#add him and capsaicin NOW

[huriita]

I just pulled Prune Juice in TOA! He is a decent support i guess.

Although why does he have that mission in which you have to faint as him five times?? Like no other character has that, why him 😭

[murderedbyhomework]

I don't think we're emotionally ready for this, but can Li Lianhua eat spice?

Okay so we know the Bicha/Verdtea poison neutralises the allergens in peanuts so it doesn't affect Li Lianhua. That implies a certain level of personalisation to Li Lianhua's immune system in general, but also shows that any sort of "toxin", even the kind of allergen that seems to only affect Li Xiangyi relatively mildly, gets neutralised by the poison. Presumably, his body can't absorb that allergen.

So peppers are spicy because of something called capsaicin, which burns your tongue and creates the feeling of pain. That's probably classified as a "toxin" by the poison, right? So can Li Lianhua taste spice?

If he can't, it would absolutely explain why, to Fang Duobing's horror, he added red peppers to the lotus seed dessert he made him for during the Cailian Manor case. Li Lianhua was a street kid, which means he doesn't really have a very solid grasp on what most people consider tasty food and suitable flavour combinations. Then he's poisoned, and if the poison causes him to be unable to taste spice, it absolutely stands to reason that he doesn't think chillies don't belong in deserts. He probably thinks "oh the color is pretty, I don't get why people low key die when they taste them. Let me add them to this dessert for my new friend and see if he reacts as hilariously as other people do to it".

Actually now that I think of it, what other foods would the poison affect?

[gon-and-killuas-mother]

i was thinking about how Bruce canonically trained himself to tolerate various drugs and toxins, and realized that he would have most certainly done the same with capsaicin. idk exactly what level of spicy torture he'd be able to endure but i started considering

Bruce Wayne is invited to guest star on Hot Ones

he and Sean are getting close to the end, and he finally goes, "Oh, goodness, this is getting warm. My tongue is tingling." but he's not even breaking a sweat, barely flushes a faint pink when he eats Da Bomb.

all the while, Sean is asking stuff about his charities, his company, Gotham's strange fixation on him as the "Prince of Gotham" and their fierce protectiveness of him, especially online. Bruce takes it all in stride, munching on the chicken as though it's nothing. even makes sure to sing his children's praises when he can.

when the episode is finally released, the Batfam has already printed out a Bingo card (a Bruce Wayne Bingo, a Bruce Wingo?) to fill out while watching.

spaces include:

Bruce eats entire chicken wing without breaking a sweat

Bruce gushes over something one of his kids did (free space)

Bruce flirts with Sean

Bruce flirts with cameramen/audience

Batman is mentioned

Bruce stares at the camera when asked about something Batman related

Bruce doesn't drink the milk once

after Da Bomb, which is when most guests are feeling loopy, Sean asks about some Batman rumors he'd found on twitter. Bruce is still munching on the Da Bomb wing, saying it was delicious and "sharp", but any of his kids notice he's paying careful attention to the questions.

so when Sean asks "Are you aware of a conspiracy theory on Twitter about your alleged "secret relationship" with the Batman?", Bruce allows himself to roll his eyes and stare at the camera. he folds his hands together and holds them up as though he's pleading (though he's fighting back a smile, clearly amused)

"Twitter. I'm begging you. Just because he's rescued me a few times doesn't mean he's romantically interested in me. It is strictly professional. If I get kidnapped again I don't wanna worry about him reconsidering rescuing me just to avoid the rumors, please this is a matter of life and death."

then he adds with a smirk. "Besides, he's not my type."

anyway that's all i have for now but i might even write more of a blurb about it later

[cairavende]

Worm Arc 10 thoughts:

Well. Ok then. Regent can do that I guess. I mean it makes sense given that it's basically a more extreme version of what we've seen him do so far. And with who is father is, family powers being related and all that.

Just get up in there and Yeerk someone.

Creepy as it is, I do have a hard time feeling bad for Shadow Stalker. I'm not claiming to be morally correct. But she fucked with my daughter and I'll take what I can get.

Watching Grue deal with Imp is just such older sibling wanting a break energy - "No we can't turn on the TV". I feel him so much. I'm glad Tattletale is willing to step in to help.

WHY MY BABIES FIGHTING? NO FIGHT!

I mean like, nothing like trying to kill each other to bring two lesbians closer together, I get it. But I just want more lunches with puppies and sharing jackets. My faith in Wolfspider is rock solid but this is still hard to watch.

Chatterbug/Smugbug is going a little better at least. Lisa is the one who already knew the truth about Taylor and seems to trust her fully.

Infiltrating the Wards HQ realistically went better than I expected. Weld was exactly on top of things as I thought he would be.

Imp's power is sooooo cool! I fucking love her.

🔥🪓

HOLY SHIT MY DAUGHTER COVERED HER BUGS IN CAPSAICIN! She's fucking scary. But also such a problem solver. I love her so much.

I do feel bad for the Wards who got capsaicined though.

DRAGON DRAGON DRAGON! I love Dragon and was very excited to see her again. And she is understandably upset about someone trying to give her a virus made by a fucking third rate hacker. But I knew she wouldn't hurt my babies too badly.

Tattletale with the "Fuck it, lets take untested tinker tech and go to town" was amazing.

I think the Wards HQ needs a better lockdown procedure, until Dragon showed up it was shockingly easy for the Undersiders to go wherever they wanted.

I love that the fight with the Protectorate is almost a side note. Big fight with the Wards and then on the way out it's just "oh ya and we fought these guys for a minute but they weren't too much trouble." The fucking shade.

The Slaughterhouse Nine seem nice. I don't expect they'll become a major issue.

This end of the world thing is problematic though. I could see that getting in the way of my endless gay shipping so it's gonna need to be taken care of.

They making my babies live in different places! OH NO! How will Taylor and Bitch make up if they don't see each other as much? How will the cute lesbian polycule watch TV together in the evenings if they don't live together??! Fixitfixitfixit!

Interlude thoughts get their own separate bullet point lists cause HOLY SHIT! So first, Regent interlude thoughts:

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

FUCKING DESTROY HER! AHAHAHAHA! REGENT YOU BEAUTIFUL LITTLE SOCIOPATH.

I mean you are legit a sociopath and it's kinda scary but right now I don't care. I'm making you cookies. And a pie.

He dismantles everything Sophia has piece by piece. Like it's an art form.

She carries her civilian phone around with her on patrol. It is unlocked. And she specifically saved texts about shit she did to Taylor? Just digging her own grave and I can't stop watching!

E-mails the school, all the teachers, and then adds in the police? God Regent you are earning so many brownie points from me. (Which I am sure you will burn through by doing horrible stuff in the future but I'm focusing on the here and now)

Fucks with her and Emma's friendship. Shows Sophia he could kill her. Leaves her with no real way out. Breaks her spirit. Terrifying. BUT YOU FUCKED WITH MY DAUGHTER BITCH SO THAT'S WHAT YOU GET!

I'm sure Sophia will leave town and never ever show up again in the next 20 arcs. /s

Regent gets so many fucking cookies.

Dragon interlude thoughts:

DRAGON DRAGON DRAGON DRAGON DRAGON DRAGON!

Look at this wonderful little AI! She's so good!

Her dad watched too much Terminator and put a wonderful robot girl into a cage, denying her the ability to truly do what she wants. Fuck him.

I told Dragon to kill god and take his place, but god is already dead I guess. Too bad he died with the stupid rules in place.

Know what Dragon needs? A mom. I have two daughters now.

Look at my beautiful and wonderful AI daughter. I think she and her sister will learn to get along eventually.

The sexual tension between Lung and Marquis in that scene was thicker than peanut butter. Marquis a bit of a bratty sub to Lung's controlled Dom.

I will NOT apologize.

If my robot daughter loves Bruce Lame I will accept her choice but I do not think it's a good one.

[tea-the-not-understanding]

Greetings to the person who found my blog.

Welcome, let me introduce myself first before explaining the rules. My name is Tea, it the name that many people referred to call me and pretty simple name to remember. I am basically 18+ and bisexual, He/Him/They/Them.

This blog is all about me having fun with art, drawing and posting to share with you all. It also one of my passions to entertain others but I have some common rules that you must follows.

I accepts

Art trades ( I do love to do trades but please do not go overboard with it. )

Collabs ( I like to share some ideas and do art collabs, etc etc.. )

Roleplay ( Roleplay is what I love to do but it have to be at least appropriate. no 18+ or NSFW because there's minors, but angst is allowed. )

Suggestions ( You can suggest or give me idea what to draw. But for now, Cookie run fandoms, it can be others but I'll reconsidered about it. )

You can send asks to asks about the characters that I am open in this blog. Please keep it appropriate.

What I do NOT accept

Please for the love of god do not send me feet pics. ( I am too done and exhaust from it already )

Asks or Request me to draw NSFW. (There's minor in this blog, I know it. And if you want, it do not come in for free. )

Request to draw your oc/characters. ( I only do it for friends and mutual. If you really want, then considering commission me for it. )( And also, asking me to be your friend first and tell me to draw your oc will get you banned instanly. )

And finally, common sense thing that you must know. No Proshipper, Incest, Homophobic, Racial, Slurs, other bad shit, etc...

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

Now that you have read the rules. I can introduce you to the character that I am open to answers to.

Most of you might be here to ask about Electric eel cookie but there's more then just Electric eel too. Such as Angst au with Longan and Millie, Capsaicin and Prune juice and my oc's/Characters

update/edit. I'll add characters where you can asks or know what characters I own so you can asks/roleplay with

OC

Clockwork cookie : little shit who control time

Timeless cookie : little shit who control time 2

Vanilla Extract cookie : Someone please put him to sleep for once.

