whine breaks from his throat. He draws in a breath, haggard and desperate, then resumes his struggle; it’s different now, though, mere squirming instead of the thrashing he’d displayed before. The boy, Darius realizes, is getting tired.

“Are we ready to be good?” The doctor asks, and begins to deliver blows at a steady, even pace, easier for the boy to endure. Asher snarls in response.

He twists his head, and snaps towards the doctor’s stomach. Then he drops it, and tries for his thigh. There is no angle that can find the doctor’s flesh between his teeth, and the boy huffs, frustrated and childish- a perfect brat.

“I suppose not, then.” Darius shrugs, and quickens his pace. The boy lets out a stuttering sob.

Darius is going to run out of swats soon, but the boy has stopped struggling, draped, exhausted, over the doctor’s lap. Darius hums approvingly. 

“We’ve made it to twenty-five, Asher.” He says. “Can you be good for these last five? I’ll go easy on you.”

Asher growls, but it is half-hearted, with no venom behind it. Darius tuts.

“I know you can do it, Asher.” He coos. “The same way I knew you could eat your dinner. All I need is for you to keep still.”

Darius delivers the last five blows to the boy’s ass, and Asher stays still the entire time. To be honest, Darius believes that it was easier to be still than to fight by the time they were done. With the boy unclothed, it is obvious that he is undernourished. The fight he’d put up tonight could have him sleeping late into the afternoon tomorrow- if the doctor would allow it. With the blows finished, he rubs smooth circles into the boy’s back, humming approvingly.

“There we go. We’re done.” Darius says softly. “Good boy, Asher. You took the last five perfectly, just like I asked.”

Asher wrestles himself up from the doctor’s lap, and Darius allows him. He stands on shaky legs, and glares the doctor down.

“I’d like you to apologize for me, Asher.” Darius says slowly. “You can use sign if you need to. Do you know the sign for ‘sorry,’ Asher?”

Asher only growls.

“If you’re not ready to apologize, you can go back over my knee and take another thirty, then try again.” Darius says. “It’s your choice, Asher.”

At this, Asher snarls. He snaps twice at the doctor, nose wrinkled into a menacing growl. Darius laughs outright.

“Sorry, Asher.” He taunts. “I simply can’t find it within myself to be intimidated by an omega with their trousers around their ankles.”

Asher’s eyes widen, and color rushes to his cheeks. He bends at the hips and grabs the waistband of his shorts, but Darius stops him.

“Ah, ah, ah.” He tuts. “I haven’t told you to pick them up yet, have I?”

Asher freezes, looking up at the doctor. His eyes flit between the alpha and his shorts twice. Then he shakes his head with a growl and begins to straighten.

“If those shorts come up before you apologize, Asher, I’m going to take them back down and deliver another thirty.” Darius warns. “Do you understand?”

Asher makes eye contact as he rises, and snaps at the doctor again. He straightens, and secures the shorts around his waist. Darius sighs.

“As you wish, then.” He says, and rises from his seat.

The boy is much easier to subdue a second time, no energy to spare after his previous struggle. He cries out, exasperated as Darius pins him easily over his knee, and squirms with all of his feeble might, snarls falling from his lips.

Then, he speaks.

Darius hadn’t expected it, wasn’t even certain that the boy could. He could snort, and snarl, and growl, so his vocal cords were working, but there was much more to speech than that. After dinner with him, Darius had begun to consider that the boy would never be able to speak, or speak properly at least; that he had perhaps missed the window to acquire the skill altogether. His voice resonates, though, through his chest, vibrating against the doctor’s knee. It is quiet, and raspy from lack of use, but Darius can make out his words perfectly.

“Eat shit and die.”

The doctor makes a noise of pure delight.

“He speaks!” Darius exclaims, mouth dropped open in a shocked grin. “Dr. Flowers will be so glad to know.”

“Fuck off.” The boy growls, louder this time, and starts to squirm against the doctor’s hold. Darius hums.

