#and everyplace else

[tigresslanzhu]

After The Events Of The Diversion

Meena: [rubbing her toes from her too tight flats] Mr. Moon, if I wasn’t such a good girl, I would strangle you right now! That was very embarrassing!

Nooshy: Who says you can’t strangle someone once and still be a good girl?

Meena: My junior high principal.

A quick warning, if you are uncomfortable with the topic of woman being harassed in the workplace for one reason or another, you do not want to read this fanfic. It’s an issue I take seriously and I really wanted to highlight it a little here.

[tanoraqui]

the great thing about a Malevolent post-canon where Faroe is alive again is that there is no way Arthur “Mansplain Manipulate Murder” Lester is going to tell her that he let her die by parental criminal negligence. As far as Faroe, age 3, knows, she got very sick and they moved so she’d get better, which is why everyone and everyplace is different now (moved) and she doesn’t remember it changing (was sick). Her nearly nightly horrendous nightmares [being dead is not pleasant] are also from being sick.

By the time Faroe is 9 or so, she’s guessed that she probably wasn’t normal sick. Maybe she wasn’t “sick” at all—maybe she was kidnapped! Her dad catches bad guys who kidnap people, sometimes. Most importantly, it almost certainly had to do with Secret Horrible Monsters, like John except of course John isn’t a monster, he’s a person who happens to not have a body. Faroe’s pretty smart; she knows without being told that it’s all tangled together: her sickness and her nightmares (which definitely still happen, though less often—the human brain is amazingly adaptable) and them leaving Arkham and John joining her dad in their body and detective agency.

(For the nightmares: Faroe spends most nights sleeping in the same bed as her dad, either curled up tight against his side or literally on top of him. This way, if she’s half-asleep and terrified, she feels his warmth and his arms around her and knows that she’s here and not anywhere Else—and Arthur can fall asleep knowing that she’s here, breathing and warm. And if she wakes up all the way, he can murmur poetry or sing lullabies until she falls asleep again, grounding and comforting…or John can, even while Arthur is asleep, because Faroe came back just a little hit wrong can hear him just like she can hear a normal human. Faroe and John are swiftly in a cahoots to let Arthur sleep when they can, so he’s somewhat well-rested and doesn’t worry quite so much about Faroe.)

Of course, at some point in her tweens, Faroe’s life get endangered, probably because she tries to jump into one of Arthur’s PI cases and that’s just…not a safe place for anyone…and they have a fight that culminates in Arthur shouting something like, “Because I can’t lose you again, Faroe! I let you die once, and I can’t—”

But Faroe has already concluded that her “sickness” was because of Mysterious and Terrible Eldritch Things, and she knows���firsthand, right now!—that those are potentially lethally dangerous. So she immediately leaps to “Dad failed to save my life from Terrible Monsters in the course of his & John’s first adventure; maybe that’s what started it.” And Arthur…does not correct her. Because that’s an infinitely more heroic sequence of events, and he’s a coward. John also doesn’t correct her, because he’s long-since agreed to let Arthur handle this question on his own.

The King in Yellow himself eventually tells her, when she’s 18 or so and already fighting with her father for, well, mostly reasons of being an 18-year-old woman in the 1950s. As previously mentioned, this goes badly for literally everyone involved, though for a while in the middle the King is having a great time.

[narcolini]

white room - pt.4

johnny davis x gn!reader, 18+, canon typical themes and language, 3.9k words, 4 of ? ao3 link | previous part a/n: thankyou for all the comments so far, it's really keeping this whole thing alive <3 <3 (gif credit to @hausofmamadas ! )

After that, the dates don’t feel like dates no more. Sorta feels like you’re just a part of it, part of him, part of the day and the routine, you know? Which you like as much as you don’t, cause seeing him so much is real nice—and it’s nearly every day sometimes. But you’d still like to go out and do things together too, nice things, the way people do when they’re still trying to win each other. 

How it’s working now, is Johnny’ll show up some time—meaning after work, or after dinner, or after it’s gone dark and you shouldn’t be accepting visitors at all, but you do, cause it’s only him, you know—without the least bit of warning, and he’ll ask if you wanna go someplace. And someplace is either that bar you and him have sorta made into your bar, from that one night that time, or sometimes someplace is everyplace, cause he likes just riding round with you. Likes cutting through the night with you on the back. And you gotta say, those one’s are nice ones, cause it lets you shut everything off, which you figure is the same thing he likes about it.  

But if you’re really honest, most times, you don’t even get off the front porch.

He comes over just to sit right there with you, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like he pays part of the upkeep or something. Some days it’s like maybe a few minutes, other days, it’s closer to a couple hours. Always with no requests, no offers, just, "You got a minute?" And you say, "yeah, for you I got ten," cause, well, you’re kinda starting to feel like need it. Like you’d sleep funny if you didn’t get to see him, even just for a little while. 

What you think it is, cause it happens so often, and real routine, you know, every Tuesday and Thursday and Sunday, you’re thinking he’s stopping by before going to one of them club meetings. Comes over just to see you, cause he knows he’s got no time for nothin else, so it’ll have to do. And believe it or not, sometimes he’s even got a couple of guys with him, but they carry on while he’s parking up, not waving bye to him or nothin, so it makes no difference really. 

Then Johnny gets off, and takes a coffee when you offer it to him, and sits on the step when you got a perfectly good bench on the porch, and you sit right there next to him. Just talking and stuff. Saying lots without really saying much; small talk that’s a little sweet and a little boring, too. How’s your day, you know, what you been up to.

Funny enough, more often than not, his days are just as boring as yours are. Just bikes and trucks and roads with nothing much else on them. Occasionally, he’ll have a little sort of gossip on someone, like Corky pissing Wahoo off about something, but by the time you see him next, they’ve already gone right back to being best buddies, and Johnny’s got nothin more to say about it. 

But you like to hear whatever he’s got to give, boring work stuff or not, cause then it means you’re even, you know? You can go on and on about the office and he’s got to mean it when he says he don’t mind hearing about it, cause you mean it when you say it back to him, right?

When he’s done talking, he sets the empty mug down and says, see ya, Lips, and then sometimes he kisses you, and sometimes he don’t, and you watch him ride off like he’s already got you down with a mortgage and a ring and everything else that would have a person waving him off like that. You don’t mind so much. About the kisses, or the little talks you guys have. It’s just like stopping for gas, you figure. He’s only there to fill himself up before he goes back into that wolf den, and if it’s you he’s filling up on, well, that’s more of a compliment than anything else he’s ever said to you. 

“You’ve got this thing,” he said one time, “this thing about you that makes me feel like I’ve slept a whole week just from being here.”

And you said, “That’s those new coffee beans I got,” pointing to the ‘I heart Chicago’ mug he was cradling. 

“I’m serious.”

But you were too. “No one’s ever thought I’m anything but real tiring,” you said.

“They tell you that?”

“In some way or another.”

“Well, they’re wrong, alright? S’not like that for me.”

Feels crazy to say so, but from the look of him when he arrives, and the look of him when he gets back on that bike to leave again, then sure, it really seems like he's telling the truth. You’re winning out over coffee and a night in bed, somehow.

Before you can even notice it, a whole month goes by, and it’s all cause of Johnny.

His little porch-side pit stops make one day go flying on into the next, and the next, and so on, and stuff. Then all of a sudden, you’re telling him about the signet ring that was your Pop's—so that’s why you wear it on your thumb like that—and telling him about the year you worked in Minnesota—cause that's where your grandparents lived—and you sort of do kinda tell him about Mom, but not really. Cause that would tire him out, no matter how flattering he’s trying to be. 

Somewhere in that month he starts saying things about his kids, and Betty too, that you never really thought he’d ever say to you—cause why would he, you know? There's somethings even you wouldn’t ask about. But he comes by so often, it ends up coming out of him in one conversation or another, and before you know, it’s been a while. A real note-worthy type of while. And Johnny Davis has kinda sorta become your Johnny, as much as you’ve become his, in a lazy porch step kind of way. And you feel like you know him almost. Like he’ll stick around, and you will too.

There he comes again now, see, turning down your street right as you put the coffee pot on. You don’t drink it after work, or ever really, but he does. For the meetings, like you said. So it works better to have it ready for him. Mrs Saccone don’t even bother knocking no more, cause his bike’s cutting up the quiet more often than it’s not, and you reckon she got all tired of lifting up the broom like that. Or she got over it, you know, like she realised he ain’t the trouble she thought he was.

Johnny says it’s cause he saw her once and said hello, all polite and charming, so now she likes him. Yeah. Sure, you said, couldn’t be that she’s eighty something, you know, and can only bang a broom on a wall so much. Plus, she don’t like anyone that ain’t related to her, but, eh, if Johnny wants to think he’s wooed her then it’s whatever. Both of them are fine about it, or at least not causing some sort of neighbourhood war for you, so who cares?

“Hey Johnny.” 

You’re already out waiting for him by the time he’s outside, cause you hear the engine long before you can see him, and he pulls up over the driveway that never gets any use no more. He don’t shut the bike off like he usually does, though. Just sits there with it running under him, feet flat either side of it. 

He nods at you greeting him, then says, “Wanna go for a ride?”

So it’s one of those days. A Wednesday, you remember. 

“Where to?”

He shrugs, and he looks real tired today, now that you’re looking at him proper. His eyebrows all low and lazy over his eyes. “Nowhere,” he says.

Well, that’s good enough for you. “Alright,” you tell him, “as long as nowhere leads somewhere that sells some bread. I’m all out.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Gimme a sec.”

These days, you’re on the back of that thing like you know how to drive one yourself. So quick and professional about it, Johnny don’t even have to help you up no more. Just trusts that you can climb on and off all by yourself, and that you know when to lean and squeeze your knees, and all that other riding stuff too. Which you figure must be nice for him now, cause it means he don’t gotta worry about anything other than the road. 

Before you got the hang of it, he said he was always thinking you might come flying off one day, right up over his shoulder onto the concrete. You told him, you never knew that was a thing that could happen in the first place, but it was too late to be nervous about it by then cause you were already used to it, you know? So he got lucky with that one. Any earlier and you’d’ve said you’re not going no where fuckin near that thing, whether he was romancing you, or not. 

Tonight, you’re going for miles before Johnny shows any real sign of stopping. All the way out of town, and then some, right into the crap that lies in the dirt between home and the next one over. When he does, the sun’s only barely clinging on over the top of the horizon, which must be why he’s picking now to pull over someplace, cause if he waits too long it’ll be dark, and cold. Though, you never notice the cold when you’re out riding no more, not like you did that first time, cause when you’re wrapped right up in the warm of him that’s all you can focus on. But he’s forgotten his gloves today, and his hands will sure complain about that once the sun's gone. 

He’s picked some little row of storefronts that you’ve never seen before, rolling into the lot with his bike in neutral. Not firing or purring or anything, just cruising in, real slow, with one hand on the bars and the other on his thigh. 

And you know why he’s done it, cause one of the storefronts has a big stack of grocery looking crates sitting outside of it, and everything else that might suggest it’s a place that’s selling bread, but you can tell it’s closed before he even puts the brakes on. Lights off, blinds down. You get off and have a look through the window just in case, like the guy might be in there behind the counter still, but nope. It’s as empty as it looks.

And when you go back to Johnny, he seems real sorry about it. Like he could’a known.

He’s got his bike parked up and quiet now. Got it standing slanted on that little stand that don’t look like it can really hold the weight of the thing, let alone that and Johnny, who’s leaning against the lean of it, too. Two big hunks of stuff on one little arm. 

“Guess I’m not taking lunch tomorrow,” you tell him. Which you regret as soon as you do, cause then he looks like he feels even worse about it, wincing a little, and you were only saying something just to say it.

“I might have some at my place,” he says, more like an apology than a real offer of anything. “I guess we could stop by on the way back.”

You wave him off. “Don’t worry about it.” 

There’s this sandwich place by your work, which you like more than any other sandwich place you’ve ever been to, and you never really have any excuse to go there, so in a way this is a blessing, you know. No bread, what a shame. Bologna and extra cheese please. 

“We gotta think of some other place to go now,” you say, messing with the loose thread in your jacket pockets, while Johnny messes with the cigarette he’s not bothering to light yet. 