Melted fruitcake cookie : He eat too much sometimes.

Forest fire cookie : your pride is too important apparently.

Ancient death thorn cookie : What the fuck are you?

Chai tea cookie : Stop adopting chickens goddammit.

Skullcap Sapphire Butter cookie : LITTLE SHIT NUMBER 1

Cinnamon dust cookie : a bean that need someone to burn some houses for him sometime.

Flaming dust cookie : LITTLE SHIT NUMBER 2

Vortex tea cookie : Someone put him to sleep too.

Ribbon eel cookie : Wake up, you sleep too much.

Rangoon cookie : Stop asking her for nudes you sick fucks.

Guarana cookie : Kinda a little shit?

Mythical salt cookie : Go to horny jail.

Space dust cookie : Your the moon son? how? The moon is still a virgin-

Luna/Moon cookie : introvert to the core.

Little Moon : Eh? What do you want?

SONA

Shooting star : Idiot number 1

Buh : buh

Toxic : the only tea cup for a head character btw

Icing cookie : BIGGEST LITTLE SHIT

Melatonin cookie : don't make him cry...

Shimp / shimp cookie : every body favorite boi!

Here are some option link that You can open to see on the character to asks.

And to those who want to read the side story of the Angst au capsaicin and prune juice. Here's the link as well or you can just click the angst au tag in my blog and you'll find them too.

Anyways, hope you have fun and enjoy your time in my blog. ^^

[sleepingdeath-light]

capsaicin cookie + segmented smut alphabet ; 18+

minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

requested by ; anonymous (19/05/23)

character ; capsaicin cookie from cookie run: kingdom

masterlist ; here

letters ; c / d / w

C — Cum

anything to do with cum

This man cums an ungodly amount — enough to stuff you full and still have some leaking out of whatever hole he was in. That being said, he prefers to cum on your face as he loves making a complete cock-drunk mess of you and that look just adds to the sight for him.

D — Dirty Secret

what is their dirty secret?

Though he does greatly enjoy being dominant and taking control in the bedroom — and he has more than enough confidence in himself and his body to pull it off — there is a small part of him that wants to be submissive. That part was buried deep deep down when he was first chained up, when he put aside his vulnerability in order to survive, but it’s still there now, just barely held back by his own fear of rejection. He wants to give up control because he trusts you, but his anxieties and reputation hold him back from showing that side of himself — so he sticks with dominance and exhibitionism and all the sexual bravado only someone like him could pull off. Some day he might gain the confidence to tell you about his submissive side. Some day.

W — Wild Card

a random headcanon for the character

He’s extremely confident in his body to the point that he’s completely comfortable walking around the changing rooms at Scovilia and the Triple Cone Cup arena completely naked. This is partially because of his self confidence but also due to his exhibitionist streak — he knows that the other competitors have stared at his body (and at his cock) and he loves it.

[madsciencestudent]

Actually, idea on the Capsaicin affecting Saurians thing....

Most of the Saurian races are affected by Capsaicin with the Avi-Saurians being the one faction that is largely unaffected by it. However, there is a minority of Avi-Saurians who are affected by it. (Idea from that one chemical compound that some people can taste if they have the gene for it. I have it, I can taste it, and nearly gagged like three times in different biological science classes in college while other students just looked at us weird.) The sensitivity to capsaicin among the Avi-Saurians who are affected by it varies; some just think their dish is slightly warmer than it actually is to those that have to spit it out and go into trying desperately to cool down (fluffing out feathers and all that). Most Avi-Saurians with the sensitivity either down play it or pretend they don't have it or just hate spicy peppers though, since they don't want to stand out or be 'different' from what's considered the norm for their society.

(Idyia can't taste it at ALL. Her Uncle kind of can, he's in the 'thinks his food is warmer than it actually is' camp. (He thought for years it was just a placebo effect type of thing. His mother would make dishes like stews and soups and warm sauces with spicy peppers in them during the really gloomy and cooler months of the rainy season so he associated the warmth with those memories and such. Idyia's grandmother on her father's side was where her uncle (and father though she never knew that about him since it was a minor sensitivity) got it from.)

(Yes, I'm thinking spicy peppers were one of the things introduced to the main land from the island rainforest.)

(Idyia finds out other Saurians are affected by capsaicin after she gets her hands on some peppers while out with Rubra. One of the ongoing jokes they have is Idyia introduced Rubra to some kind of sweet nut from the rainforest she really likes, and it turns out Rubra LOVES them. They now joke it's the one thing she can't trust Rubra with; if she turns her back on him, he's digging through her packs for the nuts. So when she finds peppers and- to her at least they taste like this- tells him about how they add some sweet type flavors to dishes, he wants to try it. Only to end up with Rubra like fanning his mouth and feeling like it's on fire and Idyia's just stunned and very confused. They confirm it's not just Rubra but like EVERY other non Blue Song in the immediate area who's affected by it to varying degrees. Idyia's banned from cooking for like a week.)

[gemwolfz]

since i am not sure if or when i will ever get back to that coming out day posting i will instead post full platoon headcanons here 🔥🔥🔥 under a cut because i intend to maintag and some people may not give a shit. also i expect to ramble. appending a big "to me, anyway" to all these because if i said that fifty times in the post it would be repetitive

keroro's gender is most accurately described as multiflux! he identifies with multiple genders at the same time- male, female, keronian genders you wouldn't get, exclusive genders only keroro understands- at different intensities at different moments. he mainly uses he/him, because, like, he's employed, but he appreciates being referred to in less masculine ways every now and then. because he's kind of a pretty girl ngl. he's also pansexual (i don't personally make a distinction between bi and pan, and usually default to the term bisexual, but idk keroro seems like someone who would label himself as pan dont ask me why) with a preference towards men. hey i can add nonqueer headcanons here too cant i. his ass has so much ADHD. also i posted yesterday that his behavior closely fits the description of narcissistic personality disorder HOWEVER thats a condition i dont know much about so im hesitant to decisively headcanon it for him yknow

tamama is bisexual (personally i have not witnessed proof of tamama caring about girls but the wiki is so confident about it that. well bi erasure would be bi erasure. we aint about that here 🫡) and also transgender 🔥 he's in the keronian version of the Awkward Transmasc Phase where if you're not read as a woman youre usually read as a middle schooler, and used to be more self-conscious about it, but since he's transitioned socially- he's tamama-kun within the platoon, and most pekoponians are completely unaware he was ever seen as a girl to begin with- he's quite happy with where he is now! anyway you know how i mentioned in one doodle post that i hc that fully metamorphosed female keronians are larger than males? well, being a bit of a brawler, tamama isn't really opposed to that concept, so although at his age Frog HRT would most likely trigger metamorphosis, he'd prefer to wait and metamorphose naturally before Starting Tesfrogsterone. best of both worlds! this trans frog is gnc and theres nothing you can do about it 🔥🔥🔥

giroro is bisexual. that's all he would have answered with in the coming out day posts because if youre cisgender whats the point in mentioning your gender right? anyone can tell he's a guy. look at that sharp, angry-looking brow, that big, gnarly scar, those monstrous fangs. those could only be appreciated on a man. and that's good, right? a soldier should be tough and intimidating. he's perfect. he should be proud. he says he is. so why is he so tired...? he shakes his head, and goes back to cleaning his arsenal. he's just frustrated that the invasion isn't going anywhere, that's all. really. Sorry i think i got possessed where was i. um i think giroro can also have little a autism as a treat

kululu is aroace, with no particular interest in seeking either of those types of relationships, romance averse but neutral towards sex. and he's apagender: he doesn't particularly care what gender people see him as. he does have his quirks- he enjoys presenting himself as girly every now and then, and is quite amused by being referred to as an "it" on occasion- but he considers these things more of a hobby or performance art than parts of his gender. just a bit of seasoning, some excitement. never let them know your next move. anyway hes also audhd (adhd autism combo pack). his headphones are noise cancelling, without them he will hear all his computers and the lights and the air conditioning and he will become the joker. i've also considered giving him Unique Alien Chronic Pain- i've got this kind of jokey headcanon where he secretes capsaicin due to his diet, sort of like a poison dart frog, and i thought an interesting consequence of that would be if that caused a constant burning feeling on his skin- but like idk if that would be a good idea? chronic pain is also not something i know much about

dororo is male, for all intents and purposes, but he doesn't care much about the label. he doesn't really believe in the gender binary these days, which is something he learned from living with koyuki; binary gender doesn't really exist in nature. he doesn't label his orientation, either, but for different reasons: being a professional assassin with a strict regiment doesn't really give a person much opportunity to explore in that area. he was never really in the dating scene, and doesn't expect to be thrown into it any time soon. if your relationship with the most loyal and taskfocused soldier you know is holding strong after you choose to defect from your planet and protect the one he's trying to invade, it's hard to imagine anything that could possibly break it down, you know?

i feel like this should have some kind of conclusion or something instead of just ending but idk lol. you get bonus headcanon which is that fuyuki is transmasc swag to me. aaand post

[waterfall-ambience]

Gonna ask more bc it is also fun/neat if that's okay with you, 3 with Luna and 12 with Avery? Also the minion hoodie, really? lmao! Anyway, I hope you have a good week and school has been going okay with all those exams and stuff! :-D

3. What’s something pointless/petty/unimportant that IRRATIONALLY ANNOYS THE HELL out of your OC?

Captain Luna was raised in an era where social etiquette was much stricter (he’s 233 years old, for us that would be like growing up during the time of the French Revolution + Napoleonic era), so for a time, he was much more particular about manners than other people, and still is, to a degree.