“Let’s see.” He muses, and begins raining smacks against the boy’s bare ass. “Two profanities and a threat. Five a piece has us at forty-five. Shall we push for more?”

“Die in a fire, faggot.” Asher spits.

“Another threat, and a slur.” Darius tuts. The blows come harder and faster. “That has us at sixty.”

“Kill yourself.” Asher sneered.

“And mentioning suicide outside of a therapeutic context is an automatic twenty.” Darius chirps. “We’re at eighty now, Asher. Do you think we can make a hundred?”

Asher makes a noise between a whine and a growl. He grits his teeth, and curses spill from his mouth.

“You’re a prick!” He spits. “You’re a cunt! You chug dog dick! Your mother should have swallowed  you!” 

“Five, ten, fifteen, twenty!” Darius sings. “We’ve reached a hundred, Asher!”

Asher growls, thrashing against the doctor’s hold with the last bit of strength he has. Then, he collapses over his knee again, drawing in a stuttering breath.

“Fucking stop.” He whispers, voice thick with tears. Darius hums, pleased at the progress he’s made.

The boy doesn’t say another word, sitting rigid over Darius’s lap. Darius increases his pace again, hoping to push the boy over the brink; leave him a crying mess. The tears finally come around seventy, gentle and quiet, as though the boy doesn’t want him to hear. Darius mercifully slows his pace for the next twenty-five swats. At ninety-five, he pauses.

“You have ten left, Asher.” He says. “Can you count for me?”

Asher says nothing.

“Count, Asher.” Darius orders, and begins the swats again.

Asher still doesn’t speak, head bowed to glare at the floor in front of him. Darius tuts.

“None of these spankings count until you do, Asher.” He warns. “We can stay here all night, if that’s what you need.”

Asher growls, and takes in a breath. Then, the boy begins to count.

“One.”

Smack.

“Two.”

Smack.

“Three.” 

Smack.

It carries on this way. On six, the boy lets out a whine. On seven, his shoulders shake with sobs. By nine, his entire body shakes; and then it is time for ten.

“Last one, Asher.” Darius says. “Get ready, it’s going to be hard.”

The boy’s body goes rigid. He says nothing. Darius draws his hand back and delivers the blow at full force, and the boy lets out a stuttering sob, counting the last swat. Then, it is over, and Darius resumes his circles against the boy’s back.

“Deep breaths, Asher.” He soothes. “It’s over. You’re safe. You may stand when you’re ready.”

Asher remains over the doctor’s knee for a short while, drawing in stuttering breaths. Then, he pushes himself upright against the doctor’s thigh and stands shakily. He looks at Darius with red-ringed eyes, cheeks stained with tears. His ears are pinned backward, and his brow is pinched. Darius exhales warmly, satisfied.

“Are we ready to apologize?” He asks.

Asher nods, and brings a shaky fist to his chest. He moves it in a clockwise circle, the sign for “sorry.” Darius sighs.

“Not standing.” He instructs. “On your knees.”

Asher drops to his knees, and signs it again.

“Say it.” Darius orders. “Out loud, Asher, the same way you threatened the patients at St. Guinefort’s. I know you can.”

Asher startles. His ears straighten, then drop back to their pinned position. His eyes, wide, dart around the room. He shakes his head. Darius presses his lips together.

“Try, Asher.” He says, tone gentler now. “Just try. I will be happy with you if you try.”

The boy's gaze drops to the floor, eyebrows knitted together.

“Try, Asher.” Asher whispers. “Just try. Try, Asher. Happy with you if… just try.”

Darius studies the boy, head tilted to the side.

Echolalic. He thinks.

“Do you think you could repeat it if I said it first?” Darius offers.

“Repeat it.” Asher mutters. “Repeat it if I said it first? Try, Asher”

Darius takes in a breath and leans forward, addressing the boy.

