#truth about root canals

[pparacxosm]

uta hagen

(divorced!art donaldson x reader; tw divorce obviously; tw sporadic mentions of violent or otherwise shitty partners; that sounds intense but this is actually a fun time i swear; cw a little smut; as a treat; tw ironic intimacy; kaz write a normal romance where one or both people aren't hypercritical of the other challenge ((impossible)); tw group therapy; tw condensing of tashi duncan's character for narrative reasons but i hope you know me well enough by now to know where my heart lies; whoever came up with the art donaldson calvin klein campaign headcanon i owe you a kidney; tw exploiting therapeutic exercises for sexual tension lol; tw hamfisted closure; raymond carver easter egg for all who have the eyes to see)

Before anything happens, Art Donaldson is just another guy in the “Learning to Let the Ex Go” group therapy session you signed up for.

It occurs to you, pretty quickly, that Art Donaldson has zero intention of letting his ex go. Dr Harper has this question he asks all the newcomers.

You’re having circle time with a bunch of adults on a Friday afternoon. So that look of longsuffering on the new guy's face isn’t particularly remarkable. You note a few furtive whispers and glances his way. But then this sad little workshop is mostly comprised of weepy middleaged women. They, too, kicked up a ruckus when that silver fox with the Harley—Rick—deigned to grace the room with his impossible biceps for a single, cigarettescented session two weeks ago.

What you’re saying is you know he’s handsome.

And, anyway, you’d never hold anything against your motley crew. Agnes invited you to her neighbourhood book club. Padma brings little clingwrapped trays of desserts every other week. These are your gal pals. Your bereaved bosom buddies. You wouldn’t begrudge them their eye candy.

Dr Harper says, “So,” and claps his hands the way he starts every session, narrowing his eyes with that scarily sentimental smile and sweeping his gaze around the circle. He makes a point to make eye contact with every single person for two whole seconds, as though he knows something you don’t. Then, “As you can see, we are not as few as we once were.”

He tends to speak in that meandering sort of way. He makes a flourishing gesture with his clipboard, as if setting a stage, and says,

“If you wouldn’t mind introducing yourself, and letting us know…” He pauses for effect. He tends to do that, too. “… Why can’t you let your ex go?”

You do the guy the favour of not laving him in that expectant stare people seem to love doing here. You fiddle with your fingers and listen to the uneasy knell of his sneakers against the linoleum. The stilted whine of his little plastic foldout chair. You cast him a glance as stands. He’s sort of tall, but not imposing. His fingers fidget at his sides like he’s awaiting a time bomb.

When he speaks, he looks so upset you’d think he’s getting a root canal. “Uh, hi. I’m Art, uh… just Art.”

And, at the time, you think this is kind of strange.

The next week, when Dr Harper brings a purple tennis racket with Just Art’s face on the front to get him to sign it for his daughter—which you already think is unprofessional and a bit presumptuous, considering how few people actually return for a second session, and how fascinatingly tortured he looked all throughout the first—you will think oh. And then his whole humble kicked puppy thing will feel a little annoying. But that’s besides the point.

On that first day, while he’s standing there awkwardly, and every shriek of his shoes against the ground is making him wince like he’s sporting stab wounds, and he keeps casting very conspicuous glances at the clock, Dr Harper asks why can’t you let your ex go?

And the thing about that question is it’s mostly rhetorical. Sure, it’s supposed to make you think. But the ultimate unearthing there is of the truth that there is no real reason. And such is the first step to selfactualising change and so on and so forth. You get it.

There’s a couple answers you come to expect. The notably lachrymose will get to weeping straight away. Because I’m pathetic! you remember someone wailing, which made you feel like a bit of a sadist, just sitting there and watching. You’re pretty sure you’d said a less than kind, I don’t fucking know, on your first day, but you’ve grown since then, and you appreciate Dr Harper’s abiding effusiveness despite that.

But Just Art releases a contrite sort of exhale and says, “Because I still love her.”

Which—okay—strikes you as a bit overkill.

A tissue discreetly finds his palm, but he only rumples it into a ball.

Dr Harper nods sagely, leaning back in his seat, steepling his fingers under his chin.