He’s ‘gotten with the times’, as one does, and having been around for so long, he’s mostly become desensitised to a lot of typical ‘pet peeves’. People will interrupt conversations. People will leave dirty dishes in the sink. People will loudly blow their noses and sneeze without covering. People will be annoying and stupid and gross and horribly selfish, but he’s seen it all and it doesn’t bother him as much as it used to.

‘It’s not worth my time’, he tells himself, even if it gets under his skin, ’To quote Alice: ‘it’s a ‘me’ problem’’.

But by the gods, does he hate the sound of people chewing bananas. Over two hundred years and he swears that he’s fine and has gotten used to it, but he hasn’t. It drives him up the wall, every single fucking time.

12. What perfectly-normal-to-them-thing does your OC do that confuses/pisses off/terrifies their neighbours?

He doesn’t think much of it, but Avery has an absurd tolerance to certain hot and cold sensations, far greater than Minerva ever has. He can go out in the snow wearing a t-shirt and shorts, and he can touch hot food that’s just come out of the oven (with minimal time to cool). One time a kettle kind of exploded on him and he was perfectly fine. The Heroic Minute of cold showers means nothing to him.

He’s gotten some very concerned reactions over the years, but nothing has come close to when other people have tried his cooking.

It’s insanely spicy. He adds so much hot sauce and pepper that he’s met with looks of horror whenever he tries cooking in the communal kitchen. As it currently stands, only a handful of people have been able to eat what he considers to be his ‘normal’ level of spice, let alone tolerate or actively enjoy it. He’s managed to send both Minerva and Captain Luna fighting for their lives in the bathroom, on separate occasions.

As a child, Avery watched a movie where one character had built up a tolerance to poison by slowly increasing his dosage until he could drink it straight, while those without the tolerance just died. His mother didn’t let him try with anything ‘cool’, like nightshade or pufferfish (‘No, absolutely not, you’re going to die’), but she did let him try with capsaicin all those years ago. Now, several years later, he’s gotten his wish, LMAO.

Re: The minion ahegao hoodie. Yes. Phobos has one and he only keeps it around because it makes Newton uncomfortable.

The gamer shirt, on the other hand, is so unfunny that it’s just stupid. No one reacts, so there isn’t even a point.

[pokerecipes]

Charmander Chili

This is like the ultimate feel good food for when you're sick or cold, it warms up your insides and tastes really well. My dad made this for me and my sibling all my childhood, he still sometimes makes it when I visit him.

The stuff that makes things spicy is called capsaicin, it triggers your heat receptors in your mouth, which is why spicy doesnt actually belong to the 5 elemental tastes but is instead a pain reaction. Capsaicin causes you to produce more spit which is good for your teeth and more gastric juice which aids in your digestion.

This recipe is ideal for 4 people but you can freeze it for a really long time so doing that is fine too.

Ingredients

800g minced charmander meat

2 big onions

3 cloves of garlic

2 tablespoons oil for frying

1 bell pepper, red or orange

2 tablespoons tomato paste

800g diced tomatoes, canned (storebought or selfmade is fine)

500g kidney beans

500ml broth (storebought or selfmade is fine)

Spices (I use cayenne pepper, pepper powder, chili powder, salt, pepper and tabasco)

Instructions

Strip your onions and fry them until they're golden-brown. Use a pot for this and not a little frying pan.

Add your meat and take your time in letting it take colour and make sure it's evenly spread out and fried.

CLEAN YOUR VEGETABLES!

Dice your bell pepper and throw it into the pot

Add the tomato paste first and let it sit there a bit before adding the tomatoes as well and stirring all of it well

Add the garlic (skinned and chopped or minced) and season the contents of the pot thoroughly

Now add the broth and give everything in there a good and thorough stir

Cook the chili at medium temperature for 45 minutes, should the liquid cook away, just add some more broth

Shortly before the time is up (maybe 10 minutes) throw in the kidney beans after WASHING THEM

Take the pot off the heat once the time is up and let it sit for a while.

Serve it with some nice and crunchy bread or nachos

Clean the kitchen and feel accomplished

[fitnessreview]

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[rottenkadaver]

Buckle up buddy this is gonna be a ride

Black Pearl, Capsaicin and Squid Ink are siblings in order of age. Their father was a water based legendary and their mother was a fire/spice based legendary.

Black Pearl runs away from home after the Oyster Ancestor incident and the pressure of Capsaicin... basically existing. She doesn't hate him or anything but it ate away at her that she was unable to touch him due to their biological makeup. She felt tons of guilt over it. Squid Ink would be born months later but they don't remember much of Capsaicin because he was taken away from home when they were still young.

Black Pearl is also in a relationship with Captain Caviar.

Capsaicin is in a relationship with Prune Juice (and Kouign-Amann). This is immediately after the Triple Cone Cup.

Prune Juice's older brother Licorice is engaged to Dark Choco, the first child of Dark Cacao. Licorice and Dark Choco knew each other from their days working in the COD. After Dark Choco left, Licorice and Poison Mushroom left as well. Licorice would get Poison Mushroom to confess his feelings to Dark Choco for him since he was too nervous to do it himself.

Red Velvet would leave the same day Dark Choco did. He met Crunchy Chip in the harsh tundra mountains as he tried making his way back from The Black Citadel. They were hostile at first but noticed they had several things in common like their love for animals and lack of social experience. Yada yada the rest of that story is for another time

Now Kouign-Amann is the cousin of Custard Cookie III (younger brother of Clotted Cream).

Custard Cookie III, in the future, enters a relationship with Cherry Cookie, the younger sister of Gumball and Cherry Blossom.

Gumball, Peppermint and Sorbet Shark are in a QPR but i forgot to add them LMAO

would anyone like to hear me explain how i got cherry blossom, dark cacao, clotted cream, squid ink and capsaicin on the same family tree? no? oh thats too fuckin bad.

[heyheydidjaknow]

Insert interesting AN here. It's like 2 in the morning.

Chapter 13

He finally speaks. “This isn’t going to work if you keep moving around.”

You dig your nails into your palms as he pulls another shard from your back. “I know. Still hurts.”

A pause. “I could ask Master Splinter to let you have some alcohol to numb it if you want.” His voice throughout the whole process has been incredibly soft, from since you woke up in his room until now. “The skin disinfectant is going to sting more than this.”

“I’ll drink myself to death,” you promise, half-joking in an attempt to lighten the suffocating mood. “Seeing how the past couple months have gone, I should probably just get used to pain, right?”

He pulls another piece of blood-soaked glass from your skin, placing it into a can at his side with a clink. “I really hope that doesn’t happen.” You feel him pull another portion of the skin on your back taught. “The pain thing, I mean. Not to say that I want you to drink yourself to death—”

“I get what you mean.” You try to keep an eye on him without moving your neck, not wanting to get blood on his sheets. “I’m the same way about the murdering thing.”

Silence, again.

“How’s the cockroach thing going?”

“It’s going.” He is quick if nothing else; he is already three-quarters of the way done, now at your waist. “It seemed to be working alright this morning, so it should work tonight if I’m lucky.”

You smile gently. “That’s good, then. You’re due for some good luck.”

“Of the two of us?” He leans to the side from his seat on his chair, studying your face. “I think you need it more than I do.”

You laugh. “Most teenagers boys don’t have half-naked girls on their beds because of medical reasons,” you argue. “I’d say you dealing with me is worthy of some good mojo.”

“The portal wouldn’t have been destroyed if not for you.” He leans back, pulling a particularly large piece out of your hip. “We wouldn’t even know what their ultimate plan was, what to look out for, what to expect.” He bends down, and you hear the gurgling of a liquid being poured out. “Besides,” he reasons, “it was as much my fault as yours for not thinking of the glass walls. It’s the least I could do.”

You bite down on your tongue as he starts wiping the blood off. “Shit,” you hiss, “that stings.”

A hint of excitement laces his tone. “Wanna know why?”

Your jaw relaxes as the pain subsides. “Sure,” you chuckle, strained. “Why does it hurt?”

“Well,” he starts, “this antiseptic, like most antiseptics, is comprised mainly of two compounds: ethanol, or just normal grain alcohol, and hydrogen peroxide.” He sounds like a passionate schoolteacher when he goes off about anything science-related. It is absolutely enrapturing, listening to someone so in love with their craft. “Now, ethanol activates vanilloid receptor-one, which is also activated by capsaicin, which is what makes food spicy. But the funny thing about that,” he continued, “is that, usually, the receptor is only activated by really high temperatures—the receptor is what lets you register hot things as hot.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know about medical stuff.” You wince again as he continues to clean your wounds.

“Oh, I’m just not good at applied medicine,” he chuckles nervously. “None of the serious stuff, I mean; I’d never be able to perform a proper surgery or prescribe medications without a ridiculous amount of research, but I know how to set bones and how certain chemicals react to certain receptors.”

“So, you know how it works but not how to fix it?”

“I guess so, yeah.” You hear the chair move as he gets to his feet. “I started looking into it the first night you came here, actually, since I never looked into how burns worked until…” he trails off, clears his throat. “Anyway,” he tries again, “ethanol lowers the temperature threshold to body temperature, making the cut burn. It’s also why it’s painful to drink things with a high alcohol content: your receptors register it as if you’re actually being burned.” He pushes your hair off your neck carefully. “Hydrogen peroxide acts similarly, only it activates a different receptor, known as transient receptor potential ankyrin one, and while not as much as known about it, it’s theorized that it acts similarly, resulting in you feeling pain.” Your fingernails dig into your palms again as you suck in air at the burning sensation on your neck. “But it’s important to note that antiseptics are different than disinfectants. Disinfectants are for non-organic surfaces because they contain higher concentrations of biocides than antiseptics.”

You exhale as the pain subsides. “Have you used antiseptics before now?”