Probably planned on smoking it while you were in there shopping. Now he’s just tapping the end of it on his thigh, then flicking it round, and tapping with that end too. Which is a little more fidgety than he usually is, now that you’re thinking about it. 

“Did something happen today?” you ask him, cause no matter how he tries to fix his face, it never looks right. Looks like his mind's somewhere three miles behind you in the road still, and with the tapping, and the tiredness. Yeah, you don’t need to be one of those brain doctor guys to work it out. You don’t even need to know him the way you do. Any Joe could look at him and think something was up, some way or another. 

“Something like what?” he says.

You wait some more. You’re not feeling like knocking around the bush about it.

“S’okay,” he goes on. “Just somethin’, some trouble the other day. Last week. Still sitting on my mind a little, is all.”

Which is a long time for anything to be sitting on it, and you saw him two days ago, but he looked fine and said nothin about it then. So he’s either lying, or real good at hiding things, until he can’t hide them no more. “Wanna talk about it?” you ask.

He shakes his head.

“Wanna talk about it in a way that’s not really talking about it?”

He puffs a big breath out of his nose, then his head goes back and away like you’re bothering him, or something. “Come on,” he says. “No is no, you know how it is.”

But sometimes how it is and how it should be aren’t really working out, you know, and today you’re feeling like reminding him of that.

You move forward until you’re standing right in front of him, and cause he’s sitting and leaning the way he is, that means he’s looking up at you now. And with his legs crossed at the ankles the way they are, they’re going straight between your knees like some big lazy bean pole. Which you figure puts him right where you want him.

“You know you don’t always have to keep me in one hand, and club stuff in the other,” you say. Which is what this is really all about, if he felt like saying so. “I can mix with anythin and anyone, Johnny.”

“I know that.” He rubs a palm down over his face, then shrugs and says, “But I don’t want you mixing with it.”

“Why not?”

“Cause it’s not—you don’t need all that.”

“I think I do.” Cause he is all of that, not just cause he’s club president, but because he’s Johnny, and the club, the guys, it’s all a part of him—and yeah, sure, you’re really starting to need him, alright, which means needing all of that, too. “I can handle it.”

His face pinches a little like he might’ve stood on something sharp. “You don’t even know what you’re asking for.”

“Oh, like you and Brucie are running some big scary gang or something. Come on, Johnny.”

You’ve not met Brucie yet, not properly, but from what Johnny says, he’s as normal as anyone. An electrician that helps him count dues and wire up telephones. Johnny’s right hand and best friend, it’s cute, yeah, and no different from anyone else they run about with. Whatever he’s painting to try and scare you off, you’re not buying it. You might’ve in that pizza place that one time, but now? 

He sighs, looking even more tired than he was when you started pecking at him. “It’s not…it’s just things you got no interest in, you know. Stuff you don’t wanna waste your time on.”

“How’d you reach that conclusion?”

His chin flicks up. “Well, look at you."

And you do, you look down your front and your jeans and the boots you never wore until you started riding with him. “What? I need to buy a leather jacket first?”

When he laughs, you can tell that he wishes he didn’t, but he can’t help it as much as you can’t stop your mouth from saying the things it does sometimes. 

“You know, my mom’s on some crazy pilgrimage right now,” you say. 

Then Johnny does what anyone would do and says, “What?” like you started speaking a different language mid-sentence.

“Yeah, said she was going to San Francisco for a little while, to see some guy and learn some yoga, or something. But now she’s in Europe, trying to be one of them, I don’t know, sort of spiritual guide people, and going place to place looking for something she can’t even explain to me.” You clear your throat from the little frog in it. “Which isn’t the point,” you say.

His head shakes like he’s lost. “What is the point?” he asks, impatient in a kinda charming, sort of irritating way. 

“The point is, she’s a funny sort of person, and before she was doing all that, when I was a kid, you know, she was always moving us about and stuff. Always dragging me along with her when I was too small to be doing things like that.” You fold your arms and Johnny don’t say nothin, so you carry on a little. “We were going all over the country, near enough, and staying with all sorts of people that I never saw more than once.”

He frowns. “What for?”

“You’d have to ask her that yourself.” Cause you and her got a real sweet understanding lately, one that means you don’t ask her why, just as long as she don’t make you feel bad for not wanting to do what she wants anymore. Best sort of deal you two have ever come up with. “All I’m saying is, I saw some real weird shit before I even learned how to read eight letter words. And I bet you not one thing about that club of yours would surprise me. Or scare me, or whatever it is.”

He nods slow like he’s thinking about it. Which you figure is him being nice, cause he’s probably only nodding to buy him time to work out what to say when a person says something like that, admitting something personal that no-one likes hinting at, you know. Like Moms not being very good moms when they ought to have been. Like kids not getting to be kids, and stuff.

“See, I’m not worried about that part,” he says. 

Well. That sweeps you right off your feet almost, cause you figured that was his whole deal. “You’re not?”

One of his hand wanders up your leg til it’s sitting on your hip, with his thumb through the belt loop there. “I’m thinkin, you’re gonna take a look at one of those guys and realise you picked the wrong one,” he says. “Ugliest one you could’ve,” he says.

Which is a load of hot, steaming horse crap. So you laugh, and he’s looking at you that way he does when he gets you to throw your head back like that.

“Don’t do that when I’m being serious,” you tell him, trying to stop yourself from smiling, but not really stopping at all. 

“Who’s not being serious?”

“What is it really?”

“Just what I said,” he insists. But he’s smirking in his eyes so you know that he’s lying.

“Johnny,” you say.

“Benny,” he says back.

You stop. “What?”

“That’s what it is,” he says, “I don’t want you meeting him.”

Suddenly this guy's a real comic, who knew? You prod a finger into the meat of his shoulder, scoffing at him. “I took you for a lot of things, Johnny, but I never took you for a man who’s gonna worry about losing out to someone like that. Benny or no Benny.”

That hand on your hip squeezes you a little, and pulls you in closer than you already are. “Yeah?” he says, smiling cause you’re feeding his ego now, and you don’t mind one bit about doing it.

“None of those guys are even my sort,” you tell him. “Wouldn’t pay them no mind, even if you never existed.”

At that, he kisses you in a way that feels like a reward, though you can’t figure out which one of you’s is winning. It’s all short and sweet and soft against those lips of his, and just when you're thinking like he might take it somewhere further, cause his hand’s sliding round to the back of you, he pulls away and looks right into your eyes. And you’re so close together, you’re sorta going cross-eyed to look back at him. 

“You really wanna get involved?” he asks.

“Yeah, I really do.” 

“Even if it’s not pretty, or whatever?”

“Even if it’s the ugliest thing in the world,” you say. “M’tired of only getting half of you.” 

He nods, and it’s so slight you wouldn’t have even noticed if his chin didn’t budge against yours, stubble scratchy and forgiven for it. “Alright, then.” 

You lean back to put some air and sense between the two of you. “Really?

“If it’s what you want,” he says, like it was always that easy.

Yeah, it’s what you want, you tell him, in a sort of a way. In a kind that has that little bike stand screaming for help kinda way. Kissing him so much, he don’t know whether to push you back, or lie down on that seat and let it all happen. 

And then that’s that, you guess, flood gates lifted. You get to know about club stuff, as long as Johnny don’t mind you knowing, and he don’t seem so reluctant to have them meeting you no more. On the way home, he’s even telling you which ones of them you’ll like, which ones you’ll not like so much, and which ones you don’t need to bother getting to know at all—and you figure that means they’re a real extreme version of one of those other two categories, so you listen real close to that part. 

You don’t ever find out what was getting him looking tired that way, not really, but he does say they’re opening a new chapter now, after some debating about it. Which sounds like something that’d be a real headache to sort out, so you figure that must’a been it. 

It’s also how you find yourself invited to one of those picnics of theirs, whatever that means. The first one where this chapter and Milwaukee’s chapter are all getting together, a real big one, apparently. So naturally you says you wanna go and Johnny says alright. Alright, you know. 

Pick you up early next Saturday, he says, cause apparently you gotta ride for a while, and these things go from when the first bike arrives til the last one leaves again. Johnny’s gotta be there for all of it, of course—and you’ve just fixed yourself to the back of him like one of those old reliable saddlebags of his—so you gotta be there too. And, well, you’re really sort of excited about it.