“‘I’m sorry, Alpha, for trying to run away and using profanity.’” He offers, gentle. “Try, Asher.”

“Try, Asher.” The boy whispers again. “For trying- trying- trying run away and use profanity.”

Darius presses his lips together, considering. He tries again.

“‘I’m sorry, Alpha.’” He begins, slowly.

“‘M sorry, Alpha.” Asher repeats, and Darius allows the slurred speech.

“‘For trying to run away.’” 

“For- for trying to- trying to- to running away.” He says, and Darius hums warmly at the mistake.

“‘And using profanity.’” The alpha finishes.

“And using profani-fani-fanity.” The boy stammers. “Try, Asher. Use-use-using profanity.”

“Good boy, Asher.” The doctor praises, rising from his seat. “Very good. Come here.”

The doctor kneels, drooping to the boy’s level, and embraces him around the shoulders. Asher's tail sweeps back and forth across the hardwood beneath him, and Darius laughs softly, releasing him.

“I’m very proud of you, Asher.” He says gently. “Is it hard to speak when you’re nervous?”

“Proud of you, Asher.” The boy repeats. “Hard to speak when you’re nervous?”

The doctor sighs.

“You can’t answer me now, I suppose.”

“Now, I suppose.” The boy says softly, eyes fixed on the doctor’s shoes.

“Alright.” Darius says, exhaling the tightness in his chest. He rises, and extends a hand to the boy. “Back to bed, now. Let’s go, Asher.”

[nautilusopus]

20 questions for fic writers

Tagged by @subdee, may as well since it's been a while

1. How many works do you have on ao3?

40

2. What’s your total ao3 word count?

590,973

3. What fandoms do you write for?

FFVII mostly, but none of that spinoff bullshit. I have some stuff for XV in the works despite hating XV and the characters having zero fucking personality because this is just my grieving process I guess??? They're basically all crossovers with VII except one though so ¯_(ツ)_/¯

I've also got a couple things for Spy X Family I'm excited for but unfortunately am a bit hamstrung due to certain reveals and lack of reveals so it's on pause.

(Also Ever Crisis and Remake back to back have sucked all the fucking joy out of me in one fell swoop so I'm trying to remember why I even fucking like doing this when FFVII has effectively been erased.)

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

1)The Number I.

Go read it. I worked hard on it and it's very dense and heavily character-driven and a genfic focused on plot, and, most importantly, is complete. I'm going to shill this one directly I ain't give a damn:

Predominately involves Cloud, now four years out from Meteorfall, struggling to adjust to civilian life given he's still gene-spliced with an Old God, who begins losing control of his body to a heretofore seemingly unknown entity with inscrutable goals. As it gradually becomes clear that the events of the previous four years aren't as they seem in more ways than one, things start to go off the rails completely as Cloud winds up enmeshed in conflict between multiple parties: an international initiative studying cosmology and the two doctors leading it; the WRO, who has considered him a Jenova-based liability from day one; interpersonal friction with his newfound family stemming from the residual baggage of everything he went through; and reality itself beginning to deteriorate.

It's slice of life, it's cosmic horror, it's a character study, it's about grown men crying and legacies and grief and trauma and intimacy and autonomy and gender as a microcosm for broader truths about the nature of the self, it's got angry tearful fistfights, bottoms that haven't figured out you can take it in turn to service top, Cloud telling everyone his strong and correct opinions about magic and materia and bikes, found family shenanigans, and me talking about garlic for way way way too long. Something for everyone!

I wasn't kidding about any of that by the way, heed the warnings at the top of the chapters because I do NOT pull punches and we get into some heavy shit. Go hard or go home.

Originally it was a 500 word pee joke I was gonna show to two people in response to a terrible LTD argument I saw someone make and was sure I'd "wrap it up quickly". Oops.