“Go on,” he prompts in that gentle, needling way he does.

You don’t Google him. You don’t really need to. Dr Harper keeps intentionally-unintentionally peppering sporadic little pearls of information about him into conversation like some sort of bizarre BINGO game.

Like—for example—when he’s passing out little notepads and outlining your task of writing unflinchingly honest farewell letters to your exes, he tacks on, “—it’ll be tough, but it’s no Wimbledon, am I right, Donaldson?”

And Just Art’s ears will turn a dazzling shade of crimson.

You file these little tidings away in some less important corner of your mind, passively constructing a criminal profile.

Padma brings her son to a session, which you’re pretty sure she’s not allowed to do. Luckily, the kid doesn’t internalise any of Padma’s scathing anecdotes about his father because he’s too busy marvelling at his own freshly signed Art Donaldson racket.

There seems to be a new racket to sign every week.

You doubt people actually give this much of a shit about tennis. But—anyway—you suppose if fucking Michael Cera rocked up and joined the circle, everyone would be hauling a Superbad poster out from some dusty corner, too. Such is the nature of celebrity.

Dr Harper, for one, appreciates the effervescence. He seems to think the mere presence of a famous athlete will motivate everyone in the room to face with renewed fervour their own pathetic little romantic quagmires.

Well, it’s that, or a strange personal infatuation he houses with the guy. Probably both.

You don’t Google him. You don’t Google him, nor his conceivably equally famous exwife. You don’t need to. Dr Harper seems to think it necessary to give you all regular progress reports on that whole imbroglio.

You know there’s news—perhaps unfortunate news—by the colour of Dr Harper’s voice when he says, haltingly, “And Art… how have you been doing?”

By the severity with which Dr Harper nods as Art reads his letter. (“Tashi,” he begins, and one of those not so furtive whispers ricochets around the room, another tissue in his hand; you think it’s Agnes who’s slipping them).

By the abject enthusiasm with which Dr Harper declares what real progress Art is making. Like he’s one of those zoo animals being parallelreared with a human child, and he’s starting to glean the art of speech without being prompted.

This is all saying something, for whom you know to be an already colourful, severe, enthusiastic Dr Harper.

What you gather is a vague impression that Art’s exwife tortured him psychologically by wielding his body and tennis career as serrated edges by which to flay their marriage intricately, slowly. And then there’s something about her repeatedly sleeping with his exbestfriend? Which—big whoop. Eleanor’s boyfriend tried to kill her, which you feel is a marginally more exceptional love story.

A month in, you realise what’s really bothering you is the untruth.

Art Donaldson has zero intention of letting his ex go. He still loves her. He opened with that.

He reads his letter (that reads a lot more like a draft for vow renewals) aloud to the room. Everyone looks at him with these misty eyes like he’s just chainsawed his chest open and wrested his heart from his arteries while simultaneously reciting Sappho.

Which is to say—and you’re no doctor, but—what fucking progress?

You don’t think you’re the patron saint of therapy or anything. But you’ve paid decent money to be here, and you’ve spent more afternoons than you’d stomach admitting on guided meditation. You’re doing The Work, as they say.

You get it; you do. Losing a relationship can feel like a death. Losing yours certainly felt like the Sun had imploded. But Eleanor—you’ll mention again—could be dead. Your jaded inner voice struggles to identify with this probably deplorably wealthy Adonis who can't seem to cut the racket strings.

So you think it’s a little irresponsible to glorify the abject pining of this crestfallen man. All flaxenhaired and broadshouldered like Prince Charming lamenting bedside of Sleeping Beauty.

This is a class about severance.

Art Donaldson seems to weave himself inextricably around something. The love of his wife, sure, that’s obvious enough. But there’s something. Something. Something very sad, sure, but not sad in the way you’re all so sad around here. A different kind of sad.

You’re trying to figure it out.

So you spend some time doing that. Trying to figure him out. You expect to start to hate him the more you stare. The more you note the weird slope of his nose, his selfdeprecating laughter.

But you don’t.

In fact, you find it delightfully, uncomfortably strange. He carries himself like an interloper to despair. Not like he thinks he’s above it necessarily—you’d thought that (reproachfully) for a while—rather like sadness is one of many things stored at the other side of the city, and he keeps missing the train.