>>>>> part five

~~~~~~~~~~

taglist: @garbinge @drabbles-mc @raven-black102 @lyralu91 @hoodeddreams13 @businesscalamity

[umeoniii]

aot women beige flags!

٩( 'ω' )و

mikasa, hange, annie, sasha, ymir, pieck

~

mikasa:

☆ gets super sick easily

and these sicknesses literally beat her ass

she just has a super weak immune system

can go out one time then when she comes back home she’s literally stuck in bed like it’s her dying days.

a common cold for her is like the plague

it seems as if she’s an old victorian child lying in her bed asking her mother for bread and water.

☆ somehow physic

not so much now, it’s not like she has powers

but she has a ‘6th sense’ and she can tell when something bad is going to happen

first time she did it you thought she was joking around

but then she was right because the building next to you caught fire (cooking error…)

you were totally scared of her after that bcs what if she was behind it

then you forgave her (she did nothing wrong?) and tried to convince her to give you a fortune

then she proceeded to tell you that’s not what the sixth sense is for

hange:

☆ really likes playing games

hanges a sore loser though.

this is super funny

super competitive with stuff like board games and video games. and she takes it seriously.

when she loses she takes it to heart.

she’ll throw a temper tantrum and get upset and everything.

she’ll do anything to win as well. cheats and switches the game all she wants, especially when she’s actually winning. but when you try to do it it’s all “no no that’s not how you play!”

you DO NOT want to play uno with hange. enough said

☆ makes impressions of people in public.

let’s say you’re in the car parked and you see a couple sitting on the bench talking.

she’ll give them names and make a voice and act what she thinks is their conversation.

it’s far funnier than it sounds.

if she sees a couple and their friend,

“eh barbra? i didn’t know you were gonna invite your annoying friend, you know how much i hate her!” she’d snicker while staring at the three people

and there’s actually times where you hate it bcs of how unserious she acts.

sometimes she would invite you along to voice someone else

and she would just sit and laugh like it’s the funniest thing ever!

annie:

☆ bargain queen

has coupons for everything in the whole wide world

she has all the apps for everyplace she goes so she’ll get some kind of deal.

her total at the grocery store would go from $135 to $80 bcs she’s a diehard user of coupons

she makes u use them as well and stuffs some in your wallet

she’s a karen for these things as well

if the price tag says it’s ‘$3.12’ then it’s ‘$3.12’ whether the seller says “well that’s last weeks price”

she’ll say “well maybe you should’ve changed it, how would the manager feel if i told them you’re not doing youre job?”

and she’d get it for $3.12

☆ greets an animal before she greets a person

if she seems someone she knows walking their dog she won’t even look at them let alone speak to them

she’ll crouch and pet the dog and start baby talking to them before she gets up and says something to the walker

she actually likes animals a lot

more than ppl

she’d have some kind of shirt displaying that as well

“im more of a dog person than a people person”

sasha:

☆ cant stay on track in a conversation

she could be talking to you about something she heard about someone. then she’ll be like, “speaking of her i remember when me and her went out for these awesome burgers.”

THEN she’ll say “wait because i was actually contemplating going vegan…. what do you think?”

the whole convo switches topics every 2 minutes or so.

you get so confused as to how the conversation went from work drama to when she thinks the world is going to end.

☆ takes the first bite of your food

it’s an unspoken rule.

she doesn’t even say “to test it for poison” she just does it because she wants

trying something new? she gets the first bite. you haven’t ate all day? she still gets the first bite. it’s your favorite food in the whole wide world? two words: first. bite.

and it’s not even a small bite, it’s the BIGGEST chomp she could take.

you’ve gotten so used to it that you don’t care. you just shove it in her face.

because if you were being honest if she just suddenly stopped you’d be concerned and sad.

ymir:

☆ cannot take some things seriously

she could be out w you at a restaurant and see this waiter’s name on their tag

“gaylord”

it’s not even pronounced “gay lord” but “gaylerd”

she’ll turn around and start hysterically laughing she doesn’t even care that the waiters right there

you can tell her a story from work or something that’s completely serious and she’ll still laugh no matter what

☆ lies out of her ass for no reason

you could tell her you tried some cool new exotic food and she’ll be like

“oh i had that when i was 5 and i almost died because i’m allergic to the spices in it”

and it’s kind of obvious it’s a lie but you don’t even say anything bcs she rides hard to defend herself and say it’s the truth

she’ll even go as far as editing photos and calling other people so it would be more believable

she sometimes doesn’t even lie to be funny but just out of habit

these aren’t bad kind of lies and she tells the truth when needed but she still b lyin..

pieck:

☆ cannot save money for her life

she can put aside some money for important stuff and it would be gone in a flash

worst part is the money is wasted on totally useless stuff

like finger puppets

what are you gonna do with finger puppets when you’re stranded for miles?

tries harder to not let it happen

then it happens again and she tries to justify it by saying that maybe a corn butterer was a great investment

(it wasn’t)

☆ can sleep anywhere at anytime

we all know this don’t we…

but it’s horrible

restaurants, floor, toilet

she could probably go to sleep in the club if she’s tired enough

she doesn’t look dead when she sleeps (unlike connie)

she looks very calm whether she’s in a deep sleep or taking a power nap

and she probably gets a decent amount of sleep at night, she just naps bcs… she wants to?

♡

a/n: at least 3 of these stories are actually real things i’ve faced with friends and family LOL so this is so funny to me. some of these aren’t even beige flags and are lowkey hcs, let’s just pretend alr!

[metalcultbrigade]

Motörhead - "The Wörld Is Ours - Vol. 1: Everywhere Further Than Everyplace Else" 18/11/2011

[neeksparksg]

Dear Diary

Diary Entry #1

Dean’s gone.

I thought writing it down would make it feel real, but I still can’t grasp it. He’s gone. No more late-night talks about nothing, no more smirks, no more stupid arguments about who takes the last slice of pie. He’s just… gone. And it’s my fault. I should have been the one to keep him here. I should’ve done something to stop him from making that deal. I failed him.

And now… it’s just me and Sam. But I barely recognize him anymore. He’s closed off, distant, like he’s carrying some massive weight that he won’t share with me. I want to reach out, to tell him we’re in this together, but he won’t even look at me the same way.

I can tell he’s hiding something., the times he slips away without saying where he’s going. I hate it, the way he pretends like nothing is wrong, the long nights wondering where he went, I hate how it seems he doesn’t trust me anymore. What did I do wrong? What a stupid question, I know what I did wrong, I let our brother die

I can feel him slipping through my fingers. I try to talk to him, to make him see that I’m here, that we’re still family. But he just nods, his eyes somewhere else, his mind somewhere that I can’t reach. It’s like talking to a wall sometimes. And when he does respond, he’s cold, almost detached. It’s as if he’s filled himself with anger and grief, and he won’t let me in.

 this is all because of me. I let Dean sell his soul. I let him go to Hell. When it should’ve been me And now Sam’s the one paying the price, and I don’t know how to help him.

Every night, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering what I could have done differently. Dean’s face haunts me, that smile he flashed right before he told us not to worry. It was a lie. He knew he was leaving us with this broken, impossible world. And Sam—God, Sam is breaking right in front of me, and I can’t do anything to stop it.

I just want my family back. But it feels impossible now, with Dad and Dean gone I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending everything will be okay.

---

Diary Entry #2

Sam’s gone.

I keep repeating it to myself, but it feels like the words are hollow, empty. Like they don’t really mean anything because my mind can’t wrap around the truth. Sam. My little brother. He’s gone, locked away with Lucifer and he’s not coming back.

Dean’s with Lisa and Ben now. he’s finding peace, a chance at the life he deserves. He’s trying so hard to be normal, to be happy. I tell him I’m fine, that I’ll be okay, but the truth is, I’m not. It’s like my entire world has crumbled, and I’m the last one left standing in the ruins.

I tried to be normal. I gave it a shot—got a job, sat in a coffee shop, smiled at strangers, even had a drink or two with someone who looked like they could be my type. But every time I laughed or tried to pretend, this emptiness guilt ate me from the inside. I didn’t deserved to be normal.

So here I am, back on the road, chasing monsters, hoping maybe if I keep busy enough, the pain will numb itself. I hunt, I move, I don’t let myself stop because if I do, I’ll start thinking. Thinking about the look on Sam’s face when he let lucifer inside, knowing he was giving up everything, knowing he was leaving me and Dean alone. The way he looked at me, like he was apologizing for something he didn’t need to apologize for. I kept thinking how much suffering he must be enduring, angels haven’t proven to be merciful and now he is locked with two of the strongest ones

I keep wondering if maybe there was something else I could’ve done. But he’s gone. And the thought of never hearing his voice, of never sharing another stupid, pointless conversation with him—it’s like a part of me was buried with him. I can’t make it stop hurting.

I’ve tried everything, I’ve searched in everyplace I could think of, but there is nothing on how to bring him back, I even tried calling Castiel, but he never answered, Sam is truly gone

And I’m here, surrounded by strangers and towns that all start to look the same. And I wonder if this is all that’s left for me now—a life of hunting, of empty motel rooms. The only thing that feels familiar is the hunt, the sting of bruises, the rush of adrenaline. At least out there, facing down monsters, I don’t feel like I’m the only one haunted by ghosts. I feel like I can actually do something good

Maybe one day, I’ll find a way to stop, to live without looking over my shoulder. But for now, this is all I know.

[kcrossvine-art]

ok hi question; for anyone else who works professionally as a stagehand, do you actually call these

by their name? truss clamps?

everyplace ive ever worked at has called them baby arms "pass me the baby arms" "we need more baby arms on this pole" "can you get the baby arm box" etc etc

[exosorcery]

KELDEORIN'YAA WORD OF THE DAY

KIV - CHILD, YOUNGLING

I am a teacher. I think it shows sometimes.

So, hear me out...

Kel' Dor infants are incubated in a marsupial-like brood-pouch for 4 months till they emerge in what is called their "Emergence Celebration." (They actually hatch in the brood-pouch). There was a time when the eggs were taken out and incubated (in the distant past). On their inimical world though, this proved too dangerous for the offspring (Momma Kel'Dors are EXTREMELY protective).

Sometimes (due to marsupiod trauma of some sort like a bump/ massive jarring/trauma to the mother) a little one will opt to delay emergence. I say "opt," because in adulthood many of these children will tell you that is exactly what they did. They needed some more time of empathic safety and quiet space, till Momma could telepathically coax them out. Her body is so closely intertwined with theirs (with not one BUT TWO umbilicus - one for waste and one for sustenance) that only when the child consents are the cords detatched - and Baby emerges to see what's for lunch.

Poor Momma gets pretty big when this happens, as you would expect - but not as big as you might think (because Kel' Dors stay pretty small to fit while they're in there, and then undergo a MASSIVE growing spurt when they're out). However -

Their growth spurt is not as extreme. instead, they take their time as much with that as anything else. As they grow there are telltale signs in their morphology. Their heads are larger, with smaller eyes, taller craniums and lower-set kolmi (sensory horns... Levin'yaa, as some other races call them). They are thinner than other kids but have a ravenous appetite when they eat. They are hyper-sensory and start at the smallest things... particularly auditory stimuli (it has been put forth that in some cases there may be a sensory sensitivity issue at play with these kids - and they are born having a hard time with noise. This has not been conclusively proven). Mentally, they are typically sharp as a tack and often mathematically inclined (it is a fallacy that they experience universal mental delays). Eventually they catch up in all ways to their peers... and many very important Kel' Dor were in fact late-emergers in their infancy.

Plo Koon was one :)

This is an original character of mine who is a late emerger. Her name is TORN LI. She is beloved by her friends and peer group, and fiercely defended from bullies (yes- there are some. Like everyplace).

She is the math whiz who will happily help anyone with their homework, and loves her friends to a fault. She has issues with being hyper-sensory and is easily startled (she loves SIM the troublemaker, but HATES that he is noisy and shrinks whenever his loud voice is around).

I love that her world ADORES and supports these little ones and they all have kinds of advocates and emotional supports in their early life - from their momma and siblings, to the school system and their network of friends. It's really sweet.