2) An Idiot's Guide to Holding Hands. I wrote this in response to, I'm not kidding, the worst most hateful fanfiction I have ever fucking seen in my life. As big of a beef as I have with the Crisis Core fuckers treating the women like shit and being pretty hateful towards them as a whole, they're still at least clearly writing because they genuinely love Crisis Core and the characters in it for reasons that are presently unknown to me. This thing on the other hand was oozing contempt for the cast of VII and Evangelion and the women in particular and I genuinely don't know why someone would put that much fucking effort into making something like this and felt a sudden need to rebut everything it stood for. It's not super great as a fic tbh but y'all seem to like it so at least something came of it.

3) Don't Ask How The Job Interview Went. Harry Potter/VII crossover I shat out in like 6 hours on a whim because a Halloween prompt one year was "witches and wizards" and I hated all the existing crossovers (ugh again with the crisis core). Honestly had an entire multichapter fic as a sequel lined up that I was pretty excited for but as things went on I felt grosser and grosser about even making it. Maybe I'll do something with the outline one day, it was basically finished. Still kills me that this thing is so fucking popular but there you go.

4) What's Dead and Buried. This is literally just Chapter 18 of The Number I (which you should go read!). I wrote it, realised it worked great as a standalone fic and gateway drug, and published it as its own thing. If you're on the fence about TNI, maybe check out this oneshot. Features shitty gremlin child Cloud interacting with Vincent and a lot of grim implications about both their lives that Cloud is too young to really get. Very very black comedy.

5) Adjacent. I don't like this one sorry. It was a commission and while I like the individual headcanons of freaky shit Cloud is inclined to do and was chomping at the bit to use them somewhere I don't like how they wound up getting utilised. Feels like generic fandom fluff to me. I'd delete it but people seem to enjoy it and I don't want to take that from them.

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Always and as soon as I possibly can! I'm immensely flattered people actually take the time to comment on stuff and I enjoy getting to talk about the stuff I wrote in a bit more depth.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

It's Full of Stars easily. Fucked that dude up beyond repair. Also was considering a sequel for this one too so I could explore some of the stuff fueling what the fuck is going on here, though that might obviously ruin the ambiguity of said ending and what exactly was done to him.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I'm a big baby I actually almost always try for happy endings, or at least bittersweet. Probably Tidewaters, nobody even gets pulped in that one.

8. Do you get hate on fic?

Basically no. I've gotten five negative comments in all the years I've been doing this:

Two were people whinging about how I made Aeris Jewish in a fic and how that was reverse racist against Christians (die mad about it lol).

Two were someone that wanted an in-depth essay over my right to use a slur within the context of a character talking about people calling him that slur in a character arc partially about feeling alienated from gender and basically demanded I out myself to "prove" I could use it while missing literally everything about why that word would be used to where they felt the need to send that shit to begin with (gee thanks did you do it did you make the queers feel comfortable). Reading comprehension is so so important you are all going to kill me.

The last one was a long six paragraph rant completely unrelated to the fic in any way because I joked in the author's notes about not liking a video game that they liked(????), followed by an even longer ten paragraph rant about how actually the unrelated game was "95% perfect" (lmaoooo) and how "5% of it being bad isn't a good reason to hate it". The first half of it's on there, I deleted the second comment because my fanfiction comments are not the fucking gamefaqs forums dude. (Also die mad about it lol.) That remains to this day the only comment I've ever deleted from any of my fics and that includes the one that literally just said "penis" and nothing else.

9. Do you write smut?

If you squint lol. TNI has a couple sex scenes in it. They're uh

they're in it.

Boy are they in it.

10. Do you write crossovers?

Hell yeah I do. Also I'm a purist about this term A CROSSOVER IS WHEN YOU CROSS THE TWO THINGS OVER BUT THEY ARE STILL THEIR OWN DISPARATE THINGS. A FUSION IS WHEN THE TWO SETTINGS ARE FUSED. WORDS MEAN THINGS. ALSO A DRABBLE IS 100 WORDS EXACTLY NO MORE NO LESS. I'LL KEEP SITTING ON THIS PORCH SHAKING MY FIST AT THESE CHILDREN UNTIL THEY FUCKING LEARN.