Like these brilliant sorrowers are deigning to include him in their orbit, even though he doesn’t belong. If he remains silent, maybe they won’t notice that he’s not one of them. Better yet, conceivably, he’ll actually belong one day.

That’s what it’s like. Like he’s striving for sorrow. Like he’s working with something worse than sorrow and is saying, you know what? I’d rather take the sorrow.

In the exercise you’re doing this week, you’re supposed to personage your ex and act out your final argument. Take your scene partner’s hands and look into their eyes and everything. Dr Harper makes a big deal about how he's not trying to trigger anyone's relationship trauma, but that feels like a lie. You can’t imagine a productive reason to make a bunch of lonely, divorced adults hold hands in a cruel parody of their last brush with fleshdeep connection.

And anyway, fuck this shit.

That doesn’t mean you won’t communicate circles around it. You’re doing The Work, after all.

But fuck it hard.

His hands sort of swallow yours. They are warm and calloused and a little sweaty.

You were, at first, excited by the idea of this proximity. Excited in the way a cultural anthropologist would be, at the prospect of conducting participant research. But now you’re here. Sitting at the edges of your little plastic foldout chairs. Your knees between his. And his fingers are curled pretty firmly around yours. He looks about as comfortable as a grade schooler called to the chalkboard. And you’re the one who’s been sitting around observing him from a distance and gleaning your data and passing your judgement all this time, but it is he who makes—and holds—eyecontact.

His eyes are dusky and intent—molten navy—like he’s seeing past your skin and bone. And you are less than pleased by this subversion.

So when he shifts and his knee brushes your outer thigh, a potent shock of heat resounding through the denim, and he clears his throat and mumbles, “Sorry,” you say,

“You could back up a bit.”

His expression falters. You must admit, there is something alluring in his being disappointed by your little rejection. Anyone looking at it from the outside would find the whole thing pretty ludicrous. That you could say no, that he would even ask.

Dr Harper comes up and puts his hands atop both your heads, which feels more than a little patronising. He squats to be eye level between the two of you and whispers, “Do you know why I paired you two together?”

For a moment, you almost roll your eyes. When all is said and done, and the skull speaks and the bell tolls, your primary takeaway from your time Learning to Let the Ex Go is that Dr Harper has a spectacular penchant for assigning meaning where there is absolutely none.

If he paired you with Art based on eyelash hue, would he come up with some reason for that? Probably, you think.

But what he says next manages to throw you.

“You two…” he begins, pausing for effect. Because, of course. And Art shifts his weight uncomfortably, quite literally wincing as he accidentally bumps your knee again. He glances fleetingly in your direction, ears gone florid, but you have little time to delight in this before Dr Harper stands up straight again and delivers his verdict, “… have the same problem.”

You make a face like you have just seen a lizard eat a bird.

And fucking Art, of all people, has this look in his eyes, this look that’s almost hopeful. Like some explanation is finally to be offered for what the hell is wrong with you.

And you don’t care for that shit. At all.

You bark out a laugh. “I don’t think so.”

Which is, of course, when Dr Harper’s gaze sharpens like a scalpel and locks on you, like you’ve said exactly what he predicted you would say.

Which you care for even less.

He doesn’t look smug. Not exactly. He doesn’t even look vindicated. The only way to describe that look on his face is total delight. Cat with the canary in his maw.

Art seems very committed to staring at the ground, now. Trying, perhaps, to evade something of a brewing storm. You’re tempted to reach up and flick his head for his cowardice, but his hands are—very tightly, now, you’ll note—still holding yours.

“You two are both at mercy to judgement,” Dr Harper declares, and he’s still got your head in his palm like a basketball, and all that selfregulatory yoga feels fucking useless right about now.

You shift to look up at him better. “I’m not at mercy to judgement,” you inform him as calmly as you are able, and maybe you’re disproving his point in this moment by being so affected by this analysis, but you sincerely believe that you’re generally pretty hardwearing.

Dr Harper pauses for effect. “You are at mercy to your own judgement...” Another pause. And you’re about to tell him that—nice fucking try, but—you’re actually a remarkably selfassured person who rarely, if ever, gives yourself to negative selftalk. But then, “... Of others.”