( I have a story on the burner of the sometimes humorous form "emergence" takes if it happens, say, in a supermarket or a restaurant. It's kind of an ordeal... but a happy one for all involved. Stay tuned!)

Many thanks, as usual, to @plokoonsdisapprovingeyebrows for the terrific Keldeorin'yaa Conlang Dictionary, which you can find here:

keldeorinyaa conlang dictionary - Google Sheets

I love it - and you will too.

[jerzwriter]

tell us 5 boring facts about yourself!

thanks for tagging me @renninflight

I have dimples

I sing in the shower (and pretty much everyplace else)

I love fall (autumn)

I am a pen snob

Burgundy is my favorite color

That was fun. Tagging 5 people - but please, ANYONE, feel free to join!

@lilyoffandoms @storyofmychoices @alj4890 @angelasscribbles @dr-colossal-pita

[crisiscutie]

If you (or anyone else) would like some reassurance:

The Genesis stuff is trolling. They've been posting "leaks" with him doing that since 2022. The person on 4chan who started it has been debunked multiple times now. Now I've been scouring everyplace I can for a few days to find legitimate leaks. Most "leaks" I've come across are dubious at best. One possible ending I've uncovered had no proof or context behind it. It was simply a single 4chan post with no photo proof or follow-up.

Rumors are that leaks are currently available. But as far as I can tell, the most we've actually gotten is 1-2 pictures that have nothing to do with the ending and are questionable in terms of legitimacy. I don't think the actual ending has really been leaked at all yet. And while I think we might get something soon in the near future, I would not currently trust anyone who says they have an early copy. When even 4chan of all places isn't dumping huge spoilers and screencaps to ruin everyone's day, that means there's nothing major out online.

Since 2022? 🤦

And yep, I fully agree with this. There is nothing out here now. And one of the optimal (really few) sites for leaks to drop is on 4chan since they will be taken down FAST on most other sites. I'm betting there's such little quality control in the Rebirth threads atm, it'd be difficult to sift through the shitposting until an actual leak drops.

And like I said, even if something legit does drop within the next week, we won't fully understand the context until the game is officially released. I'm certain there will be a few things taken out of the context to make the fandom go bonkers.

[natalieironside]

Given the patreon bullshit, is there anywhere else I can automate throwing my wallet at you and yours?

Not that I know of. Everyplace else I know of uses paypal and/or won't let you cuss.

It's bleak out there

[saturdaynightlivedork]

In tribute to the CBS Sunday Morning host Charles Osgood, I’m sharing this story I wrote in the fall of 2018, asking where an elephant got his name.

The Emma with the Dilemma

Hello, and how are you? How are you today?

I send you this letter, for I have to say,

That I send you this letter to ask something great

I'm on pins and needles; oh, I cannot wait.

Marvin K. Mooney and Gertrude McFuzz,

They’d both be surprised at how happy I was.

I feel as glad as the Cat in the Hat,

I must ask you a question, a good one at that.

Now I know you will mark this letter as spam

Quicker than one can say “Green Eggs and Ham”—

But hear me out on this, oh, please do not fail

To listen to all of this mystical tale.

Not much long ago, in the Land of the Prowds,

There was a young maiden, her head in the clouds.

This young maiden (named Emma McRosebud McGlews)

Had her heart wholly taken by men of the news.

Walter Cronkite made her heart go quite crazy!

She’d swoon and she’d sigh at John Cameron Swayze!

She hopped up and down just as if there were bees in her

When she laid her eyes on the late Harry Reasoner.

And last, but not least, there was one more to mention.

A man who had captured her beyond comprehension.

Born on January eighth, nineteen thirty-three,

He was as wondrous as wondrous could be.

Well, he still is wondrous, since he’s still alive.

(Last January, he happened to turn eighty-five.)

He made it a great day, he made it a fun day,

When he’d saunter by every morning of Sunday.

The sun would be shining, a smile on its face,

And all would be right with the world, everyplace.

He had a sweet smile, and also brown eyes,

And, also, of course, quite a thing for bow ties.

But something else also chased off the blues,

From the mind of our Emma McRosebud McGlews,

You see, she loved beasts: beasts big and beasts small,

Beasts fat and beasts thin, beasts short and beasts tall.

She especially had a soft spot in her heart

For the great elephant, and it's not a small part.

She knew of one elephant who babysat

For a little bird egg, and not only that;

This elephant also saved all the Whos,

Which has earned him respect from our dear Miss McGlews.

But he’s not her most favorite elephant ever;

Not the reason for Emma's question most clever;

No, here is the reason I tell you this story:

She wants to ask you folks a question of glory:

On the sixteenth of August, nineteen ninety-nine,

There was born a great big baby boy, oh so fine,

Thirty-nine inches tall, forty-three long,

And two-hundred-fifty pounds, healthy and strong.

His father was Charlie—now this is a dilemma—

You see, this baby boy’s mom’s name was, too, Emma.

But that’s not the wonderful, magical part

(Though it's an amusing and cute little start);

'Tis the tip of the iceberg, yes, it is a joy;

But it's not the best thing about this baby boy.

This baby boy, he had nothing to lose,

At least not to Emma McRosebud McGlews...

He did not get his name immediately;

For there was a poll ‘twas conducted, you see.

Five names in the running, five names did begin;

But obviously, only one name could win.

“Barnum” and “Boomer” and “Webster” and “Petey” –

All were considered for this little sweetie.

But none of these four came out victorious.

No, he got the other name, which was much more glorious.

It brought to mind Sunday morn on CBS,

His name was "Osgood"—she has to confess.

Now, he might have been named for a clown known as Scott,

Who flew in the air in a sinister plot.

Scott Osgood toured with them two decades ago,

But he might be the reason, this Emma does know.

But a small part of Emma still has happy hope,

Gladder than soap back again with its rope,

That this handsome prince of great wisdom and size

Got his name from the man with the lovely bow ties,

Born on January eighth, nineteen thirty-three,

In the bitter, cold Bronx borough of NYC,

The bringer of joy and the fighter for good,

The wonderful man they call Charles Osgood Wood.

Now you know what has enchanted her so;

Now Emma must ask you, oh, Emma must know.

Did Osgood the elephant, of wisdom and size,

Get his name from the man with the lovely bow ties?

If he did, that’s so lovely; if not, that’s OK.

If you tell her, we know you will make Emma’s day.

[leebrontide]

Secondhand Origin Stories, Chapter 7

Here's this week's chapter! Reblogs welcome!

For those of you just joining us, I'm posting a chapter a week of my free near future scifi/low neon cyberpunk YA/NA novel, Secondhand Origin Stories, which has been described as

"-a character driven, compelling story full of family, queerness, corruption, brain altering nanites, secretly teen parenting AIs, and taking aspects of the superhero genre to their very human and rarely-explored natural conclusions."

For previous chapter index, content warnings and more, check here:

You can follow along by following #SHOSweekly

Chapter 7

For all her trials and tribulations, Jane Eyre never had to spar with seven-foot-tall future superheroes after hauling multiple huge antique armoires up and down three flights of stairs four days in a row. Opal had healing enhancement, but right now, she ached in her everyplace. She was glad sparring was over for the day. She could be very thankful for the opportunity and still wish she could montage her way through the training parts.

It would be an overstatement to say Opal had acclimated to the Sentinels or their ivory tower. She’d survived her first few lessons from Yael, but she wasn’t really sure how much she was learning. She was, at least, slowly acclimating to Yael and Jamie. 

Jamie, whose pale delicacy and understated intensity would have fit right into a Bronte novel, was arguing with Yael. “Solomon taught you tumbling when you were like five. You’re too good at it to teach it. You don’t even know what you’re doing. You just do it.” Opal couldn’t figure out now how she’d thought Jamie was 14. She was short, but even though she was thin, she wasn’t gangly. Plus, she was the sort of person who very seriously read multiple subscription news sites. Daily, apparently. 

Then there was Yael, who knew everything there was to know about being a superhero and who had just decided that Opal was an ideal candidate. She was generous, and had mystery written all over her. Opal hadn’t expected mysteriousness from someone in bright yellow Doc Martins, but there you had it.

Their ASL lessons were always in the greenhouse courtyard Opal had fallen completely in love with. It was bursting with fruits and flowers and little grottos, all ringed by identical closed doors. It really was just like being in a Gothic novel. Big, mysterious house, full of locked doors everyone else took for granted...And one of them led to a 20-story drop. Bizarre that Opal never actually saw any construction workers in the courtyard. Everything was kept out of sight, if not out of hearing. 

She knew now that it was Bion’s apartment that had been attacked, and a storage room downstairs was the only other room torn up. For the first time, it occurred to Opal to wonder where Bion actually was. A brief image of Lord Rochester's wife from Jane Eyre flashed into her mind. Driven mad, and locked all alone into an isolated room in a high tower…It was a head injury that had taken her out of the field, wasn’t it? Where did a brain-damaged superhero with prosthetic limbs that could fly and bend steel live? Did nursing homes take superheroes? 

Opal shook off the eerie feeling as Yael and Jamie settled into some of the egg-shaped hanging chairs in the courtyard, as per usual. Majestic as this courtyard was, Opal missed her community garden back home fiercely. She should be up to her elbows in strawberries right now. Here, she was surrounded by all sorts of tempting fruits, but they belonged to the tower families. And as kind as Jamie and Yael were, there was no question that Opal was an outsider.

“She should practice on me,” Jamie argued. 

“Wow. That is a terrible idea,” Yael answered flatly.

“It is not! I remember learning a little of this stuff. I know the basics.”

“You’ll snap in half.”

“I will not!”

Opal settled into another egg-shaped hanging chair. The familiarity of bickering siblings was a soothing counterpoint to her homesickness and morbid musings.

Yael sighed. “Jamie, you bruise like a banana.”

“Exactly. I bruise just finding my own bathroom at night. So why bother even trying to avoid it? Besides, she’s not going to throw-throw me. It’ll be in slow motion, with minimal bruising.”

It sounded reasonable, but. “Bruising you up seems like a pretty bad way to get on your folks’ good side,” Opal interjected apologetically.

Jamie waved this objection off. “They won’t even notice. I’ve always got random bruises. We just won’t mention it.” Co-conspirators again.  Yael glowered at the stone pavers under their feet.

That was tomorrow’s problem. “Hey, so is your brother joining us?” Opal asked. He hadn’t yet.

There was an unmistakable flicker of discomfort from them both. They glanced at each other. Jamie answered. “He’s still pretty banged up. He got a concussion, you know.” 

Yael picked at the edge of the hanging seat, rocking it restlessly. Opal noticed for the first time that the chairs were all hung at different heights, presumably to accommodate the serious height gaps in the residents. Someone had really put thought into the comfort of this space. “I’d rather we get started before him, anyways,” Yael added. “He knows more languages than any of us. I’m sure he’ll pick it up the fastest. We’ll need the head start.” 

It hurt how uncomfortable they were any time Issac even came up in conversation. As far as Opal could tell, deafness was the only permanent effect of his injuries. But people talked about it like he had a terminal illness. She really hoped that Issac and his parents would get in on the lessons eventually. She knew that far too few parents of deaf kids ever learned to sign. Auntie still didn’t get along with Grandpa because of it. 

Yael handled the subject change. “Do you have siblings?”

Opal grinned, digging out her phone. “I have a little sister.” She pulled up a picture, holding it out for them to see. “Shani’s twelve. She’s deaf, and super-fast with her signing. She got Daddy’s super-speed,” Opal laughed. “Even Auntie has trouble keeping up with her sometimes.”

Jamie sounded curious. “A deaf altered?”

“Sure. Just like my daddy. ...Dad. She’s got luminescence, and speed, but no super-strength or anything. She wants to be an EMT when she grows up, too. Just like him.” It was the perfect opening to ask, so she turned to Yael. “What about you? I mean, I saw…uhm…your powers…” Opal petered out. 

 All seven feet of Yael had gone rigid. Opal had overstepped. Not that Opal could blame her-- if Opal had inherited the superpowers of Ezekiel of the Heavenly Rule Line, she might not want strangers commenting on it, either. The APB guards weren’t surprised, though, so it wasn’t exactly a secret.

More like a conspiracy.

Backtracking was impossible, so Opal forged ahead gamely. “The silver stuff looked pretty cool. Like CGI, almost. More like movie superpowers than anybody I know.”

Yael blinked, studying Opal silently. She looked confused. Jamie regarded them both from within the pod of her chair.

 “Can you make ice out of thin air?” Opal blurted. She wanted to signal that she knew what it was without being weird about it. She’d call that a half-win.

“…Yes.” Yael answered slowly. “But not very much.”