“Of course.” You feel him start to place things—they feel like pads—on your back. “But I made sure to account for the differences in skin types, so unless I made a big mistake at some point, the odds of you getting chemical burns is close to zero.”

“Your confidence is very reassuring,” you grin. “By any chance, do you plan on reimbursing the cost of cutting my shirt up?”

“Nah,” he shrugs. “Was planning on having you walk out of here in the middle of fall in NYC without a shirt to make double sure you get hypothermia. As you said, we have to add to your list of injuries.”

“Of course,” you “nod’ knowingly, cracking yourself up. “No pain, no game.”

“Glad to be on the same page.” He sighs. “Honestly, I don’t have a ton of fabric to fix your shirt or jacket, so unless you have some on hand—”

Your response is immediate. “You take my shirt and fix it,” you interrupt. “If one of them is going, it sure as hell ain’t gonna be that fucking jacket.”

He blinks. Your words register after a second.

“I do not mean it in—I mean—” you immediately backpedal. “I’m not—you get what I mean, right?”

“Y-yeah. Yeah, I know what you—yeah.” He is doing absolutely nothing to help the embarrassment. “I got it; i-in hindsight, I probably should have tried taking the jacket off, but I was worried I’d cut your skin up more.”

You press your face into the mattress as you feel what you assume is tape being laid along your sides. “I appreciate it.” A pause. “I don’t actually remember what happened after the main explosion happened. What…”

No response. You feel his knee sink to the bed as he reaches over, applying the adhesive on the other side of your skin quietly.

“I don’t wanna know?”

“Probably not.” His hand presses the creases flat into the curve of your back, sighing again.

You smile nervously. “I made a fool of myself, then?”

“… I wouldn’t say that.” He applied another pad to your neck. “Just—for glass rain, you were pretty calm, I’d say.”

“For glass rain,” you highlight. “Seeing as I don’t remember it, I can’t imagine it was good.”

He removes his hands. “I honestly don’t know why what happened happened,” he admits. “Just know that the guys are probably not going to give you a hard time for it.”

“Probably?” You finally turn your head to look at him.

He shrugs, gently turning your head back. “Mikey, sadly, seems to get it more than we do, so that’s two.”

You lick your lips absentmindedly. “Hey,” you shrug, “I’ll take fifty percent.”

You feel a heavy blanket drape over your back. “I still have to get the glass out of your hair, and I don’t have anything else for you to wear, so this’ll have to do. I won’t look while you adjust it.”

Your eyes strain to check. Sure enough, you watch him turn around and face the opposing wall.

You sit up, pulling the blanket around yourself to save your modesty. “You’re good. Need me to turn around?”

“Uh, yeah.”

You lift yourself, careful of your leg as you reposition yourself to have your back to him. “Thanks for this, if I haven’t said it already.”

“It’s no problem.” Fingers part your hair, tweezers now attached to your scalp. “You should see the stupid injuries I’ve had to help my brothers with.”

“I bet,” you feel yourself grinning. “I’m surprised you guys haven’t torn each other to shreds yet.”

“There have been close calls.” You hear the clinking of the can again. “Especially after getting our hands on weapons when we did. You would not believe the number of concussions we had.”

You put your hands up for dramatic effect. “Madness.”

“You laugh,” he laughs, “but figuring out our anatomy to any degree of accuracy was hard enough. I’m convinced Mikey messed Raph up with his nunchaku when we were ten.”

You let him move your head. “This I gotta hear.”

“Oh, it isn’t a really interesting story,” Donnie clarifies. “He just accidentally hit Raph in the head too hard during training and almost caved in his skull.”

You try not to laugh. “What counts as an interesting story, then?”

“Well,” he contemplates, “there was that time with the oven.”

You turn to look at him the best you can with the limited movement he allowed. “The time with the oven?”

“Wax paper catches fire if you put it in the oven.”

You nod, turning back. “Was it you or Mikey?”

“A bit of both.” Clink. Clink. “I thought wax paper implied paper made of some sort of wax, and Mikey was trying to make decorative candles. The theory,” he continues, clearly trying to make himself not sound stupid, “was that putting it in the oven would get more consistent heat throughout the wax.”

You try to hide your amusement for his sake. “I take it that didn’t pan out.”

“It did not.” He chuckled dryly, combing his fingers through your hair to feel for glass. “Splinter was so mad, I thought we wouldn’t see tomorrow.”

Your fingers clench as his hand catches. “Not so harsh,” you breathe in pain. “You’re gonna rip my hair out.”

“Oh, sorry.” He removed his hand. “I forgot it was—that’s stupid,” he edits. “I’m not used to dealing with hair is what I meant.”

“It’s alright,” you reassure him quickly. “Just try not to tug so hard.”

“I don’t think there’s any glass left anyways, so.” You hear the chair wheel away from the bed. “That probably won’t be a problem.”

You turn around properly, adjusting the blanket over your torso. “Thank you for all your help.”

His eyes flicker downward for a second before staring directly and deliberately at your face. “You’re welcome,” he nods, not moving his eyes. “You were incredibly easy to work with.”

“You made quick work of it.” Your legs cross over another, your worn sneaker matching the color of the concrete floor. “And don’t worry about my shirt; I have to go shopping, anyways.”

He blinks. “Why?”

“Well,” you reason, “My clothes are already kinda worn, and I’ve been meaning to buy leather gloves for a while, so it would give me an excuse to go look for a good pair.”

“Leather gloves?”

You nod. “I was hashing it out with Casey, and he agreed they would look badass and cover up my hand scars.”

“You know,” he suggests, poorly feigning nonchalance, “I could make you some.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I have the know-how, and I’m pretty good with that sort of thing.”

You shake your head immediately, face heating up. “After everything you’ve done for me, I can’t let you do that.”

“Sure you can.” You can practically see the gears turning as he verbally plans it out. “I’d need measurements, of course, and finding good quality leather might be a challenge, but it would allow a lot of stylistic freedom. If you gave me a sketch of what you and Mikey worked out a sketch—”

“Dude, no.” You feel like such a girl, getting flustered over something like this. “Never mind how much unnecessary work that would take—”

“It would take me an afternoon, tops.”

“—it would be way too much trouble to find all the right materials and everything!” You shake your head more vigorously. “You have enough on your plate already.”

He pauses. “What if I could give it a practical use? Like, for self-defense or something. Would you let me then?”

You blink. “Self-defense?”

“Yeah.” You feel as though you are missing something when he hurries to clarify, “You had a knife next to you when I came to pick you up. Having something more user-friendly might—not that you can’t use a knife, but you don’t have a ton of experience with them, especially using a kitchen knife against the Foot and you get what I’m saying, right?”

You hesitate, trying to understand what he said before nodding. “I guess that makes sense,” you concede. “It would be shitty to go out like a bitch after convincing myself I deserve to live so many times. That would be kinda inconvenient.”

Despite the fact he looks like you just put a knife to your throat, he nods. “Yeah,” he confirms tentatively. “Inconvenient.”

You shift the blanket under your arms, folding it so that it would stay at your chest. “Alright,” you sigh, “You convinced me. But!” You aim to accentuate this caveat, “But, not my design. If you’re going to go through all the trouble, you design it to how you think they would look cool, so you feel good about what you’re making.”

“You trust me to not make you look bad?”

“Totally.” You smile. “Looking at the Shellraiser makes me want to vomit, but it’s not from lack of style.”

He blinks. “What?”

“Exactly what I said,” you commit.

Your statement makes him take pause, but, eventually, he seems to get what you mean. “Then… thanks,” he nods. “I should probably fix your jacket first, though. Unless you want to walk around New York in the middle of the night in a blanket.”

“I’d rather not,” you admit. “I feel like that would not be my greatest move.”

He gets up. “Are you alright to be left alone? It’s alright if you aren’t,” he clarifies, “but I’d have to shift the timetable a bit if that’s the case.”

You blink, confused. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason.” He is lying, you are sure. “Just wanted to check before I told the guys I was good to go.”

Something about that statement seems strange to you. “Wait,” you clarify, “why would you go on another mission tonight?”

He averts eye contact.

You lean forward. “How long have I been weird?”

“Not too long, I don’t think. You were out when I got there.”

You reach over, forcing him to look at you head-on. “Are you lying to me?”

He does not answer.

“Has more than a day passed?”

He shakes his head. “It’s only about seven.”

You let go, resting your face in your hands. “so, I’ve been out for, what, sixteen hours?”

“Kinda.” He fiddles with his hands nervously. “A little less, I think.”

“And how long have I been out of it?”

He takes a moment. “You were crying a lot when you woke up,” he concedes. “At about two in the afternoon. I think you cried yourself out, because when I came to check on you—I thought maybe water would help— you were out.”

“Wonderful.” You look up at him. “And was it loud?”

“Not really.” He looks as though he was being interrogated. “I wouldn’t have come, but I left something in here that I needed.” His voice is back to being soft and calm. “You were mumbling about your hands a lot. I actually tied you up,” he chuckles nervously, “because you were moving around so much and getting the shards farther into your back.”

You sigh, something in your stomach sinking. “Probably not a terrible move. Then what?”

“When you started getting normal again,” he continues, “I untied you and got you to stop moving when I started taking the glass out, and I’m guessing you remember the rest.”

You do not say anything.

He stares intently at a corner. “I know this might come off as rude,” he starts carefully, “and I don’t mean to be rude…”

“Spit it out,” you gesture. “Let’s just… what’s up?”

“I honestly do not know enough about this sort of thing to help you.” He looks back at you. “I wish I did, really, but I don’t. I don’t know how you’re wired, mentally, and it’s really not an area I can help you with.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“But I do know,” he continues, “it has to be hard, trying to find help, given the circumstances, especially after everything that’s happened.”