And now it occurs to you that the fucking room has gone silent. And you feel like your eyes have all but crossed in simmering anger. Because—okay—everyone here is crazy, and miserable, and a little fucking pathetic, but you’ve prided yourself on being the least crazy one here.

And fuck.

Fuck if you’re not proving his point right now.

When you open your mouth to argue—because you are going to disagree, if only for the sake of disagreeing—Art Donaldson’s fingers screw up firmer around yours, like he’s some sort of sentient lie detector, and you’re about to ask him where the fuck he gets off, but Dr Harper isn’t done.

He turns, now, to Art.

“And you…” he says. You’re getting seasick with all the pausing. “Donaldson. You’re at mercy to others’ judgements of you, my man.”

So Art, you see out of the corner of your eye, looks like he’d rather debone himself than be sitting here.

And fine.

Okay.

Let’s all agree that that much is true. That Art Donaldson lives and dies by the judgement of others, and you live and die in the name of it. Fine.

Even so, you can’t help but think that these are directly antithetical problems to have.

And, in practice, if you’re a callous shrew, and he’s an open wound, you’ll probably kill him. Or something.

But now Dr Harper’s pushing your heads together like a ref before a rugby match. And he crouches down again. And Art’s nose brushes yours, and your lash swipes his cheek, and you can smell the coffee Dr Harper was just drinking.

And he says, “Let. First serve.”

Then he stands again and pats Art’s shoulder like they’re old friends, and gives a wink to the room at large.

He saunters away. Art looks like someone is pointing a gun to his head. But really it’s just your—heartlessly selfrighteous, apparently—forehead still against his. His skin is feverwarm.

You pull away.

Of course no one takes the exercise seriously.

In its defense, you think, there’s very little that goes down in this room that can be veritably labelled a ‘serious’ event. Most of it—the guided meditations, the writing exercises, Dr Harper’s entire vibe—feels like you happened to miss some crazy event that tore reality asunder and tipped you over into a sadistically tragicomedic alternate universe.

But if you all were to sincerely sit here, knees to knees with mourning strangers, and concretise this litany of other strangers who have wounded you all irrevocably in different ways—shit—Harper’d be sitting with a fetid heap of weeping corses.

So—well.

Eleanor’s chasing Ally around the hall with a her fingers hoisting an invisible shiv yelling, I love you, I love you, you bitch. Which is certainly one way to contend with a murderous exlover, you guess.

Padma and Colin are treating this as a gossip session. You can tell because you can hear that delighted peal of laughter she emits whenever someone interjects one of her—deeply engrossing, by the way—caustic vignettes about her exhusband with a little observational jab at the guy.

Most people are laughing. Or making fun. You catch fleeting dregs of remarkably hilarious conversation from all angles and are reminded why you keep coming back here.

The only person, however, who seems to have really taken Dr Harper’s thought experiment to the harp of his heart—much to your horror—is Art Donaldson.

He sets his elbows on his knees and leans forward. You get a waft of him. Something acerbic like citrus, and maybe pine. He blinks up at you with this almost regrettable intensity. Like he’s about to tell you that he has to pull your teeth. But he’s not thrilled about it. You’re still deciding if you’re flattered by the notion. He’s looking at you like he’s trying to glean the pattern of your sinew with his eyes alone.

“I’ll be you,” he says, his voice low and soft. And there’s a hoarse quality to it, like he’s just run up a staircase.

You’re suddenly very aware of all the noise around the two of you. The laughter, the bedlam. Something faintly percussive.

His thumbs swipe over your knuckles, which you’re hoping is an absent thing.

You blink. Your face is overcast with a less than kind, more than unimpressed glower.

“You’re serious?” you deadpan.

He looks serious as the end times. His fingers twitch around yours. You feel his knuckles like piano keys against your palm.

Dr Harper has essentially told this man that you have something he doesn’t. Something he needs. And now—with a tenacity you can only imagine churns through his bones by rote—he seems determined to find it.

He’s gripping your hands like you’re the fucking racket.

He leans down further, elbows pressing into his thighs, and his face gets alarmingly close to your fingers. A whisper of heat against your nailbeds.