“And heat resistance too, right? I thought I read that. That’d be really handy with cooking. No oven mitts, no grease burns-- way more useful than live-in Christmas lights,” she finished, gesturing at her own blinking, nervous hands. Just ignore the awkward, and maybe it’ll go away.

Yael opened her mouth, then closed it. “I never tried it.” Jamie was smiling, so Opal’s flailing reassurance had sort of come across, at least. Yael's broad shoulders slowly dropped back to a posture of relaxation, re-engaging. “You know, they weren’t supposed to be lights. They were supposed to deliver electrical shocks. Like Papa’s. Er-- like Helix.”

Opal blinked, tilting her head to the side. “Where did you hear that?”

Yael shrugged. “Jenna told me, I think. They used to give her and Melissa notes from altering events, so she was one of the people who figured out what was going on.” 

This was the APB all over. Opal wasn’t allowed complete access to her own medical records. Even her mom, who was a nurse, wasn’t allowed to see them. But it was idle gossip for the people the APB was cozy with. “Huh,” was all she said.

Jamie gripped the ropes of her low chair, leaning forward, voice low. “Yael, show her the other one.”

Yael chewed her lip, looking at Opal, hoping but hesitant. Opal leaned forward as well. A second power? So-- two altered parents, from different lines?

Yael stood, and looked over her shoulder, as if checking to see if anyone was around. Then looked back at Opal, then the floor, as if focusing. The shift was accompanied by a tiny noise that distracted Opal at first. Like a crinkling, but wet. It was barely on the edge of Opal’s hearing. The change was subtle, but the end effect was clear. “Oh! That’s why I thought you were a huge dude when I first met you! You were!”

Yael seemed a little bashful about the attention. “It’s helpful sometimes. It makes some people easier to deal with.”

Opal nodded. She tried to imagine flipping from girl to boy like that, and couldn’t.

Shape changing. So that meant-- Oh. Sure. Miriam. The other half of the South Dakota Uprising. Geez, what a family tree.

“Maybe we could learn the sign for ‘xe’?” Jamie suggested with a lean.

“Xe? Oh! Oh, that makes sense, huh? A pronoun that covers all your options. ASL doesn’t have gendered pronouns, though, so you’re all set.”

Yael's smile was hesitant, almost shy, and was interrupted by the nearest door opening.

They all turned to look. Obviously the shifting was less taboo than the silver stuff, since Yael didn’t switch back. Issac entered the courtyard, moving much better than he had been the last time Opal saw him. Yael, Jamie, and Opal may have been the ones discussing family taboos, but he grimaced as if he’d been caught.

Apparently he had. Yael hurried over to Issac at a pace that might not have technically been a run, but seemed like one because of her-- xyr long legs. “Issac! You’re just in time!”

He put up his hands, palms forward at first, then with the backs forward, then... the palms again? What?

Oh, nope, he was just showing that his hands were empty. Not signing. Did he not have contacts? 

Jamie pulled out her phone and texted something. Issac’s phone vibrated, and he pulled it out of his pocket. He read the message, looking like he smelled something bad. He seemed to brace himself, then trudged over to where Jamie and Opal were sitting and sat gingerly on the long, low glass table that the chairs were clustered around. 

Jamie held out her hand, into which Issac reluctantly put a contact case. Ah. Sure, he must not be used to them, yet. Still, they’d be a pretty good option in a quiet place like this.

Jamie fished around in the case for the contact while he studied every single other object and person in the courtyard. He settled on Opal, consideringly. He looked about to say something, but Jamie approached with one slender finger raised up, holding a contact. 

A pleasant musical tone signaled an elevator, and Opal leaned around Issac to see who else had arrived. Issac noticed, turning away from Jamie to check it out. Capricorn and Helix stepped out of the elevator, each carrying several heavy-duty metal crates.

Issac was off the table in a flash, heading towards them. He almost knocked over Jamie’s tiny cargo. 

Yael followed on his heels. “You got Jenna’s things back!”

Capricorn raised an eyebrow, amused. With a tank top on, Opal could see the large Capricorn tattoo that had become his superhero moniker. “You didn’t think we’d just leave it all down there, did you?”

“Well, you have for almost two weeks!” xe retorted without heat, leaning over and trying to inspect the tops of the crates. Jamie got up, and after a moment’s hesitation, Opal followed, keeping a respectful distance. 

“There wasn’t any reason to hurry,” Helix responded fondly. See, now this family seemed pretty functional.

Capricorn craned around the crates to look at Opal. “Still here after sessions with Yael?” He looked at Helix. “See, told you she’s got grit.” Grit! They thought she had grit! Opal felt herself grinning again. Having been noticed and complimented gave her the courage to step closer to the assembled family members.

Helix smiled easily. “I don’t remember arguing with you.”

“Neil didn’t go with you?” Yael asked, with the tone of someone hoping to be wrong.

The ease and cheer from a moment ago died on the vine. Capricorn shook his head. Seemed to hold a sigh in. “He’s still not feeling so good.” Not feeling so good? It would take a hell of a lot to keep an altered of LodeStar’s caliber down for long. Opal would have seen any injuries that severe, and LodeStar would hardly ever get sick. All Opal could think of was some form of alteration complication-- one of those health problems that came with alterations. Opal herself had once been hospitalized for almost a month, when her lights had tangled under her skin and her super-healing tried to fix it with scar tissue. 

Capricorn tilted the crate Issac was inspecting. There were codes written on the tops of them that meant nothing to Opal, but which fascinated Issac. Capricorn looked back to Opal. “These kids giving you any trouble?”

“If by trouble, you mean bruises and aches in novel places, then yeah.” She decided to push her luck a little. “Y’know, I won’t charge extra if anyone else wants to join the ASL lessons. The more of you can practice, the faster everyone will learn it.” 

Of course, her lessons might not be necessary for long if Issac decided he didn’t want them. Shoot. Maybe she could pay Yael for fighting lessons? She was saving a lot of money on rent.

Issac must have reached some conclusion about the code on the box. He pulled it off the stack in Capricorn’s arms, barely controlling its landing with a clank. He was on it immediately, opening complicated closures with practiced surety. 

Issac leaned over the open box. Frowned, and leaned over more, setting the lid down beside the crate.

He reached inside, lifting an object out. A long, complicated, tapered mechanical cylinder with some bendy part. It was blue and silver, the paint a little scuffed. 

At the end hung a limp, lifeless metal hand. 

Issac let out a cry of sudden horror, dropping it and recoiling as if it was a real arm he’d found in the box. Opal could hear his breath rattling in short pants, as white rimmed his irises. 

Next to Opal, Jamie gasped. Yael took a full step backwards.

Opal felt like she’d wandered into a horror movie and was the only one who didn’t catch the plot. Wasn’t that a prosthetic? Didn’t his mom make those?

Yael surged forward, grabbed the crate lid, and moved to slam it back over the box, as if the arm might crawl out on its own. Opal felt a shiver go up her spine. But Issac was back at the box, one hand reluctantly inside. Opal heard the ping and scrape of metal against metal. More objects-- more limbs? In the box. 

A door behind Opal opened. Dr. Tillman paused in the doorway, taking in the scene. Concern turned to muted horror, just like her son’s. But Jamie said she manufactured those! 

Dr. Tillman rushed right past Opal, went to her knees next to her son, and firmly pulled his hands out of the crate. Yael slammed the lid back on. Dr. Tillman kept tight hold of Issac’s wrists, but she turned furious eyes on Capricorn and Helix. “What the hell is going on?”

Capricorn juggled his other crate under one arm so he could shrug broadly with the other, clearly disturbed by everyone’s reaction. OK, so at least one other person didn’t get the plot. “We went to get Jenna’s stuff. He wanted to look it over.”

“So you gave him that?”

“Mel, he builds them! He’s got a patent in that model.”

Helix, cringingly contrite, spoke to Capricorn in an undertone. “You remember how he got when Neil replaced his arms, the last time.”

Jamie piped up, edging towards Helix, torn between watching the crate and watching for an answer. “Why, what did he do? When did Dad replace his arms?”

“He wouldn’t go near Neil for two weeks. He’d cry every time Neil approached him.”

“He was two,” Capricorn argued. “Kids that age cry when their mom gets a haircut.”

Issac’s voice was high, flickering with fear. “Those are model C243 neuro-link sockets! Those are-- I’ve worked on those! I’ve done mainten-- They don’t come off! Those aren’t supposed to come off, they hook up-- they go direct-- they’re, surgically--”

Blue and silver prosthetics, made of metal, not lightweight plastic. Opal’s stomach dropped. Bion’s prosthetics. And of course, being a superhero’s prosthetics, they were designed for hard use, and couldn’t come apart for easy maintenance the way another prosthetic might. 

They’d just opened a box of their own aunt’s body parts, stored in an APB crate. Limbs that were supposed to be surgically attached to her.

“Aw, crap,” Capricorn muttered. 

“Yeah,” Dr. Tillman snapped at him.

“But why?” Yael asked, still hovering a little further back from the group, behind Issac and his mom.

Jamie answered before any of the adults. Realization dawning quietly. “To take away her superpowers. Her biology was normal. Without those, she’s…just a quadruple-amputee with a head injury.”

“Now, listen,” Dr. Tillman commanded. “Those are just tools. That’s all. They weren’t her first set, and no, they didn’t turn out to be her last, either.”

Her tone softened to near a whisper, bled dry of any tone of command. “Drew, please take those--”

“On it.” He stacked his existing crate on Helix’s pile, then picked up the one on the floor. Issac tried to get up to follow it.

Dr. Tillman tried to hold him close. You could hear her heart breaking. “Issac, honey--”

Opal cleared her throat softly, and everyone seemed to remember for the first time that she existed, which was not fun. “He doesn’t have the contacts in. He doesn’t know what anyone’s been saying.”

Dr. Tillman's first reaction was to pull Issac closer, away from Opal. Her thought process was clear. Outsider. Then, she processed the words. She tilted her son’s head up, looking at his eyes. 

Jamie looked at the forgotten contact case in her hand. “Oh! Here, I can--” She went to Issac, opening the case. He followed her with his eyes, then lurched to his feet when she opened the contact case. He staggered several feet back from all of them. He was no less panicked than he had been, hadn’t even gotten the lukewarm assurances the others had. 

His voice was shaking worse, but it was clear and loud. “I’m going to bed,” he announced with finality, then turned and booked it out of the room. 

Dr. Tillman sighed heavily, deflated for a moment. She looked at Opal, then at Jamie. There didn’t seem to be any venom in the look, but Jamie shrank under it. Jamie turned to Opal. “Uhm. Is it OK if we make up the lesson later on?”

Right. Opal was getting too deep into family secrets. Which meant it was time for her to leave. “Sure. Just let me know.”

* * *

Don’t hyperventilate. Hyperventilation causes reduced blood flow to the prefrontal cortex, resulting in temporarily reduced cognitive skills. Issac couldn’t afford any loss to his clarity of thought right now. Deep breath in, deeper breath out. Trick the ventral vagus nerve into settling the shit down. One more time. 

OK, one more time. 

Another-- this usually worked, why wasn’t it working?

He settled for pacing, for trying to force his fingers through hair he hadn’t bothered to comb. Usually he’d have his music on to help with this. 

“Usually” didn’t apply anyway, because this had never happened before. There was too much at once. Jenna-- how could they do that to her? Those limbs were part of her. Surgically integrated, just like Dad’s. She’d had them for so long. And she was so proud of them. They were the physical embodiment of her life’s work. All the brilliant engineering, all the ambition and courage, in titanium form. She’d sacrificed her mind to save people, and then they took away even the symbol of her work? Stored them in a box, like Mom’s out-of-season Christmas decorations. Like it was nothing.

Something touched him. He spun around, air rushing out of him again. He wrenched his knee, sending pain lancing up his leg to his spine as his leg collapsed under him. The tall figure behind him rushed forward as he started to fall. Issac raised his arms protectively, just as hands no bigger than his own settled around his ribs. 

Mom held on long enough for Issac to regain his balance. Great. Freaking out and then collapsing at the terrifying sight of his own mother. Fantastic. That sure did make him look like he had his shit together.

She looked at him with the same watery anxiety he was starting to expect. Issac limped into his desk chair; she kept a hand on him until the chair had completely taken on his weight.  

She held out her hand and-- oh no. The contacts. He’d left them with Jamie, and now Mom had them. He’d been carrying them in his pocket since he’d gotten them, almost like a talisman. As if having them in his pocket might leech the horror out of them. 

Plus, when they were in his pocket, he knew where they were, so that this exact scenario couldn’t happen.