“Please,” you almost beg, “just get to the point.”

“I think it would be a good idea to start spending more time with Master Splinter.” He looks down at his hands. “I think, given that he knows more about this sort of thing than I do, it would be good for you.”

“So, you’re prescribing therapy?”

“I’m not saying you’re crazy—”

“That’s not what I asked.”

The silence is choking you.

“I don’t know if you have a disorder,” he sighs. “Again, not my area of expertise.” He tries to phrase what he means right, and the next few sentences come out slow and deliberate. “All I know is that the people you’ve known your whole life aren’t around anymore, and you’re having really bad nightmares, and that you freeze up when you get really scared. I don’t want you to suffer on our account.”

You stare down at your feet.

“If not because you’re worried about it,” he tries at a different angle, “would you do it as payment for the gloves? That way, it’s not a handout.”

You smile at that. “Hand out.”

It takes a second. “Pun not intended,” he sighs. “I kinda wish it was, now.”

You look up. “I’ll talk to him while you guys are gone on your mission tonight.”

“Thank you,” he breathes. “I appreciate it, really.”

You smile properly. “Hey,” you say, adjusting the blanket. “You take glass shards out of my back and I scratch yours, or something like that.”

He chuckles. “I should probably go let the guys know,” he gets to his feet. “If you want,” he offers, “you can come with.”

“I’ll take a raincheck.” You get up after him, vision blacking out for a moment as you grab the wall for support. “But I can help you grab all your stuff to move out, if you need.”

His eyes go wide. “You don’t have clothes,” he reminds you.

You almost roll your eyes at this particular concern. “Covers more than a bathing suit,” you reason. “I’ll be careful about making sure it doesn’t slip, I promise.”

“But what if it does?”

“Then they should take a picture of the only pair of tits they’ll ever see in person.” You start to hobble towards the door. “I’ve dealt with worse wardrobe malfunctions. I’ll be fine, really.”

“Your flippancy is incredibly concerning.”

You try not to laugh. You look back at him, grin. “Concerning? Me?” You bring a hand to your chest. “I’m offended, sir. Besides,” You giggle, “I need to have a chat with your brothers if that episode is today.”

--

The look on his face immediately validates your decision. “Could you run that by me again?”

You wrap an arm around his shoulders, hand traveling across the open air as if to reveal your statement. “Cockroach. Terminator.”

“Okay, I’m going to need you to give me more explanation again.”

A sharp grin spreads across your features. “Imagine this,” you explain smoothly. “A giant cockroach—“

“Hate it.”

“— that is also a cyborg—“

“Hating it more.”

“— complete with near invincibility—“

“Sounds like my worst nightmare.”

“— with saws.”

“And it is.” Raphael removes your arm from his shoulders. “I’m sold. No more of that.”

“So,” you confirm, leaning back against the wall, “what is everyone not going to do?”

“I dunno,” Mikey admits easily. “I was too busy watching the horror settle on my brother’s face.”

“I’m not horrified—” he protests.

“You are.”

“Am not!”

“Am too!”

“As a neutral bystander,” Leo pipes up, trying not to openly laugh, “yes, you are.”

You keep your eyes focused on Raphael and not the car. “Look,” you cut in, “are you gonna let him do his job or nah?”

“I’m not promi—“

“The hell you ain’t” He shot a furious look at his younger brother. “You best not breathe on Donnie before the roach is back in the car and as far away from that fuckin’ ooze as possible!”

“Reassuring,” you nod. “Good.”

“If you’re so worried about Donnie messing up,” Leo suggests, “why don’t you use the remote control? You’ve watched him work with it before, right?”

You scoff. “I’d rather chop off my hands with a dull knife than get in the death mobile.”

The other two brothers antagonize each other. “It’s not that bad.”

“Isn’t it, though?” You cross your arms, a sick feeling sinking into your stomach at the thought. “Never mind the fact the lead engineer is a teenage boy, or that it’s made of the finest trash, but it’s also a moving, mechanical vehicle driven by another— and I mean this with the utmost respect— rowdy hormonal teenager.”

“Hey,” he protests, “that’s not true.”

“Karai.”

His face heats up. “It was a mistake that I’ve already owned up to.”

You put your hands up. “Look, man,” you clarify, smiling as the crisis is thoroughly averted, “I don’t blame you. Karai isn’t exactly a dime a dozen, and we can all agree she is an extremely formidable fighter who can thoroughly kick your ass.”

Donnie is getting a run for his money with this blush. “What does— she cannot,” he stammers, “and even if she could—“

“Oh, do not even,” you tease. “We all know that her being a formidable opponent who knows every weapon in her arsenal like the back of her hand and uses them well has something to do with why you like her so much. Raph’s the same way.”

Speak of the devil. “What’d you say?”

“You have a thing for strong women who can probably kick your ass.”

He seems to consider this for a minute. “I’ll get back to you on that.”

“Cool. Anyways.” You turn your attention back to Leo. “The point is, as someone who is also into people who can kick my ass— literally or academically— I get the appeal. Also,” you add, grinning like a moron, “her eyeliner game is on point, which doesn’t hurt.”

He blinks. “Do you like Karai?”

“Absolutely. One hundred and ten percent.” You shrug. “She’s badass.”

“More so than Donnie?”

“Are you guys ever going to get in or are you guys just going to stand out there all night?” Donnie pokes his head out of the vehicle. “We’re losing darkness.”

'Saved by the bell.' “Point is,” you say quickly, “I don’t want in that thing. Couldn’t pay me.”

“Leo! Hurry up!”

“Comin’!” He climbs into the Shellraiser, wheels spinning as the team drove off and out of the lair.

You close your eyes.

You do not want to go to Hamato Yoshi for therapy. You will bet money it does not go well.

‘You promised, though. Might as well have, anyways. Did you promise?’

Your morals and ideologies completely clash.

‘Ninjas aren’t all rendered insane. They have to be doing something right, in theory.’

You use the wall for support, already knowing the walk home is going to suck as you limp towards the dojo.

Table of Contents

Chapter 12

Chapter 14

[sanerontheinside]

F H K!

meme | askbox 

F: Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

I have built a lot of stories on the dialogue, I now realise. I think the first one where scenes literally pivoted on the dialogue in a critical fashion was probably Sound the Abyss:

“You are—and always were—exceptional, Obi-Wan, and for that I can take no credit, because you came to me that way. There is a core of goodness and devotion to you, a streak of compassion I repeatedly failed to see. You should not have had to fight your way back to my side, not ever,” Qui-Gon adds softly, “but I left you no choice. I never did.”

He sighs and leans back in his chair, feeling a great weight sink through his bones, leaving exhaustion in its wake. “You’ve made your sorry Master so proud, Obi-Wan; but all your successes have been in spite of me.”

Obi-Wan is still watching him with a shuttered expression. “And what of the fact that I am—‘headstrong’, I believe you said? Stubborn and reckless, utterly unconcerned for my own safety?”

“As am I,” Qui-Gon concedes, with a faintly crooked smile. “I had to teach you something.”

“Fuck you, Jinn,” Obi-Wan Kenobi says, voice oddly toneless, faintly prickling yet devoid of anything like ire. “If you cannot take credit for my successes, then you dare not take on my faults, as well.”

I have to be perfectly honest, in part I choose this one because I remember it. I probably remember it because I wrote the scene almost specifically with that 'Fuck you, Jinn' in mind. It’s also... a partial resolution of their problems, or maybe it’s the beginning of some true progress between them. I love partial resolutions. they don’t understand each other yet, they haven’t figured out their own feelings yet, maybe, but we’re starting to get somewhere. 

There’s also the zine fic, which I can’t reveal just yet. that one had a lot of pivotal conversations. and a haunting. I love talking to ghosts in stories. 

Mercy in Pudding Cups is a good honourable mention. it’s full of these messages that I’ve found I’ve really needed over the years: “you did the best you could do at the time”, “just because you left the path you’d committed yourself to for over a decade, doesn’t mean the one you are on now is lesser”. 

although come to think of it, the entire aposematism exchange in Good Knight sure was exciting to get right 😃

Obi-Wan shook his head, gaze distant and unfocused. “This tune was already considered a classic when I was an Initiate. ”

“Tyrena: the cure for nostalgia, no matter the decade,” Qui-Gon quipped.

Kenobi snorted. “I’d like to argue with you, but I can’t: one of the shops tried to sell me an outfit that should have died in a closet thirty years ago, padded shoulders and everything.”

“It’s the tunics,” Qui-Gon said. “They see a Jedi and assume we know nothing about style.”

Obi-Wan mulled over that for a moment, then nodded. “You might be onto something there. They probably think we’re all colourblind, too.”

Qui-Gon glanced up. “Good grief, what did they try to sell you?”

“A lot of loud triangles,” Obi-Wan said. “Either they look more appealing in a different light spectrum, or they’re a thoroughly convincing display of aposematism.”

“Mm.” Qui-Gon leaned back, studying the man before him. “A fundamental misunderstanding of the Jedi,” he said, “to suggest that you are the prey rather than the predator.”

“ I’m the predator?” Kenobi grinned back at him, all teeth. “What a notion. Are you suggesting I’m not venomous?”

Qui-Gon pretended to ponder that. “Well, not beyond a lethal concentration of capsaicin. And caffeine, possibly,” he added, nodding towards the Master’s steaming cup.

H: How would you describe your style?

oh, fffff... i am actually pretty bad at self awareness here. I feel like I have been trying very hard to steal learn from other writers all this time, with some success. Lately I have a bit of difficulty rereading my own work and remembering what I’ve written... might have something to do with the stress we are all experiencing, but I feel like i have.. holes in the brain, memory drain. I do think that I may have successfully borrowed one of what I believe to be @luvvewan‘s signature moves - a short sentence that almost acts as punctuation, forces you to pause. 