When his tongue dips out to swipe the chapped coral edge of his upper lip, you nearly flinch, because you think that wet will touch you. But it doesn’t.

He peers up at you intently. You see the way his throat shifts under his wan skin as he swallows.

“I’m as serious as you want me to be,” he says. He is absurdly sincere, but also something else.

Your brows twitch, and you frown, because you are now realising that, even after several weeks of careful observation, you do not have even a remote understanding of this man to speak of. You feel like an academic whose thesis has just been rejected, and now they’re back to square one of some miserable odyssey. Moreover, this is all just unutterably ridiculous, so you sigh and roll your eyes and shift in your seat, your knee knocking against his inner thigh.

“Fine,” you say, “You be me.”

Art’s face is set in what you first think is determination, but are incredibly unnerved to discover is him getting into character. He’s trying to emulate that vaguely bitter perennial scowl of yours. He looks like a bitch—which means he’s pretty fucking dead on.

You’re almost impressed.

Of course, he still looks sad. There’s a vulnerability his mimicry cannot conceal. But you think he’s finding something cathartic in wearing the hue of your passive vitriol.

You tell him to express a perfectly reasonable grievance to you—and you yourself are now rolling your shoulders and slinking into the ethos of a gaslighting asshole—like how you never wash the dishes. Like, ever.

He clears his throat.

“You never do the dishes.”

You swallow.

“Right…” you murmur.

You’re still a little facetious about this whole thing, but there is that intensity in his gaze that wrests you into the moment like a fervid point of gravity.

“Well, now I—as my ex—would probably tell you—” You roll your eyes again, but now it is at the memory you’re unsheathing. “—oh, you’re being dramatic. I was just about to do them. Why are you always on my ass?”

And Art’s nose wrinkles, like the memory is offensive to him, too.

He looks you over like a sawbones trying to determine a patient’s symptoms. Mapping out the incision.

“Then I—you—would say…” He’s speaking really slowly, too. Like he’s giving you the chance to object where you see fit, on grounds of mischaracterisation. “I would say that you always say you’re going to do all kinds of things. But you never actually do them.”

“Exactly!” you blurt, kneejerk. But then you catch yourself. Flex your fingers a bit in his. Clear your throat and put on your best impression of a total dolt again. “Okay—oh, maybe you’re too busy focusing on the little stuff I don’t do to recognise the large sacrifices I make for our relationship.”

He scoffs.

It’s your scoff. A facsimile of that incredulous ire you seem to always be evincing. It’s deeply disturbing.

“What sacrifices?” You can’t tell who’s asking.

“W—” You falter. Swallow. It takes you a moment—like you’re emerging from deep water—to answer, as your ex, “Well, I moved here, didn’t I? Packed up all my shit and left my friends, my family, fucking everything. To be with you.”

“I didn’t ask you to move.”

“You didn’t,” you confirm quickly. And you can’t tell who’s saying that, either. But you put on the voice again, and say, “You didn’t. But I still did it for you. And I don’t think you’ve ever said thank you. Or sorry.”

A beat.

Your hands go slack in his. You sigh. “You never say sorry.”

Art’s eyes search you like a probe.

Your shoulders are stonerigid and the blood is rushing like torrent through your ears because—somehow—this feels uncomfortably like a fight. Like that fight. And your body seems keen on adjusting the scoreboard accordingly.

His thumbs rub your knuckles again, in a way that feels a lot less idle this time.

“I’m still not going to say sorry,” he guesses with a marginal tentativeness, but a general certainty in his assessment.

You swallow again. “Yeah,” you rasp, “You’re not.”

It occurs to you that this exercise is a little like immolation.

He’s supposed to be acting like you. But he’s acting like you at your worst, and doing so—to his credit—a little more accurately than you’d like to admit.

It strikes you as unfair. And excoriating. And you picture yourself tackling Dr Harper to the ground and choking him out.

And then Art says, “We’ve been having this fight for…?”

“Two months,” you mumble. You’re not even doing the voice anymore.

Art clicks his teeth, a sentimental crease at the corner of his eye. “I think we should break up.”

You sigh. “Yeah, probably.”

“It’ll be really hard for me.”