His gaze drifted to Mom’s fingernails. At least they weren’t painted a bloody red at the moment, but they were still sharp-looking and long. She used to wear contacts back in the days before laser correction, but there was no way in hell he was letting those fingernails anywhere near his cornea. He shivered. She handed him a sweater. What sort of secret mom-dimension did she pull that from, all of a sudden? He took it, put it on to delay the conversation, and immediately started sweating. By the time he finished, she’d put the horrifying plastic slivers on the desk, beside Issac’s flash drive.

Her lips thinned, and she looked at him, watching him carefully for something. She nodded to herself and pulled out her phone. Oh, thank fuck.

He got his out before it vibrated her text’s arrival. 

MOM: Issac, Jenna is OK. She just replaced her tools. 

He re-read the text a few times. Did Mom really not get it? But she’d helped Jenna make the Bion prosthetics-- she’d installed the original ones! She’d helped maintain Dad’s over the years, too. She made a huge, international company and a career out of making body parts for people. How could she see them as simple tools? Especially when Jenna’s were built explicitly to not come off.

He didn’t trust his voice right now, and didn’t want to text her an essay about why she was wrong. 

But he couldn’t completely let it go, either. He texted, not sure what tone he’d take otherwise. Was it her idea?

She didn’t need to answer. She looked away, looking so guilty, he started to wonder whose idea it was. Mom was Jenna's designated “next of kin.” The person allowed to make medical decisions for her if she was incapacitated. Or brain damaged?

Whose idea had it been? Mom, no. 

Her eyes landed on the screen projection above his desk, and he could see her swap out guilt for an external focus. She texted him without looking at her phone. You have 17 unread emails? That’s not like you. 

Un. Helpful.

How excited would she be to read her email if all she got were bland, awkward condolences and college rejections?

He sank lower into the chair, even though his freshly re-wrenched back complained. He rubbed his throbbing knee and didn’t say anything. 

MOM: We should get downstairs for your doctor’s appointment. 

He grimaced, irritated enough to use his voice, tone or no. “What’s the point? We have a clear answer. My primary auditory nerve and some of the surrounding tissue is shot. They can’t fix it. The end.”

You also have a concussion. No doctor-dodging with a concussion. 

The visit was awful.

Issac had been down in the APB clinic before, but as a visitor, not a patient. Him being a patient at a clinic for altereds was embarrassingly absurd. And he had to haul around the stupid tablet while medical staff who all knew his situation looked at him. He wondered if any of them were the ones who took Jenna’s limbs. He wondered how they’d treated her. 

He left the tablet turned off until the doctor came into the exam room, so Mom wouldn’t try to talk to him any more. He couldn’t handle some of the answers she might give him to the questions running through his mind, and didn’t want to suspect her of lying if she gave him a better answer.

When the doctor entered, Issac booted up his software, and a new problem materialized out of thin air and utter bullshit.

MAN1IwantyoutocomeinagainnextweeksoIcanhaveanotherlookatWOMAN1I’mcallinginaprescriptionformorphineforMrNMAN1pincheddiskWOMAN2pleaserollupyoursleeve

Issac hugged the screen to his chest. Shit! He could read the private conversations of the whole clinic! Not well, but still. What would they do if they realized Issac had just broken every available rule about medical confidentiality? 

Would they take his tablet away from him? His fingers tightened on it. What if he had to keep coming here, and they took it away every time? He discreetly turned it back off. 

It turned out, the tablet was practically irrelevant. Because the damn doctor wasn’t even trying to talk to Issac. He was just talking to Mom. He didn’t even look at Issac for the first several minutes, and only barely did so when he took Issac’s vitals. Issac couldn’t read the man’s expression as he stood there, talking to Mom.

They stuck sensors on Issac’s head. Tilting his head for him, as if he didn’t have sensors just like these upstairs. The doctor looked over the readings on a tablet, and sat down next to Mom, showing them to her and talking. Which, OK, Mom did have a bio-med doctorate and APB security clearance, but still. 

Issac squashed worries about how his voice sounded. “Hey, can I see?”

The doctor gave him a tight smile as fake as any Dad had ever worn on TV interviews, and held up a finger, one minute, at him, then went back to talking to Mom.

Mom tossed Issac an apologetic glance, but was hanging on the doctor’s every word. Come on. Issac might not legally have rights to his medical record until his 18th birthday later this week, but this was just fucking stupid. “Seriously. It’s my brain. Lemme see.”

This time the doctor gave him a cold look, and went right on talking to Mom.

OK, fine, Dr. Ass-hat. Say hello to 24 separate HIPPA violations. Issac booted up the tablet. He’d make sure to delete all this, and he tried to focus only on what he was looking for. But he wasn’t going to get shunted aside at his own neurology appointment.

DR BEALL: Has his temper been much of a problem at home? Sometimes impulse control can be affected by even fairly minor concussions, and he seems--

Issac slammed the tablet down on the exam bed, glaring. The doctor just gave Mom a very significant look. 

Mom shook her head, though, and while she kept the doctor engaged in conversation, she slipped Issac the doctor’s tablet. He had this same software at home-- had access to all the products Mom’s company made. But the doctor had been writing notes, and Issac didn’t have a background in treatment for acute phase brain injury. 

He could see his own agitation in the patterns. But they were good and active, with no major dark areas besides the empty fissure in his temporal lobe. Too big a crack for a neural implant, but otherwise, as brain injuries went, it was a best case scenario. A lot of it would probably have even bounced back, if it weren’t for the major auditory nerve crapping out on him. A 17-year-old’s neuroplasticity wasn’t going to fill in a gap like that.

The doctor took the tablet out of his hands, and started tidying up the room. So that was it. The whole appointment, and nobody’d tried to talk to him.

Had anyone tried to talk to Jenna? Mom said she was OK, that she had new arms and legs. But Issac couldn’t imagine a prosthetic that could make up for involuntary surgery and de-powering. He tasted bile as his mind flashed an image of Jenna down here, confused and ignored, while the family went on upstairs.

What would happen when Issac was an adult? In less than a week? Would he still be expected to bring his mom with him to every appointment? He’d bet his whole first quarter’s patent payouts this doctor didn’t know any ASL. 

Mom escorted Issac back up to his bedroom. He wasn’t normally above a bit of parental hovering by any means. But after all that, he just wanted to be alone. 

He sat at his desk. If he’d sat on the bed or the futon, she’d try to sit with him. Try to fix this. She loved fixing things. But she couldn’t fix his brain.

Fix his brain. Wait. His eyes flicked to the flash drive on the desk.

MOM: Four days until your birthday. Do you want your dad or Drew to make you something special, or do you want to go out? It’s not too late for reservations at the Golden Fig. 

Ooh, the Golden Fig. That was his favorite restaurant. And his appetite was apparently back in full swing. He could drown his troubles in Bearnaise sauce. Nice decor, familiar foods he loved, private dining room, quiet classical music playing…

Wait, no. 

A hundred people talking. His family all talking. He couldn’t even keep track of conversation at a quiet medical clinic. In a busy place like a popular restaurant, he’d be sunk. 

“I don’t want a birthday dinner.”

She frowned; he’d set off a warning light in her head, he could tell. Her lips moved, and he glared at her. She flinched, texting instead. Why not?

He could explain. She would listen. She would try to help. 

But what could she do?

“I just don’t have the stamina for it, yet,” he lied. He let his eyes drift down, back to his desk. Trying just to look tired, like she expected him to.

In the controlled chaos of a desk covered in mugs, fidget toys, models, and rubber ducks, two objects sat, representing his options. The contacts; terrifying, disgusting, marking him as broken, still keeping him from his family, his favorite food, music. Leaving him under the scrutiny of a rude, limb-stealing government agency. Then, the thumb drive beside it. The possibility of fixing himself, of following in Dad’s and Drew's footsteps. The footsteps Jenna had left first.

It was the bigger risk. There was a non-zero chance that this would kill him. It shouldn’t. But it wasn’t impossible. But if it worked, he’d be free. He’d have proven to his parents and to all those schools that kept rejecting him that he could actually deliver. He’d have back everything he’d lost, and show everyone the value of what he’d made. His value.

He looked at Mom, who was still watching him with that worried, miserable look on her face. What was it like for her to have a broken son?

Better than having a dead one. If this failed catastrophically, she’d be crushed. 

But Issac wouldn’t have to be around to see it. He was either going to take her worrying away from her, or make sure he didn’t have to see it. Maybe she’d eventually understand. She’d risked her own life to change her body, once. Sure, she regretted it, but surely thinness was a less worthy goal than hearing.

MOM: Honey, do you need me to take sign language lessons?

He gathered the contacts up in his hand, scooping up the flash drive beside them. 

Mom, Dad, and the whole freaking US government would object to this plan. But apparently, none of them had objected much to what happened to Jenna, so screw them.

He refused to be too afraid to follow in her footsteps.

“No, Mom. I’ve got this.”

* * *

Yael was tired. Not physically, but mentally. Emotionally. Lately, it seemed like nothing made sense. It was so bad, even xyr room didn’t feel right. The under-occupied hamster hutch and Yael’s own sketches seemed to stare at xyr, judging xyr failures.

Xe’d defaulted to staying near xyr papa. But that was weird, too, so now xe was laying on the couch on xyr back, trying to burn up restless energy by balancing couch seat cushions on their ends on xyr feet. Xe tipped xyr legs one way, trying to keep them from falling. Then the other way. Xe tested xyr range of motion over and over. Xe was allowed to take the furniture apart, as long as xe put it back together again. Xe could do that.

Towards Yael. Away. Towards. Away.

They’d gone back to pretending things were normal half an hour after xe’d demanded he say xyr birth father’s name. But since the incident in the courtyard, Papa had barely spoken a word. That might be the worst part. Yael had always taken it on faith that Jenna was safe and well cared for. Xe still wanted to. But Papa’s gaze seemed to slide away from Yael. His chin wasn’t as high as it normally was. It looked like guilt, and Yael didn’t know what to do with that.

Xe could hear the quiet tinkle of dishes coming from the kitchen as Papa fussed.

Towards. Away. Maybe xe should head down to the gym. The quiet in here was stifling. Xe kicked the cushion into the air, and succeeded in catching it on xyr feet for a moment. Then it toppled over and knocked into the lamp behind the couch. “Whoops.”

A sigh heavier than the team jet wafted from the kitchen. Yael sat up and retrieved the pillow off the floor. “Sorry.” Xe looked up, but he had turned back towards the cabinets. Xe let xyr arms drape down the back of the couch, holding on to the cushion. “When are we going to talk about your meeting with Nodiah?”

“It was interrupted. There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Did he ask you about me?”

“He did not.”

Yael dug xyr chin into the sapphire blue corduroy of the couch, frowning. Then they really had only talked about Issac and his illegal nanites. Xe mushed xyr face into the back of the couch. Should xe confess to giving the plans back? 

Well, yes. A good superhero would confess to that. 

But what would a good sibling do?

Which one did Yael want to be more? The important thing was to try to be good, but what did that even mean, here? The nanites were the only thing Issac had shown any enthusiasm for since the attack. How could Yael take that away from him? Or get him into more trouble? He was too vulnerable. And protecting the vulnerable was good superhero behavior, right?

So much was in Nodiah's hands. And xe hardly knew anything about him. “He asked me about you.”

Papa froze with a glass in his hand. He wouldn’t turn around. His voice was sharp, but more anxious than unkind. “What did he say?”

“He asked me if you’d confessed to me.”

“…What did you say?” Fear. That was fear in his voice. He was afraid of Nodiah. Maybe he really was somehow afraid of Ezekiel and Miriam, then.

It was so close. The big unspoken things were so close to the surface, yet again. Xe bit xyr lip. “I said you didn’t have anything to confess.” Xe dragged the pillow back up and lay back down on the couch, hugging it to xyr chest. 

The sound of the glass being set on the counter, not the cabinet. His voice was subdued. “Everybody has something they need to atone for.”

What was that supposed to mean? Sometimes Yael thought that Papa had read too many books where heroes had cryptic mentors, and purposely turned especially opaque just to baffle Yael. Like Yoda. Of course people had things to atone for. Yael did. And yeah, so did Papa. But why bring that up now? Did he mean his adoption of Yael was something he had to atone for? Why?

Or was he thinking of Jenna?

Xe hated all of these options. They were dangerous and terrifying, and xe couldn’t punch them. 

Xe summoned a little courage, but stayed safely out of his sight, behind the couch back. Xe tossed the pillow and caught it. “He said something when he was here about how people would react to me. About needing a plan.”