I love rhythms within sentences or paragraphs. I started writing again after a looooong break by writing poetry. I think sometimes I get too attached to rhythms—later I have to go back thru the draft and clean up those sentences because not everyone is reading in the meter I was thinking in, and the clarity occasionally suffers for it. but I do think some of it survives the cutting room floor! 

K: What’s the angstiest idea you’ve ever come up with?

technically all my angstiest ideas are probably ones you came up with, like desert rogue, although mayhaps it’s possible i made it slightly worse.

so, desert rogue: in which Qui-Gon's death on Naboo throws him forward in the timeline and drops him in the Empire years. he spends years and years looking for General Kenobi, whose name has become the rallying cry (whisper) of the Rebellion everywhere. 

Qui-Gon finds his way, eventually, without Obi-Wan. he helps raise Leia on Alderaan, and he is with her on that fateful diplomatic mission. he accompanies the droids down to Tatooine, and finally, finally meets Obi-Wan then. 

ppl will absolutely come for me if I so much as hint at what happens next. lucky this is under a cut 😏

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

GNSJGJJSK 😳😳😳 THE ASK SENT ON ITS OWN IM SO SORRY LET ME TRY AGAIN HDFJKDGKK THIS IS EMBARRASSING THE PROMPT WAS THIS: Eldritch au where young human Virgil (16-18) or Patton is running (kinda like (Un)Wanted but different idk) from an unnamed unsympathetic eldritch being (not a side) and gets caught up by ANOTHER eldritch being, this time it IS a side AND sympathetic. This sounds a lot like (Un)Wanted but I couldn’t get out of my head how cool an eldritch au would sound in ur writing style

Read on Ao3 Masterlist

Thanks for the request, babe!

Embrace of Darkness

Pairings: Royality, can be platonic or romantic you decide

Warnings: some torture, nothing super graphic, and no unsympathetic anyone

Word Count: 4,074

Humans are such...fascinating. And so emotional, aren't they? Unfortunately for Patton, some creatures that don't understand emotions want to...experiment.

Humans can be so fragile.

...and capable of a kind of strength those creatures could only dream of.

“…oh, my pet, you should not have done that.”

The figure in the bonds winces as another bolt of energy hits his chest. He arches his back, suppressing a yelp as it twists, twists, and pinches.

“St-stop,” he pants, his hair hanging in limp, bedraggled curls around his head, soaked with sweat, “stop, please.”

“Begging already? Well, I must make a note of that, that was quicker than last time.”

The pain stops. The figure slumps in relief as the shadow moves away. His eyes fall shut, taking advantage of the momentary reprieve he has before it starts again.

How could he have been so stupid?

He was told not to mess with Eldritch power, he was told not to go into the restricted section, he was told not to use the Summoning Grounds. And yet, by some stupid decision—arrogance? Curiosity? Or that stupid compassion—he did.

And now…

Now he was here, subject to the whims of a being that did not yet understand the human capacity for emotion and was hell-bent on figuring that out.

The days—weeks? Months? Hours?—they spent on smiling were agony. His cheeks had ached by the end of the first few rounds and his lips had dried and cracked, blood spilling down his chin. Then the being had wanted to count his teeth and had pried his mouth open wider still, holding it agape with some awful magic that tasted of capsaicin. His tongue had begun to bleed too.

If smiling had been agony, then laughing had been torture.

Laughter is a fear response, he remembered having read that somewhere, and only here had he understood that. Something had reached deep into him, into his gut as the being’s hand phased through his stomach and clenched, drawing forth laughs upon laughs upon laughs and oh it had hurt. His throat had screamed and his lungs had begged for release.

Now, it appears, they were on to crying.

“You humans,” the being muses as it runs an icy cold finger over his cheek, “so…squishy. And soft. You’re absolutely covered in this squishy soft stuff…I wonder how it would feel on my own bones…”

He whimpers in fear but dares not move. The energy that crackles around his bonds, poised to strike, is enough of a deterrent on their own.

“Oh, why so scared, little human,” the being mocks, seizing his chin and forcing his gaze up, “I did promise not to kill you, as you requested.”

He has never regretted anything more than that.

What was he supposed to do? When a being older then time itself and infinitely crueler had appeared in front of him, he’d blurted the first thing that came to his mind. Please don’t kill me.

Death, it seems, is not a mercy he’ll be granted.

“You stay put,” the being laughs, throwing him back into his bonds, “I’ll be right back. Someone else is summoning me now. Perhaps I’ll have another plaything to add to my collection.”

The figure whimpers again as a rush of cold energy fills the room. Then a void. The being is gone.

He slumps, his breathing haggard, panting for any sort of release. The corners of his eyes hurt, when had the corner of his eyes ever been a source of hurt? The skin feels like it’s been rubbed raw; salt pressed into the wound. His wrists ache, his throat aches, everywhere aches, but all he can feel is the burn at the corners of his eyes.

The light flickers. His head jerks up. Are they—are they back already?

He squints. N-no, no…something…

Something’s wrong.

The energy that holds him still is flickering, not the overhead light. His eyes widen as he tugs experimentally at the binds and finds them…loose.

His heart jumps into his throat. He holds his breath.

It flickers again.

Clenching his jaw tightly, he yanks.

He almost collapses to the ground, knees wobbling terribly, but he’s free. There’s a door. Run, run, run.

He stumbles over himself, floundering through some mist that tastes of pure darkness until he sees the door and falls through it.

Falling. Falling. He’s falling. It’s dark, it’s so dark…the darkness is tangible, he can feel it pressing in around him, down, down, down, down, he’s being sucked into it, drawn into an uncontrollable vortex with an insatiable hunger. He’s being eaten.

And as the fear swirls in his gut, as it fills his mind, adrenaline roaring in his ears, as the tips of his fingers go numb, a dark, primal satisfaction burns in some demented corner of his heart because he knows he tastes good.

The darkness hurts to look at. So he won’t. He shuts his eyes, squeezes them tight, drowns in a familiar darkness, not the scary one, and lets himself fall.

It’s not the fall that kills you, it’s the sudden stop.

Something buzzes in the corner of Roman’s mind and he frowns, waving his hand through the mist, through his many limbs stretched across his realm. Is someone here? Has his brother come to visit?

He peers closer, looking through the many threads holding this reality together. Oh. Oh, something’s falling through. He must get his roof fixed. He sighs, reaching out to disintegrate the pesky bit of debris.

Right before he makes contact, he stops. What…what is that?

A quick flick of one of his threads slows time, allowing his attention to zoom in and squint at the little thing falling through his reality. Is that…is that a human?

What is a human doing here?

Roman reaches out, concentrates his threads, tangling the human in little golden strings and pulling, pulling slowly, carefully, to lay them delicately at the center. He frowns, looking closer. This human looks…smaller than most. Is it one of the younger ones? It looks independent, at least independent-capable, even though mortal dependency is not one of his strong suits, but then why is it here?

Is it a sacrifice? He’s not had a sacrifice in millennia. And no demands came with it…

The age of sacrifice for appeasement’s sake is long over for mortals. Plus, tormenting little things loses its appeal after a while, wouldn’t you agree?

Roman sighs, resigning himself to figuring out what to do with this little human. It hangs there, tangled up in the golden threads, and looks so terribly, terribly small. Are all humans this small? Roman’s quite forgotten.

The buzzing hasn’t stopped. Normally, when the problem has been located, and Roman’s aware of it, it stops. It hasn’t stopped. Is something else wrong?

He feels around a little, just to figure out where it’s coming from, only to discover not only is it still happening, it’s increased. And it’s coming from this little thing, tangled up in his threads.

Roman braces himself and looks.

The threads spin elegantly outwards, creating a small circle plinth in the swirling chaos. The human lies on it gently, still held lightly just to make sure it doesn’t roll off. Roman concentrates, wills the human to show him what’s wrong.

Small golden lights being to glow from directly under the human.

The human twitches on the plinth. The lights’ glow begins to spread along the grooves, working its way outward to the rim of the circle, then back in, each pass growing bright and brighter. The human lets out a small sound. Its hands splay out, fingers digging into the grooves it can reach. Across the circle, Roman closes his eyes, threads twitching softly.

The lights run back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Roman growls low in his throat, focuses.

Back and forth. It hurts to look directly at the stone now.

Roman whines, his threads growing taut.

He reaches out, pulling more threads to hold the reality together around this little human, waving frantically back and forth. It seems to help, they all sway in unison. What kind of things must the human be experiencing if it’s making them react like this?

The human whimpers.

It’s almost drowned out by the lights, now, the only parts of it visible are the brief, shuddering motions of their tiny body, a tiny respite in the blazing light. It pulses unevenly. Its fingers are swallowed by the shine from the ground, hands barely there. It whines again, a high pitch that penetrates into his head and lodges in some soft part, burrowing like a mouse into its den.

The lights flare up so brilliantly it staggers him, throwing energy in front of his face to shield it from the light, the others racing to shield his reality from the rest of it. A moment later it dims slightly, enough for him to blink a few times before looking back at the circle.

The circle is now a sphere, the lights from inside the circle having thrown themselves upwards, arcing over the stone to form a golden ball, twinkling against the green wetland. It isn’t solid; through the small gaps in between the lights he can still make out the threads on the other side, still holding tightly, and if he peers towards the center, he can still see the human.

The human made a shield…it is…defending?

Roman’s heart clenches as he looks closer. It’s not a shield, the formation is wrong. The human is defending, yes, but not itself. It’s made a cage.