Anyway I'll dump FFVII on everything and nobody can stop me. FFXV. Mass Effect. Spy X Family. Aliens. Ellen Ripley can, should, must, and will fight Jenova with a power loader.   

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Nah I talk a big game but I ignore the Comp too hard to break into the mainstream. I'm small potatoes.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nah and no surprises why. Shit's too wordy.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiind of? Fuck I gotta finish that thing.

14. What’s your all-time favourite ship?

meh. Does Loid/Yor even count? Everyone keeps writing it wrong and we still haven't seen the penny drop but it's sweet in its extremely fucking dysfunctional way (which is the best way GO READ TNI COUGH COUGH).

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but probably won’t?

Frame-Perfect. Should not have started writing before finishing the damn outline, don't know how to resolve this thing without it being a massive downer any way you slice it. This is why you should never pants VARETH.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue babyyyyyyy. I literally won an award for it once lol. Probably also psychological horror. Those two things combined means there's a lot of stream of consciousness shit in nearly everything I do, and if that's not your jam you probably won't like it.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

It is so, so hard to get a character from a location to another location. It shouldn't be hard. Why is it hard??? I should be allowed to just go And then he went, in exactly that cadence every time and everyone should just deal with it UGH 

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

Extremely hit or miss and you can almost always tell if the person in question doesn't speak it. Use sparingly because you are playing with fire.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

FFVII. The Number I is technically my first fanfiction ever, actually!

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

Either TNI obviously, but also as a whole either Replacements or Tidewaters. Replacements I whipped up on the spot day-of in a few hours on a whim and it basically turned out perfect???? I've never been able to replicate that before or since. Tidewaters is Cloud Yuffie Nanaki shenanigans which I love, and I was shocked and horrified to learn I'm basically the entire tag of that as far as that's concerned (I'm working on rectifying that I promise shhhh).

Everyone I know that writes was already tagged basically uhhhhhhh

@varethinsilico, @denebolaleo-ffwriter, @spectroscopes, @terror-billie, @jenovacomplete, anyone else who wants to take a crack at this pretend I tagged you.

[deusvervewrites]

Given that we have the real life Werner syndrome, which causes accelerated aging, is caused by genetics and could be the reason why Higake(4th user) to die young at 40. It is equally likely that due to his Quirk likely giving him extreme stress when it is used, he just aged faster and didn’t see a mirror for 20 years due to living in the woods.

The real question is why the Nomus have big brains but then it makes perfect sense that Garaki is a sadistic doctor and he intentionally made them look monstrous on purpose and easy to control for AFO. Because we have Kurogiri, who also is a Nomu with multiple Quirks fused together, Garaki intentionally made the rest of the Noumu bad.

Now for the issue on OFA itself, if someone else other than Izuku was the ninth user or if Izuku gave it to a tenth user, All Might is correct that the user needs a lot of strength and endurance to survive the backlash that OFA will inflict. The body would need to be conditioned to even withstand the power, as it will also make the user original Quirk(should is exist) even more powerful

I know that the Noumus being mindless is a feature not a bug, meant to create mindlessly subservient minions and mooks to throw at the Heroes, but we've seen two instances (flashback during All Might's explanation, Spinner) of people having their brains shut down from the strain and neither of them needed the brains exposed so I still don't get what that's about other than aesthetics. We can also infer that Kurogiri was the first Noumu based on the timeline and Vigilantes. Presumably, multiple Quirks being spliced into a single Quirk gets around the brain-destroying issue.

I've actually seen several metas and fics with the premise that One For All is simply too powerful for Midoriya to ever pass it on again, well before the ""reveal"" about it killing Quirked users. I mean, after what it did to Midoriya the first times, and considering it will only ever be stronger than that...