Papa’s dead, flat tone showcased why he always lost at poker. “Nodiah’s always been overcautious about public opinion. I’m sure everyone will love you.”

“Do you think he’ll come back?”

“I doubt it.” 

“He’s not much like how you described him.”

“I described him as a kid. That was a long time ago.”

“Hm,” Yael agreed vaguely, tossing the pillow again and remembering how protective of Papa xe’d felt, down in the bunker. “I don’t think I like him very much.”

This time there was no mistaking the pleased tone in his voice. “He’s your uncle. You shouldn’t say that.” Yael rolled xyr eyes. 

“Do you like him?”

“He’s my brother. I love him.” 

Not the same thing. Not the way he said it, at least. “He’s not a very good brother. I’d never treat my siblings that way. Not coming by for seventeen years.” 

Papa huffed a laugh, which helped a little. “You can barely stand Neil keeping to himself for three days, you spoiled brat.”

Xe carefully placed the pillow back on the soles of xyr feet. “He picked a bad three days to do it.”

“Patience is a virtue.” Patience. This from the man who burned his mouth every morning eating his breakfast before it’d cooled off enough. Yael didn’t have time for patience. Xe’d be 18 in October. If xe was going to be the hero xe’d been training to be literally xyr whole life, some of these conversations needed to happen, and soon. Yael’d tried being sensitive about Papa’s aversion to the whole subject of xyr birth parents, but xe wasn’t about to get hurt because xe wasn’t using xyr full power set in a real fight. And he was being stupid.

And xe was still mad he’d pretended xe didn’t know. He had to have been pretending. He couldn’t think xe was that dim.

Xe should have pushed harder when the subject had been so close. Xe’d missed the window. But xe was pretty sure xe knew another way in. “I’m going to go find Jamie and Issac,” xe lied. Papa didn’t notice.

As a rule, Yael wasn’t a sneaky person. Sure, shapeshifting sounded like it’d make subterfuge easy, but when you were near seven feet tall, sneaking was just not going to be your forte, no matter how you configured your mass.

Still, the MARTIN system wouldn’t report xyr comings and goings unless someone asked, and their home was large, with plenty of construction noise to camouflage xyr movements. The little side staircase between residential floors wasn’t technically even off limits. Just unused.  

Xe settled on a chilly concrete stair. Was this wrong? Maybe xe should trust Papa’s judgment about Nodiah. Nobody on the team seemed to like him. He even seemed to intimidate them, which was both fascinating and creepy. But they worked for him. Killed on his order. They had to at least respect him. Had to trust him, to some degree. 

Papa still said he loved him.

Xe sat down. Stood up. Sat, but with a foot tapping. Xe’d stolen Nodiah’s number from Papa’s phone years ago. Xe’d never dared to make the first contact. Now they’d met, so it should be OK, right? He’d shown some kind of interest. He’d wanted to talk. Maybe Yael just had to extend an olive branch.

Xe called. On the 6th ring, xe realized xe was holding xyr breath, and carefully evacuated the stale air from xyr lungs. 

Just as Yael was starting to worry xe’d have to leave a message-- a possibility xe hadn’t planned for at all-- he answered. “Good evening, Yael.”

Shoot, what should xe call him? Xe was planning to ask for a favor and a bunch of personal information, but xe didn’t want to insult him. “Good evening, Secretary.”

“You may call me Nodiah. But I appreciate the sentiment. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I wanted to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.” 

“I can’t say I’m surprised. Who do you want to hear about first?”

Miriam. No, Ezekiel. No, Miriam. Or Papa. Ezekiel. They were all so tempting, and all so tangled in each other’s stories.  

Priorities. “Issac.”

“I expect you know the Tillman-Voss boy better than I do,” he answered dryly. Xe wondered what name he’d hoped xe’d give.

“But you know what your agency plans to do about him.”

“Ah.” He went silent. 

“He’s my brother,” Yael blurted out. 

“So I’ve heard.” Yael couldn’t read any approval or condemnation in his tone. “From what I hear, he’s sustained a fairly sizable concussion, and his data was destroyed in the attack. Given that he’s a minor, I suspect the incident can be safely forgotten, provided it doesn’t reoccur. I suppose we owe LodeStar that much.”

“He really was trying to help--”

“A good half of them believe that. You would think the fact that their work is illegal and has to be hidden from the public would clue them in to the absurdity of that. What good will any technology do if it’s locked up in the vault? Is that all you called about?” He sounded disappointed. Maybe he wanted someone to talk about their shared family as much as Yael did. Maybe he hated that Papa wouldn’t talk about them, too. Yael knew he’d never gotten married. Never had any kids. And it didn’t seem like Papa and Nodiah ever talked about anything but work. 

But Yael had started this, and had to see it through. Xe wanted to know about xyr birth parents, but at the end of the day, they were dead, and Issac was alive, and needed xyr.  “I’d like to know about the pilot in the attack.”

“Now, that’s Bureau business.”

The fury xe didn’t usually dare to touch carried xyr past his objections. “He knocked a giant hole in my house and almost killed Issac and Jamie.”

“And you.”

“And me. Then they arrested him and locked him up in the same building. And then my whole family got banned from the investigation!” Xe realized too late xe’d just implied that Nodiah wasn’t family, and cringed, knocking xyr head against the concrete wall as quietly as xe could.

Nodiah didn’t seem to notice, but there was something quietly furious in his tone. “He’s being transported back to prison in Detroit within the week. I promise you that.”

“Back? He was already a criminal?” Xe flinched at xyr volume, glancing back at the door and stepping down to the landing to make sure the next door wasn’t opening. It wasn’t.

There was a thing that happened in people who were dangerous. There was this little voice-- no, not a voice, more like a muscle memory, that always knew that violence would work in Yael’s favor. That shredding another human being was, at the end of the day, always an option. Yael had first seen it in action in footage of superhero fights. Xe had first felt it when xe and Issac had been kidnapped. It had saved Yael’s and Issac’s lives.

Yael was scared of that impulse. Only knowing that the other superheroes had it kept xyr morale afloat. Kept xyr from being afraid of xyrself. Now, xe heard that same impulse bleeding out past Nodiah's linen suit and shoe polish and clipped, careful words. “Yes. Out on early release for ‘good behavior,’ no less.” 

Yael's own violent impulse turned over restlessly, tried to wake up in response. This was righteous anger. Xe let it have its way, just a little. Xyr voice showed it more than Nodiah's. “Why?”

For the first time, xe heard him approve. “A very reasonable question. That is, at least, the one positive in this tragic string of events. I’ve been waiting to propose a bill aimed at fixing exactly this issue for some time. Your brother’s sacrifice won’t be in vain. I hope that now, we as a people will be ready to act, to prevent such unnecessary pain in the future. I hope that may be some comfort to him. And to you.”

A bland retribution. Xyr anger fizzled like a fire cut off from oxygen. Yael had next to no use for politics. But it was something. “Thank you.” 

“This bill is my genuine pleasure. I have high hopes for its effectiveness in reducing altered crime.”

“Oh. Well, good.”

“That seems to be all you feel capable of asking me, for now. Is that right?”

Xe rubbed xyr face. He knew xe wanted to ask. But it was too much.

And xe couldn’t even think about asking about Jenna. But xe should ask about Jenna before asking about xyr birth parents, right? “That was all I needed.”

Nodiah said a polite goodbye, and hung up. 

Yael let xyr head thunk against the wall. 

* * *

2 AM. The house was quiet. She couldn’t even hear the city, far below. The light streaming into Jamie’s window was as dim as Chicago could get, and augmented only by the pale blue light of her tablet. She still hadn’t slept. She’d tried, right around midnight. But she couldn’t. 

She’d kept thinking about Jenna, and about Issac’s reaction. 

There was nothing about Jamie that would let her do anything about it. The gauntlet she’d worn all day couldn’t do anything about this. And trying to problem-solve her way out of it was just putting angry knots in her brain.

She’d tried a distraction: just a quick peek, to see if Opal had any public social media. 

That was not what she found. Opal’s name only came up in reference to an eight year old court case-- her dad’s. That seemed like a likely conversation-ruiner, so she’d started reading, wanting to find potential landmines ahead of time. 

But reading about the trial was so confusing, she’d gone looking for reason in adjacent trials. That didn’t make any more sense, and she’d ended up reading old articles online for hours. 

In retrospect, her plan to cure her insomnia was flawed.

Now it all made sense, except that she couldn’t understand how this could be allowed! How had nobody fixed this yet?

The whole system was a disaster, and Detroit was a microcosm of every single way it was broken. Detroit had no superhero team, and never had, though it was by far the most altered city in the US. Instead, it had a police force with army-grade gear and military tactics. The bureau had never endorsed the protective actions of any altered civilian in the city. There was trial after trial for altereds who had protected people, and every one of them was convicted and jailed. The sentences were so much longer than they should be. 

That led her to reading about how thoroughly that mirrored racial issues in the larger criminal justice system. Racial minorities were, across the board, hugely more likely to be arrested than given warnings. More likely to serve longer sentences. More likely to be arrested young. Really young. More likely to be fatally shot by police. More likely to die in prison. More likely to have their kids taken away forever because they were locked up. 

With the altereds, a lot of the charges were especially nonsensical. Anyone who wasn’t white was ten times more likely to be imprisoned on drug charges. But since most drugs didn’t even work normally in the system of an altered, they were all automatically charged with intention to sell, which was a felony. As far as Jamie could tell, a black person found in the same house as drugs could be convicted of a felony for just that. And they kept arresting whole households at once, even taking in anyone who was just visiting the house. The trials were short, and didn’t seem to matter much.

And Jamie had exposed Opal to it. Put her in the path of APB guards with guns, made her look like a suspect to anyone who expected to see a suspect, instead of someone who’d just wanted to help.

Even Jamie had reacted to her with fear at first. How must that have felt to Opal?

And the APB, who owned Jamie’s home, who controlled the superheroes, was embedded right in the heart of it. They were the ones who kept pushing for new laws for altereds. Longer jail times, more aggressive charges. There was a new bill expected from Secretary Bridgewater within the week aimed at “lowering recidivism rates,” tightening restrictions even further. There were hints that it was going to be something dramatic. Jamie felt sick.

She didn’t understand how her family could be involved with this. How Opal could want to be. 

Did she know her family as well as she thought? What did the gauntlet even mean? It wouldn’t let her do anything about any of this!

Her door opened, and she looked down over the side of her lofted bed at Issac, her face still hardened into a furious expression from her reading. Issac, standing in the doorway, actually took a step backwards at the sight of it. She tried to shake off enough of it that he would know it wasn’t directed at him. He stepped into the room, and shut the door behind him. She tilted her head. Issac up at weird hours bordered on normal. Issac looking for Jamie at these hours was not.

His voice was hushed. “Good, you’re up. Are you busy? I need to talk to you.”

Jamie was busy. Busy learning about a million awful things she was too useless to do anything about. Being powerless and bitter. Being angry at herself for thinking a single weapon would empower her to do anything.

Probably better to go with Issac, for now. She shook her head. 

He looked relieved, turning around to walk out the door. Jamie gathered her sheet up around herself and climbed down to follow him, careful to keep the sheet from overturning any of the cacti on her ladder. 

Issac headed right out the front door, to the courtyard.

Yael, baffled in sleep shorts and an old Sentinels tank top, sat in the courtyard with a fistful of beef jerky sticks. Xe was turning over leaves in one of the raised beds. Still looking for Skittles while xe waited for them.

Issac passed the elevators, right back to Jenna's door. 

He tried the handle, which clicked, refusing to open for him. He tensed, ducking his head. Several breaths passed, as Jamie and Yael exchanged worried looks. He tried the door again.

It unlocked, and swung open. Now he could mess with the security systems telepathically? What? How did he do that?

Issac stepped inside. The scents of drywall, sawdust, and metal swirled out as he disturbed the space. This time, he stopped a few feet in, giving Jamie a chance to steel herself and follow. Yael shut the door quietly behind them. 

The museum show was over, the frozen tableau of Jenna's last days in the tower replaced with plywood floors and echoing emptiness. Not even painted yet-- the recently closed seams were still visible in the walls. There was no kitchen, no light fixtures, except for some big industrial ones brought in by the construction crew. Tools different from the kinds anyone here used littered the floor, projects left half-finished, waiting for sunrise, when the workers would return. With the wall sealed, they’d have to start coming and going through the courtyard itself, intruding further into the family space, to finish an apartment no one lived in. 