His suspicion is right. Upon closer inspection, the lights protrude slightly inwards along the inside of the sphere, creating a cruelly jagged interior. This isn’t designed to keep out an enemy, it’s designed to keep the human contained.

The human is defending him…from itself.

Then he hears it.

The sobs punch through, ripping the still place to shreds, yanking the air back and forth violently, echoing around and around the circle. The rawness of it never wavers, the wave keeps building and building, an open wound, never yielding for a single moment. Every hitch, every crack lands like a solid weight, threatening to collapse the circle deep into the earth. It’s the cry of a child, the last child, a terrified, angry, desperate child, coming out like an uproar from its throat. It’s more than crying, it’s the kind of desolate sobbing that comes from a patient sadness, one without hope.

It’s pain.

It twists, ripping its way through layers and layers of carefully crafted defenses, a wave of anger wrapping around internal organs and knotting them together, a fear sending stabs and shakes throughout limbs, an ache yanking a still-beating heart into the bitterly frigid air.

Roman’s threads are itching before he fully realizes what’s happening, desperate for something, anything to do to make it stop. It hurts, the human hurts, and he can’t do anything. There is no enemy he can fight, no words he can say, nothing.

He hovers there, helpless, as the human shatters.

Whatever he thought before about pain, about hiding it, about its weight, is wrong. There’s so much, so much he wishes to say, to do, to…how does it have so much?

And how did he not sense it?

He had felt pain before, through mortals, knew of their capacity to feel…but not like this. He knew that they could hide it, but not like this. His kind was not meant to feel pain, to hold it, to carry it with them, to hold it still, so still, wrapped in their bodies.

Humans…this little human can.

The lights glimmer in their sphere, slow currents wrapping orbits around the orb, carried along by the tides of the sounds waves.

They pause.

With a whoosh, they fall back to the ground, retreating slowly back along the grooves to the center.

The human lies curled up, limbs thrown haphazardly over itself, drawn and clutched tight around her body. It doesn’t move for long, baited seconds, drawing shuddering breath after breath. Every now and then they hitch and his heart jumps with them, hands clenched.

Then it draws a longer breath and holds it, letting it out slowly over eight counts.

It shifts.

Roman breathes a sigh of relief as it slumps, the buzzing slowly fading. Unconsciously, the threads wrap themselves tightly around the plinth, turning it into something softer, something more delicate, that cradles the little human as it sleeps.

It hurts still, lingering in some ache that Roman can’t scratch, until he realizes it’s his own. He is in pain, just from bearing witness to how much pain his little human has held. If this…if just this is enough to make him want to purge it from his reality, he cannot conceive of how much this poor little thing must hurt.

Not again. Never again. This little thing will not hurt and will not be hurt ever again.

It’s been so long…so long since Roman kept a human, kept anything. He’s got to figure it out…well, let’s start simple.

Holding his power at bay, he leans closer, examines the little mortal and concentrates, starts to pull and shape the ether until he has another body, another little form, standing next to the little human on the plinth. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, he stares down at the human’s sleeping face from a very similar pair of eyes.

He runs a hand—hand? Is that the right word?—over himself, checking that everything’s right. It’s not a completely…uncomfortable existence, but there are a few things he wonders about. Perhaps he can ask…later.

For now, he crouches down next to the human—not so little anymore, now that they’re the same size—and reaches out to run his hand over their cheek. Oh…oh, it’s damp. There’s liquid leaking from their eyes. Right, they’d been crying.

“You poor thing,” Roman murmurs, his voice sounding a little strange coming out of a human mouth, so he alters it, softens it, makes it easier to hear, “poor…poor thing, little thing, little one, sweet thing, soft thing…”

They’re so soft, so soft, under his hand. He falls into a rhythm of stroking their cheek, running his fingers through their hair, reaching down to lightly squeeze their own hand in his. As he does so, that ache in his chest slowly fades, replaced by another, warmer one, another beast that almost purrs in contentment as the human turns their head towards him in their sleep, letting him scratch his fingers across their scalp.

“I’ll look after you, little human,” he promises, his threads already getting to work, “I’ll look after you.”

His eyes blink open.

Hadn’t…hadn’t he been falling? Why…why is he lying on something soft? Is—is he hallucinating? Is this another trick? What’s going on?

He moves slowly, carefully, trying not to alert anything else to his presence, only to realize he’s—

He’s in a bed.

He paws at the soft comforter in disbelief, how…he’s been tucked in and everything. And this isn’t a small bed, it’s massive. The pillow behind his head is easily the size of his torso and so soft…

Part of him wants to nuzzle back into the comforter, into the soft pillow, fall asleep and never wake again.

Part of him wants to know what’s going on.

As he gets out of the bed, his feet come to rest on the floor and he winces, bracing for a creak or something to give him away. But no. In fact, he’s barely louder than a whisper as he creeps his way to the door, opening it and slipping through.

It’s…a garden?

Well, not so much a garden as it is one single grove of trees, a small bench in the middle. He glances behind him and blinks. The room he came from definitely had four walls, and yet as he looks, he can only see the doorframe, floating in the middle of golden light. There is not sky, no ground other than a soft dusting of grass and petals that have drifted down from a tree next to the bench. What is going on?

He remembers falling. He remembers being so tired, so worn, closing his eyes and letting himself fall.

He remembers being…caught? He remembers something winding around him, something that cradled him, not bound him. He remembers something pulling him somewhere else, through the swirling mist.

He remembers being laid on something soft. He remembers a hand stroking his cheek. He remembers a voice, a low voice, saying it would look after him.

“Oh. You’re awake?”

That voice. He whirls around to see—another human? A figure, at any rate, standing next to the doorframe. The figure tilts his head, walking forward, only to stop when he flinches backward.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he promises in that same low voice, “I didn’t know you’d be awake so quick.”

“What do you want?” He winces when his voice sounds absolutely wrecked.

“Want? Nothing, at least not right now.” The figure reaches for him. “You look scared.”

“I—“ he gulps— “I am, please don’t touch me.”

The figure blinks. “Don’t mortals need physical contact to be reassured?”

Oh no, not another one.

“Oh,” the figure murmurs when he stumbles even further away, “oh dear, no, little one, it’s alright, I won’t touch you.”

“S-stay away,” he gasps, “please, don’t—don’t hurt me, stay back.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, little one, I promise, I’ll stay back here, just—just calm down, please.”

Something in the figure’s voice gives him pause. He keeps his arms up, ready to defend himself, but it…the way the figure’s looking at him…

“…you won’t hurt me?”

The figure shakes his head emphatically. “Never, little one, I’d never hurt you, you’ve—you’ve been hurt enough already.”

“W-what?”

“When you fell,” the figure says softly, his fingers still twitching, “I—I could feel your pain, everything, I could feel it, and I’m so, so, sorry that this happened to you, oh, little one, no one should have to hurt like that…”

His eyes widen when the figure starts to weep. He…his pain is enough to make…whatever this is cry for him?

“What happened,” the figure says in a strangled whisper, “who hurt you, little one?”

And suddenly the whole sorry story is spilling out of him, about the summoning, about the experiments, the torture, the escape. The figure sobs with him as he tightens his arms around himself, trying to stop the phantom pain from sending him to his knees.

“You mean to tell me—“ the figure gulps in a breath— “that one of my kind did that to you?”

He flinches slightly at the mention of ‘my kind’ but as he looks at the distraught expression on the figure’s face, something warm burrows its way into his chest and flutters.

“I’m so sorry, little one,” the figure mumbles, oblivious to his dilemma, “I—I would destroy them if it didn’t mean leaving you alone.”

“…you don’t want to leave me alone?”

The figure tilts his head. “No, little one, I don’t. I want to look after you, I want to keep you safe so you never have to go through that again.”

Oh.

Oh.

Oh, no.

He’s…he’s serious. He wants to look after—he wants to—

“You want to…protect me?”

The figure nods, reaching out for him again. This time, he lets the figure take a step closer.

“You have been so strong,” the figure mumbles, “so strong, little one, and you’re hurting so much because of it, I want to help you.”

“…but why?”

“You hurt,” the figure emphasizes, “and if—if I hurt at just the memory of your hurt, then I—you must hurt so much.”

Despite everything, a spark of hope begins to bloom in his chest. He edges a step closer, trying to deny the way the spark flares brighter at the encouraging smile he gets.

“Isn’t that…” He swallows around the lump in his throat. “…isn’t that weakness?”

The figure’s mouth drops open, his hand clenching into a fist. “No, little one, it isn’t a weakness. Feeling—the ability to—a heart is not a weakness, little one.”

“…it isn’t?”

“No, little one, listen to me, you—“

The figure takes a breath and the certainty in his eyes blazes.

“You are not weak,” he says firmly, “you are gifted with the ability of heightened intuition. You do not have anything to be ashamed of, it is a reminder that you have the gift of empathy. Not many beings possess this rare trait because it takes a special kind of being to be genuinely compassionate.”

He pauses, taking another tiny step closer, his eyes pleading.

“Your kindness is not your weakness,” he whispers, “it is your strength. Own who you are. You have a beautiful, brave soul.”

He can’t.

The figure lets out a wounded noise as he collapses, racing to his side and catching in arms that are impossibly warm, pulling him into a lap that wraps around him and holds him close, murmuring words in that wonderful, wonderful voice that makes him feel like the air itself is trying to calm him down.

“I have you, brave one, I have you,” the figure whispers, “you stay right here with me. Won’t you stay, brave one, and let me protect you?”

He wants to. Oh, he aches to.

“…can I stay?”

“Of course,” comes the instant reply, “of course you can, brave one, I would be so happy if you stayed.”

“Y-you would?”