[illuzijan]

Progeniviridae, Type Aurelia

Chrysalid Virus / Chimera Virus

Class VI Category Virus :ssRNA-RT viruses (Baltimore Classification)

Horizontal/Vertical Transmission

Modified Retrovirus

Lytic Infection

Mortality Rate: 97.8%

Pathogenesis:

Implantation of virus through direct fluid or gaseous contact

Global bodily infection in 2-5 seconds with Intramuscular injection, gaseous infection varies from instantaneous to 3 hours

Dissemination through the body via the circulatory system, reaching the brain and rapidly inducing cell death the speed of which causes increase in global temperature, and immolation

Virus shed into environment through bodily fluids

Origin:

Chrysalid was not the original projection of the viral project that began in 2001. Doctor Carla Radames, at age 15 was given an, at the time, extraordinarily advanced piece of biological weaponry, the T-Veronica Virus.

Alexia Ashford, creator and origin of this extremely elegant strain of virus, was just a name to Carla. Using Veronica as the base and dissecting the genome, Carla was able to, after many years of research, rewire the function of the virus to include the incubation state in order to retain the intelligence of infected hosts.

This prototype virus was dubbed t-02 in early stages, and took many years to develop. Dipping into Umbrella's Golgotha research through viral host Sherry Birkin, Carla developed a deadly, incredibly precise disease over years of research and development.

Combining and systematically jumping genomes of both the G Virus and T-02, Carla hybridized aspects of both pathogens, the results of which were several strains of Chrysalid Virus. In 2007, Carla was attacked, and forcibly infected with a piece of incubating technology she had been developing at the request of Derek Simmons to take advantage of Viral Induced Parthenogenesis and re-create the perfect woman.

On Viral Induced Parthenogenesis…

It is a process induced by a virus in which growth and development of genetic code happens without fertilization. Viral Induced Parthenogenesis- a way to "clone" people using Chrysalid Virus only works on genetically chimeric subjects.

The donor DNA is combined with the biological structure of the cocoon during the cellular reconstruction phase, and the process is slowed considerably through lowering temperatures. The daughter subject becomes the mother’s genetic twin with the caveat that the internal ecology of the experiment will continue to mutate as a response to the liquidation process.

Mechanics

Chrysalid Virus acts like other members of the man-made Progeniviridae classification of viruses in the quickness of exposure to symptoms of infection manifesting. In the parent Tyrant virus this latency could take days, however in Chrysalid, it manifests within 24 hours. 

Infection can be horizontal, vertical, and nosocomial spread through host secretions. Chrysalid is a single stranded, enveloped retrovirus, rewriting a host’s genetic instructions and ordering cell suicide and specific reconstruction very rapidly. This cell death produces a potent toxin in a hosts’ cells which produces heat. This heat results in many of these infected steaming, or catching flame. 

Cellular restructure can be influenced by the splicing of Chrysalid between species, earning Chrysalid the nickname, the “Chimera” virus. Specific traits, both genotypical and phenotypical can be forced between virus hosts through systematic mutations. Foresight is possible when splicing genomes.

Infection Routes

   I. Systematic: Results in Commander or Drone Infection

   II. Intravenous: Results in J’avo or Complete Mutation

   III. Bodily Fluid/Gaseous Contact Results in Zombies

Intravenous infection produces J’avo and some Perfect Mutation Bio-organic weapons. For more compatible subjects, the mutations are far more extreme, durable, and dangerous.

Bites from zombies create other zombies. Respiratory infection generates zombies which can further mutate into advanced V-ACT creatures dubbed Bloodshots.

Commander/Drone Infection

This phenomenon occurs very rarely when infection has taken place. Commander infected display hive-mind qualities, control over J’avo and Perfect Mutation Bio-organics. Distress of the Commander infected results in extreme aggression from other surrounding infected. Drone infection occurs when a subject to systematic infection. Drone infected are notably subordinate to Commander infected.

Known Commanders: Bindi Bergara, Carla Radames.