Maybe Mom would have them leave it like this. Let it be a placeholder for-- for who? Yael, when xe was older? Opal, maybe?

Issac went over, started fiddling with a light on a freestanding pole, groping around blindly. There was a click, and a painfully bright beam of light had them all squinting in an instant. The city outside was burned away by brighter reflected light. Issac straightened and, showing his first sign of reluctance so far, stepped into the beam. The light washed out his features to their bare essentials-- a few dark lines marking earnestness that bordered on desperation. Jamie stepped forward, not into the beam, but close enough that he could see her clearly. Yael stepped a little closer, half into the beam, half out. Issac’s voice matched his expression. “I need you guys’s help.” 

Yael took another instant step towards him, now into the beam. “Of course. Anything. You know that.” 

Jamie nodded. His breaths were too big, too slow. He was controlling them on purpose. Jamie knew that feeling.

He pulled the flash drive out of his pocket, and held it up. “I still have this. Which means neither of you told anyone what it was or that I’ve got it.” They both nodded. “Thanks. For that. I needed this. I need it.” Something to fix. Jamie and Issac had that much in common. Jamie craved something to fix. Someone to help. If it was Issac, even better. “And now, I need you, too. Because I’m going to use it.”

So that was why they were here. Out of MARTIN’s sensors.

She wanted to help, but-- testing experimental tech on himself? That was too far. Jamie shook her head. “Nope.” No way. She turned around, about to-- about to go tell Mom, probably. But her feet got tangled in the sheet, slowing her down. 

He grabbed the flimsy fabric. “Hear me out. Hear me out.” If he could hear himself, he’d never let himself sound that way.

“Look, I’m not brain damaged. Or-- well, I am, but audio processing only! My reasoning is fine. Do you really expect me to just sit here with this, when I actually have a way to repair brain tissue? And the major auditory nerve is actually a really straightforward structure! A great place to start.” He looked at her, watching her expression much more closely than he had when he could hear. “I can fix myself. Science can fix me. Just like it fixed Jenna and Dad. That was all experimental, too. But it worked. I know what I’m doing. Every medical procedure was experimental and scary at first. And if anyone is going to be the tester, shouldn’t it be me? Isn’t that better than expecting other people to trust my skills as much as I do? Isn’t that the real barrier between me and being like… a supervillain? That I won’t endanger other people?” 

He leaned back a little, less in Jamie’s personal space bubble, apparently so he could address Yael, too. “I need to do this. You guys have to understand that. I can’t live like this. It’s wrecking everything. And, if it does what I think it will-- if it works? It’d be the first step towards helping…helping people like Jenna. Put her back the way she was. Let her have her life back. Let her--”

Let her come home. Let her be a hero again. Let her be a scientist again. Let her think clearly. Control her temper. Have her life back. Her responsibilities. Her body parts.

“What if it goes wrong?”

He perked a little at Jamie considering this seriously, checking the tablet for her words. “That’s what I need you two for. If something goes wrong, you pull the plug and get help. No harm done.”

Yael was cautious. “How likely is that?”

He looked at xyr pleadingly. “I can do this.” He hesitated. “Someone has to believe me. Come on. You guys never doubted before that I could build these.” 

Yael wavered. “But Issac, even if it works, the bureau--”

The bureau. If they knew Issac still had this, they’d take it away from him. And he was under their jurisdiction, now. 

Under APB jurisdiction. Wait, did Jewish count as a minority race in all those studies? Would Issac get the same type of treatment as all the people Jamie’d been reading about? Sure, the APB endorsed Dad, but they’d endorsed Drew too. And both of them had started superheroing more than 20 years ago, before the bureau was founded. She remembered Dad telling her once that Jews were only white until it inconvenienced a white gentile. When would Bridgewater decide he’d had enough?

How did people with disabilities fare under bureau influence? Based on everything else she’d read, she didn’t like the odds. After all, people died of treatable medical conditions in the altered prison all the time. They weren’t interested in taking care of people who needed it.

And someone had taken Jenna’s limbs. It was easier to imagine it was an APB demand than someone in her family. 

They had no right to control what Issac did with his own body. He wasn’t even trying to be altered, he was just trying to be normal! And if he was fixed, if he was normal, he wouldn’t be under APB jurisdiction anymore. 

Issac shook his head. “I’ll hand it all over to them as soon as I’m done. But they’ll wrap it in red tape for years. Especially if there’s never been a human trial. I want this fixed before I’m…before I have to go out in the world like this.”

Jamie could do this. She looked him in the eye. “I’m in.” He didn’t need to look at the tablet. He understood.

They both looked at Yael. Xe was a shadow against the bright glare of the window behind xyr. “You really need this?”

A pause. “Yael, my own doctor won’t tell me anything. I can’t keep up with conversation when the whole family’s in the same room. I can’t even eat at a restaurant, and I’m getting rejected from one college after another as it is. I can’t hear music, or go to services. I can’t do this.”

Yael put xyr hands up. “Shh! Not so loud, or the courtyard sensors will hear you!” He didn’t check the tablet, eyes glued to Yael’s reaction. Xyr shoulders dropped. “Yes. OK. I’ll help you. Just tell me what you need me to do.”

[hunkydorkling]

My god, I am casually (excitedly) catching up on all that I've missed for the whole month and some change that I was away from everyplace thinkable. Now that I'm having the longest break until I'm back on my feet again, let me do a skinny.

The feature I had with a local news outlet could not have come at a better time. June kicked off with a rocky start within the art community, and prior to the taping of that episode, a gaming event shitshow unavoidably made it under everybody's radar. (You may want to checkout CON/Quest if you want to read deep into the lore). With the privilege given, I pushed my personal advocacy as both an exhibitor and an event organizer known. All I'm willing to say is that by an (un)fortunate turn of events, my words aimed towards one event fiasco fit the bill for another convention fiasco. Ain't that fate. (And if you ever want to check out the interview... good luck finding it without asking me🌚)

My convention prepwork and the moments leading up to the Pride event, save for a couple of difficulties (lack of sleep, crunch times, losing the will to live in the process), I am proud to say what an absolute delight the three weekends have been. The collaboration pack between me and one of my greatest friends sold like hotcakes, and I wouldn't have traded the experience for anything else, honestly. Might even be the best event in terms of sales, too!

I thought I wasn't going to survive the next work event I had after that, but my body managed to power through last weekend. This is running on ≤5 of sleep at a time, and much less on the event days, but it felt like I was still riding along the high from all the other big events in my life. I got to see a lot of my work in large-scale printing, and other people besides my co-workers have appreciate the work I've put into designing merch products.

But all of this is tiring, and I promised myself that I won't be tabling at conventions anytime soon for the sake of better health and work focus (even though I mostly dislike everything else I do over there). Couldn't have been better timing, but the best thing I want now is to learn, write, and draw lots of things. I'm trying to hold myself accountable to all of these goals now, so here's to hoping for more fanart/fanfic, and everything else in between.

Before I forget: Happy Pride! 🌈

[cuteteacakes]

Reason why I want to read The Back Passage:

"...Mitch is a handsome, insatiable 22-year-old hunk who never lets a clue stand in the way of a steamy encounter, whether it's with the local constabulary, the house secretary, or his school chum and fellow athlete Boy Morgan, who becomes his Watson when they're not busy boffing each other. When Reg Walworth is found dead in a cabinet, Sir James Eagle has his servant Weeks immediately arrested as the killer. But Mitch's observant eye pegs more plausible possibilities: polysexual chauffeur Hibbert, queenly pervert Leonard Eagle, missing scion Rex, sadistic copper Kennington, even Sir James Eagle himself. Blackmail, police corruption, a dizzying network of spyholes and secret passages, watersports, and a nonstop queer orgy backstairs and everyplace else mark this hilariously hard-core mystery..."

I don't think I want to request it from my library after all because the cover looks like this:

[grimbravado-collects]

　あるとき、夜中にふと目が覚める。正確な時刻はわからない。たぶん二時か三時か、そんなものだと思う。でも何時かというのはそれほど重要なことじゃない。とにかくそれは真夜中で、僕はまったくのひとりぼっちで、まわりには誰もいない。いいかい、想���してみてほしい。あたりは真っ暗で、なにも見えない。物音ひとつ聞こえない。時計の針が時を刻む音だって聞こえないーー時計はとまってしまったのかもしれないな。そして僕は突然、自分が知っている誰からも、自分が知っているどこの場所からも、信じられないくらい遠く隔てられ、引き離されているんだと感じる。自分が、この広い世界の中で誰からも愛されず、誰からも声をかけられず、誰にも思い出してももらえない存在になってしまっていることがわかる。たとえ僕がそのまま消えてしまったとしても誰も気づかないだろう。それはまるで厚い鉄の箱に詰められて、深い海の底に沈められたような気持ちなんだよ。気圧のせいで心臓が痛くて、そのままふたつにびりびりと張り裂けてしまいそうなーーそういう気持ってわかるかな？

　それはおそらく人間が生きている中で経験するいちばん辛いことのひとつなんだ。ほんとうにそのまま死んでしまいたいくらい悲しくて辛い気持だ。いや、そうじゃない、死んでしまいたいというようなことじゃなくて、そのまま放っておけば、箱の中の空気が薄くなって実際に死んでしまうはずだ。それはたとえなんあかじゃない。ほんとうのことなんだよ。それが真夜中にひとりぼっちで、目を覚ますことの意味なんだ。それもわかる？

　でもそのときずっと遠くで汽笛の音が聞こえる。それはほんとうにほんとうに遠い汽笛なんだ。いったいどこに鉄道の線路なんかがあるのか、僕にもわからない。それくらい遠くなんだ。聞こえたか聞こえないかというくらいの音だ。でもそれが汽車の汽笛であることは僕にはわかる。聞違いない。僕は暗闇の中でじっと耳を澄ます。そしてもう一度、その汽笛を耳にする。それから僕の心臓は痛むことをやめる。時計の針は動き始める。鉄の箱は海面へ向けてゆっくり浮かび上がっていく。それはみんなその小さいな汽笛のせいなんだね。聞こえるか聞こえないか、それくらいかすかな汽笛のせいなんだ。そして僕はその汽笛と同じくらい君のことを愛している。

— 夜中の汽笛について、あるいは物語の効用について

CN

“一次，半夜突然醒来。” 他开始讲述，“确切时间不清楚，大约两三点吧，也就是那个时间。什么时候并不重要，总之正是夜深时分，我完完全全孤单一个人，身边谁也没有。好吗，请你想象一下，四下漆黑一片，什么也看不见，什么也听不见，就连时钟声都听不见，也可能钟停了。我忽然觉得自己被隔离了开来，远离自己认识的人，远离自己熟悉的场所，远的无法置信。在这广大世界不为任何人爱，不为任何人理解，不为任何人记起——我发现自己成了这样的存在。即使我就这么消失不见，也没有人察觉。那种心情，简直就像被塞进厚铁箱沉入深海底。由于气压的关系，心脏开始痛，痛得像要咔嚓咔嚓裂成两半，这滋味你可知道？”

“这大概是人活着的过程中所能体验到的最难以忍受的一种感觉。又伤心又难受，恨不得直接死掉算了。不不，不是这样，不是死掉算了，而是如果放在那里不管，就真的死掉了，因为铁箱里的空气越来越稀薄了。这可不是什么比喻，是真的。这也就是在深夜里孤孤单单醒来的含义。这你也明白？”

“不过当时听见很远很远的地方有汽笛声，非常非常遥远。到底什么地方有铁路呢？莫名其妙。总之就那么远，声音若有若无，但我知道那是火车的汽笛声，���定是，黑暗中我竖耳细听，于是又一次听到了汽笛声。很快，我的心脏不再痛了，时针开始走动，铁箱朝海面慢慢浮升。而这都是因为那微弱的汽笛声的关系。汽笛声的确微弱，听见没听见都分不清，而我就像爱那汽笛一样爱你。”

En

Concerning the Sound of a Train Whistle in the Night

or On the Efficacy of Stories

Murakami Haruki (© 1995 by Haruki Murakami).

The girl asks the boy a question: “To what extent do you love me?”

After thinking for a moment, the youth answers quietly, “As much as a train whistle in the night.”

Keeping silent, the girl waits for the tale to continue. Without a doubt, there is a story to be had.

“Once, I suddenly woke up in the middle of the night,” he begins. “I wasn’t sure of the exact time, I think it was probably around two or three o’clock. But what time it was isn’t all that important. Anyway, it’s the middle of the night and I was completely alone, there wasn’t anyone else there. Can you imagine what that’s like? You can’t see anything; you’re surrounded by complete darkness. There is not even one sound to be heard, not even the ticking of the hands of a clock counting down the time- perhaps the clock has stopped? Then I suddenly felt completely isolated, separated some unbelievable distance from everyone and everyplace I know. I realised that I had become someone who no one, in this huge, wide world, loved anymore, someone to whom no one would speak, who no one would even remember. If I suddenly disappeared one day, feeling like this, nobody would even notice. I felt like I’d been jammed into a heavy, iron box which had been sunk to the very bottom of the ocean. Because of the pressure, my heart was aching, I felt as if I was going to be torn in two, to explode- you know this feeling?”

The girl nods. She believes she knows what he means.

The boy continues his story. “I think that this feeling is probably one of the hardest things we humans experience during our lives. I felt almost as if I wanted to die, it was that painful a sensation. No, that’s not it… it’s not that I wanted to die, it’s more like that if things had been left like that, with the air in that iron box gradually becoming thinner, I actually would have died. This isn’t just some metaphor, this is the truth. This is what it means to wake up all alone in the middle of the night. Do you still understand me?”

The girl keeps silent and nods. The boy allows a moment to pass.

“But then, I hear the sound of a train whistle all the way off in the distance. This whistle, it is really, really far away. I don’t even know where the train tracks would be, the sound is that far away… so far away that I am not even sure if I truly heard it. But I am absolutely positive that it was the sound of a train whistle. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind. I lay in the darkness, opening my ears to the silence and then I hear the sound of that whistle again. My heart stops aching. The hands of the clock start to move once more. The iron box slowly starts to float back up towards the surface of the ocean. All this happened because of the sound of that whistle, right? All because of a whistle whose sound was so faint that I could barely hear it. And the point is, I love you just as much as that train whistle.”

Just like that, the boy’s short story was complete. Next time, the girl will tell her own story.

Translated by Thomas Baudinette with reference to the translation by Michael Emmerich