A guess again, but then you’re here. Doing The Work. Holding hands and roleplaying. It’s not inconceivable that you didn’t take the breakup exceptionally.

Your lip twitches. “You’ll survive.”

He pushes off his elbows and sits up straight, his knees sidling fully around your thighs, now unashamed. He gives you a look. A different one. His mouth purses to the side in some alloy of pensive amusement, a dimple delved into his cheek. His gaze coruscates with a deep cornflower intrigue.

“I think I will, actually,” he says finally.

And he has the nerve to smile. Revoltingly soft and sympathetic.

He gives your hands a parting squeeze before dropping them in your lap, his chair scraping loud the linoleum as he backs off.

You call your ex that night.

“Hey, listen,” you say, “Sorry.”

Dr Harper’s probably somewhere creaming his pants so fervently as to have rendered himself numb in a state of gleeful stupor.

“Hey,” husks your ex—who, for his flaws, has always been more magnanimous than you—before chuckling, “No worries.” You can hear that easy smile of a life unburdened by you in his voice.

Which is fine.

“How are you?” he asks then, “You good? You surviving?”

You smile wryly. You feel like you’ve been flogged by four consecutive eighteenwheelers. “I think I will, actually.”

You Google Art Donaldson.

You’re having a drink with Eleanor and Ally and Colin and a few others from the group, and you’re basically shitting all over the whole programme in a very hush-hush sort of way because you all know what an Opportunity For Growth this has been, when Art walks into the bar and spots your table and nods at the whole gang. The mood quickly shifts. Excitement, sure, but a collective wordless agreement that the lighthearted gossip between real friends ends here. You feel bad. It’s not his fault.

Art slides into your booth with beer floats and greets Colin, who’s looking at him with a senex’s disdain because he was just telling you all how he’s thinking of getting hair plugs. Again, not Art’s fault.

Art’s in camouflage, with his baseball hat and T-shirt, which you think is unnecessary because—again—you’re still quite certain no one gives enough of a shit about tennis as to recognise him in a bar.

When he slides into the booth—into the space between you and Colin—he’s careful to leave a distance between the two of you. Which you only really notice at all because you’re acutely aware of exactly how much space occupies the expanse between the two of you at any given instance.

A bunch of people at the table are already looking at him like he’s some sort of foreign dignitary.

You don’t think athletes are necessarily charming by nature, and you refuse to give Art Donaldson that kind of credit, but he doesn’t have to try very hard to make himself agreeable to everyone.

He buys a round for the whole group. He asks after jobs, and the state of marriage, and family, and life. He seems sincere enough.

You all start chatting about the various horrific relationships that lead you here, as though they were all particularly uninteresting ham and cheese sandwiches. Colin’s exfiancée diagnosed with early onset dementia. Ally’s exgirlfriend developing a heroin habit. You’ve all jabbed and scrutinised these woes to deflated nothingness, by now. None of it hurts anymore. Is that the whole point? You still don’t know.

No one knows by what fancy Dr Harper pushes you all about in his great cosmic dance of personal selfimprovement.

You do know that Art remains quiet. Generally inconspicuous, but then you’re you, so you’re paying attention. And you don’t think he should get to sit there like an archaeologist recording the fossils of your collective melancholy, as though his own warm and living bones are out of the question.

Maybe you all can pull up the People.com article, A Comprehensive Timeline of Art and Tashi Donaldson’s Perfect Relationship and Messy Divorce, and have it contribute to the conversation.

Eleanor’s telling a story about the time her ex wrested her from bed and lobbed her out of the house at 2 AM in midwinter.

“And we lived in Duluth,” Eleanor’s saying, and she’s laughing in that disconcertingly manic way she does when she shares these things. “And I sleep halfnaked, so I’m fighting frostbite, and I’m just totally mortified that one of my neighbours will see me.”

“There’s nothing embarrassing about being halfnaked,” Ally shrugs.

And then you say, “Ha, yeah, I mean Art would know.”

Art—who, until now, looked like he was studiously contemplating the meniscus of his beer, or the grain of the table—flicks his gaze up to you.

You snort. “What, I’m supposed to act like everyone here hasn’t seen you oiled up and smouldering to the camera for Calvin Klein?”