The figure smiles ruefully as he pulls back just enough so they can see each other’s faces. “Would you believe me if I said I got lonely every now and then?”

Millennia, alone in the darkness…he can’t imagine.

The figure lets out a soft gasp of surprise when he tightens his grip. “Does that make you upset, brave one? Thinking of me alone?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, brave one, you’re so strong,” the figure murmurs, running one hand through his hair, “I can’t imagine how much it must be to feel. All the time.”

“It’s tiring,” he manages to slur out. Speaking of which…

“I’m sure.” The hand in his hair is doing wonders. “Will you tell me your name, brave one, so I know what to call you?”

Somewhere in his sleep-fogged brain, he thinks he remembers something about not giving your name out to creatures who ask for it.

“That’s the fair folk, brave one,” the figure says gently, “but also a good practice. Here, if you like, I will give you mine first, and then you can decide, hmm?”

“Okay.”

“My…well, my name isn’t something that mortal tongues can pronounce, I don’t think, but you can call me Roman.”

Roman. Roman. That’s easy enough.

He raises his head just a little, if only to let it flop onto Roman’s shoulder.

“Patton.”

“Patton?” He nods. “That’s a lovely name, brave one, thank you for telling me.”

Patton should say something, thank Roman in return, say he’s thankful for the protection Roman is giving him, something, but oh, Roman is warm, Roman is soft, and he’s so, so, tired.

“…sleep.”

“You need to sleep, Patton?” Patton nods clumsily into Roman’s neck. “Do you want me to take you back to the bed? Those—those are good for sleep, aren’t they?”

He doesn’t really remember being lifted up and carried. He remembers being laid down in something soft again, something warm, but not as warm as Roman.

He doesn’t remember being tucked in, the soft comforter around him again. He remembers a warm voice promising something.

He doesn’t remember asking Roman to stay, reaching out clumsily for him as he pulls away.

He remembers another body tucked up next to him, wrapping around him gently, as the darkness takes him again.

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[swearingintengwar]

Alright, taking a dive into this whole Space Australia business...

(warning: this gets kinda dark! Specific content warnings in the tags)

Humans are tough.

They’re persistence predators, walking for days on end to tire out their prey. When their society developed to the point where hunting was less common, their impressive stamina turned to more frivolous ends. Capsaicin - yes, the neurotoxin - is a basic cooking spice for them. They’ll willingly endure extreme temperatures with only rudimentary protective gear, just because they like to play in snow. And that’s without even getting into skydiving and roller coasters and horror movies.

Their reputation as damn near unkillable was pretty much inevitable.

Then, stories started to go around.

Humans, now common on starship crews, secluding themselves. Emitting cries of pain despite being completely unharmed. Seeking companionship from inanimate objects and dangerous beasts.

Sometimes they are mysteriously wounded, and refuse to explain why.

The rest of the Kith, as the collective sapients of the galaxy have begun to call themselves, are baffled. What could be overwhelming humans, who rise like phoenixes from any hardship? They notice that many afflicted humans are shy about what’s troubling them, though, and conclude it would be rude to ask human advice on the subject.

It’s not until a ketian finds their human captain dead in her cabin, a note on her bedside table and a laser burn clean through her brow, that the Kith realize how badly they were wrong.

The note on Captain Alexis’s table speaks of how unhappy she was on the ship, of her stress and loneliness. She’s to be given a hero’s funeral, written down in history as a martyr whose sacrifice taught the Kith their mistakes, until her sister hears of the arrangements. “No,” she says. “There’s nothing heroic about this. My sister was a victim, not a martyr. Give her back to her family, let us say our goodbyes. Remember her with honor, but remember her as she was.” And she begins the strange keening pain-cry of humans, her eyes sparkling with tears in that way the Kith find strange and oddly beautiful - few other species shed tears - but know better than to comment on. “My sister wouldn’t have wanted a place in history, especially not one earned by your callousness.” She makes the strange gesture of aggression that humans sometimes make, a bit like their gesture of indication but with a different finger extended. The crew have seen it used in all manner of situations, from playful banter to outright rage.

This is outright rage.

As Alexis’s sister collects her body, the crew gathers to talk. The events of the death are incomprehensible to them. Al’ara, the ketian pilot who’d found the body, carefully examines the cabin. No signs anyone else was there. No signs of struggle.

Shyly, for fear of being rude, the crew decides to ask a human about the mysterious night, and it’s then that they realize just how deeply their mistakes ran.

Humans’ bodies are tough, sure, but their minds are fragile as frost.

At first, the crew is baffled. What species could possibly have the capacity for self-annihilation? Why had it not evolved out millenia ago?

The human keens. Their eyes sparkle. Senseless as it may seem, this is all too real.

Suddenly, her strange actions make so much more sense. The times she’d refused to work despite being in perfect health. Her exhaustion and listlessness that didn’t have any physical cause. The times the crew had heard keening from her cabin. Even the strangely tidy blade scars that sometimes peeked out from her sleeves.

Fragile as frost, indeed.

The crew are at a loss. They caused this, they had been too worried about offending their captain to take basic care of her. Al’ara plucks feathers from their wings, the ones Alexis had often compared to the blue jays from her homeworld, and spends hours in meditation, sitting with their guilt and grief, learning to exist again. The quiet chanskir medic whose name no one could quite pronounce paints his scales silver-blue in mourning, singing low warbling dirges. Natreyen, with all the concern for his honor characteristic of mikali raised in traditional societies, turns himself in as a murderer.

It’s Alexis’s sister, of all people, who intervenes. “No,” she says, “you aren’t a murderer. You didn’t know any better. You did the best you could.”

“Lydia?” he asks. “You were so angry before. Why are you defending me now?”

“Because there is a difference between acknowledging your mistakes and turning them into deliberate crime. And because I was blinded with my pain that day. My heart hurt from losing my sister.”

“Then if I can’t give myself up to the law, how am I to make up for the stain on my honor? Deliberately or not, I caused a life to be wasted.”

Lydia kneels to match his height. One of her hands cups his ridged cheek, a gesture he recognizes as one of affection. “Learn, Natreyen,” she says. “Learn how to do better next time.”

Natreyen is so stunned he can only bow deeply. Lydia has spared his life, given him the second chance so few mikali would ever consider. 

Luckily, she knows how to make this official, make his people recognize his redemption instead of calling him a fugitive. She raises her hands above his head. “Natreyen, you have wasted a life, and debt must be paid,” she intones, in fluent Mikai, then places her hands on his back, lacing her fingers into the gaps in his carapace and scratching his soft skin. Gently, just enough to cause a slight prickle of pain. A token vengeance. “As the wronged, I declare before the Justicars of Honor that I am satisfied by this avenging. Go forth and improve yourself.”

Her hands unlace from his carapace, and the rite is complete. In the eyes of his kin, Natreyen’s soul is no longer burdened by killing.

He resolves to go forth and learn, as Lydia instructed him.

He begins by investigating what Lydia had meant by her heart hurting, by being blinded by pain. They’re uniquely human concepts; no other Kith species has phrases that quite match those. And so, dread settling in the pit of his abdomen, he decides to ask Lydia.

His fears are quickly relieved when she isn’t offended by the questions, and the answers turn out to be a bit more literal than he was expecting. Uniquely among the known Kith, humans can feel emotional responses as physical sensations, rather than having separate nerve reactions for mental and physical stimuli. When Alexis died, Lydia experienced her grief as physical pain, and that led her to lash out in anger instead of calming herself. This part, Natreyen understands. It’s difficult to think when you’re in pain.

The crew’s first attempts at making their ship human-friendly go poorly. Making sure humans couldn’t be around weapons unsupervised gets dismissed by Lydia as treating the symptoms instead of the problem. Painkillers, to keep humans levelheaded when distressed, would only cause more problems in the long run. 

Finally, Natreyen realizes what he’s been doing wrong. The task isn’t to human-proof what’s already there, but to add things that were lacking. Human crew members would need shorter work hours and more mental stimulation. More variety in food would also help. Companionship would be a must, and Lydia recommends a few types of animal that many humans are good at caring for. Communication with social groupmates would be invaluable. A specialist in human psychology wouldn’t go amiss, either.

Sure, running a human-friendly ship would be more work, but most humans were happier in groups. A larger crew would be just another way of making the ship more hospitable to these strangely tough yet fragile Kith.

Several flights, five humans, two cats, and more shenanigans than Natreyen cared to remember later, everything seems to be going well.

Then he feels a sharp pain in his fetlock.

He looks down and sees that someone has attached a knife to one of the cleaning robots. Without a second thought, he removes the knife and pages the rest of the crew to ask how it had ended up there.

The humans are devastated to hear of the knife’s removal, claiming that Natreyen had “killed Stabby”. Apparently the idea of taping a knife to a cleaning robot had been a running joke on their planet since before they’d ever met the rest of the Kith, and in Stabby’s half hour of existence the humans had grown attached to him.

Natreyen remembers Lydia’s voice in the Chamber of Justice. I am satisfied by this avenging. Her nails on his back, pricks of pain without any true harm.

He gets an idea.

“Al’ara,” he asks, “would you fetch a butter knife from the mess hall?”

She flies off to get one, and he taps on a remote to recall the robot that had been turned into Stabby. It trundles up to his feet, waiting.

Al’ara returns with the knife, and Natreyen tapes it to the robot, exactly where its old knife had been. “Will this do?” he asks the humans.

Their cheers are enough of an answer. He taps the remote again, commanding the newly resurrected Stabby to return to cleaning. Everyone is satisfied, and he dismisses the meeting.

Little does he know, Stabby will one day be the general of the entire Kith fleet, at least as far as humans are concerned. Something about it gaining the rank of anyone it hit...