A brief hush descends upon the table like a falling guillotine.

Then, laughter.

Eleanor snorts her gin and soda with such force that she coughs for a solid minute afterwards. There’s tears in her eyes and Colin is laughing at her and Ally is laughing at them both. And Art looks as embarrassed as a woman strewn porchside in her panties in midwinter in Duluth.

And—okay.

You were trying to be tongueincheek about it. But his discomfort levels are seemingly off the charts. He doesn’t know how to react and it makes him unhappy. Clearly, ten and something years of public scrutiny—and, in your defense, actually doing that photoshoot—have not prepared him for this moment.

You lean forward and awkwardly bump his fist with yours. “Hey, I’m kidding.”

But you’re not, because it was technically true.

“I thought it was artistic,” says Ally.

Eleanor, still crying laughing, “What, the fullpage spread of him fully waxed and laid out on a clay court surrounded by Great Danes?”

“Someone paid attention,” Colin chuckles, and Eleanor erupts into vibrant giggles again. Colin gives Art a courtesy clap on the shoulder before saying to Ally, “Maybe I’m old fashioned, but a Billboard of a guy wearing whities so tightie you can see his dickprint isn’t exactly Starry Night. But maybe I don’t get it.”

“You don’t have to worry too much about that. The art has to get you,” Ally says, pointing at him with a fry. Ally studied theatre. “I mean, we are the most complicated machinery in our lives. You have to take yourself seriously to do something like that.”

Everyone’s looking at Art like he’s some kind of colourful textbook.

It’s not often people sit beside a guy of whom they can confidently guess the naked physique.

And maybe you’re thinking that, too; you brought it up, after all. His arms look strong in his T-shirt sleeves. Not, like, bodybuilder strong. But lean and cut. And there’s a sort of animal grace to his movements. Like a fox, or something. Even as his ears burn a practically neon shade of carmine in the dim lighting.

He clears his throat. “I doubt anyone took that seriously,” he says dryly, the corner of his mouth ruefully, if hardly, upturned.

Eleanor shoves Ally playfully, swiping her tears away in a blissful mascara smear. “My God Al, will you stop scaring him with your Uta Hagen spiel?”

The conversation meanders to other topics. Fringe stuff, briefly, like the societal implications of male sexuality and modern advertising. But then things branch off entirely—The Fast and the Furious franchise, artificial intelligence, Colin’s stepson’s career aspirations of becoming a TikTok street interviewer. Et cetera.

You hope Art isn’t looking at you when you chance a glance his way, but when have you ever been so lucky?

So he’s looking at you. He looks at you like he’s taking inventory of you at your expense. He gives a slow blink, an almost imperceptible smile, then he lifts his beer towards you and takes a swig.

At the end of the night, he asks for your number, which feels like a boot to the loins. Not because it’s profoundly unbelievable. Maybe a little surprising, but, if anything, it’s the conclusion you’ve halfanticipated all night. That’s the way he’s been looking at you, at least. It’s just the finality of it all.

But what are you gonna say? No?

You call him that night.

“Hey, listen,” you say, “Sorry.”

God, what have they done to you?

Art, on the other end of the line, presumably lounging in his stately mansion, remains cautiously silent. You sigh like you’re losing something here.

“I hope I didn’t upset you,” you say, but realise your tone is too grudging, so you adjust, “I got awkward, I was trying to be funny. Which we both know by now that I’m not. I’m just a bitch. So, I just wanted to say… you obviously look fucking amazing. And your shoot was great. Everyone can see that.” 

You swallow the dryness in your throat.

Art makes his own pained noise across the receiver. “Everyone?” he groans, and you cannot tell if you’re imagining the fleeting hue of amusement you discern there. “Please no.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say here.”

“You called me,” he scoffs. It’s a good scoff, if such a thing can be said. But he still sounds pretty incredulous with you, and not in a way that says he thinks you a moral paragon. You think he thinks you’re a bit of a monster. Which doesn’t offend you, actually. “To apologise.”

“And I did!”

“Okay?”

A silence befalls you like a yawning maw, stretching out. He could hang up on you. He doesn’t.

“Look, you can internalise the things I say at your own risk,” you say.

“You’re telling me.”

“But it was a nice photoshoot. And, you know… pretty hot and stuff, which I guess was the intended purpose.”

You feel like a corpse whose arteries are being drained of blood and filled with embalming fluid.

“Pretty hot and stuff?” he echoes. You roll your eyes.

If you’re lucky, he’s tipsy, because you guys didn’t only indulge in beer floats. So, maybe—by God’s impossible mercy—he’ll have forgotten this conversation in the morning.

“I—” you hesitate, adding a small laugh, kind of hoarse, kind of unconvincing. “I—honestly—I can’t stop watching it.”

It’s not a joke, you both realise.

His voice drops an octave. “Really?”

And—fuck. Fuck, right? But you’ve made it this far.

“Really.”

You feel his eyes on you, not Tashi. Harper has you all thronged around a burn barrel in the community centre parking lot at 8 PM on a Wednesday. Scintillating honeygold flames lick at the night and shadow his face at pretty angles. And he’s reading his letter—that letter—and looking at you.

That’s bad.

This is supposed to be a cathartic and utterly sexless exercise in closure.

But you feel like a filthy fraud.

You’re crossing your arms, and blinking off the flameheat, and pretending not to stare at the scarp of his Adam’s apple and his tendons working beneath the skin of his hands.

He clears his throat, and his lips are moving like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Tashi,” he starts.

Her name, when he says it, still sounds like a tender orison. But last time he’d been reciting this thing, his eyes had been all flushed, raw, and misty, his voice abraded at its edges. Now—well—Agnes hasn’t slipped him a tissue in weeks.

“I still love— do we have to do this again? Can’t I just throw it in?”

The group sputters into giggles. You don’t know who brought the sweet Moscato.

Dr Harper pinches his nosebridge like an enervated preschool teacher. You think he, of all people, ought to be pleased—and you suspect he furtively is, but doesn’t want to discourage your good spirits with his approval—because, as much as you’re loathed to acknowledge it, all his forcible, unwelcome attempts at conjuring vulnerability amongst the lot of you have actually kind of worked.

The fire warms your brows to dampness, the saccharine acidity of the spirit seeping through your flesh and sweltering the rest of you. You should’ve worn a thinner sweater.

“Art,” says Dr Harper, “Your feelings are valid. Even—” The group interjects with a smattering of jeers, a slurred, densetongued amalgam of fuck you! and get a life, Harper! and other stuff to that effect. “—even your reluctance.”

The flames thrash deep indigo and copper. No one can quit laughing.

Dr Harper continues, “But the whole point of the exercise is—”

“Come on, Doc, we’re still pretending these exercises have points?” someone heckles.

“We’re still calling these exercises?” says someone else.

“Hurry up and cry already, Donaldson, I got work tomorrow.”

“Alright, alright,” Art raises a hand and everyone wanes to a simmer of firewarm drunken murmurs as though he’s some sort of Biblical king.

You roll your eyes, but you keep thinking of Great Danes on tennis courts and tightiewhities.

Everyone cheers like this is fucking Madison Square Garden when Art holds his hand out for the bottle, teeth scintillating in the pyreglow with a wry slanting smile.

He takes a long, healthy swig. You think you hear someone whistle. His lips gleam with moisture when they pop off the glass bottlemouth.

“You wanna see me cry?” he grins, eminently rueful and amused and resigned, all at once.

And everyone hurrahs and hollers and maybe some people even bark. He’s being pushed around affectionately from all angles. His gaze is sharp and garlanded by flames and trained on you. You raise your brows at him wryly, perhaps a little dubious, before lifting your hands and joining in the applause.

He clears his throat and sweeps his tongue over his upper lip and flicks the paper out like a Shakespearean scroll.

“Tashi,” he starts again.

You watch the fire lave and singe and swallow all your bitter, pathetic epistles.

Tashi.

I still love you. I’m still sorry. For something, or everything. For anything, really. It’s mostly okay, but it’s worse at night. And on weekends, and with Lily, and when the microwave starts making that shitty sound that you hated.

I miss you deep in my bones. I—

The flames scorch his words to flickering cinders.

You look at him, and he looks at you, and his bottom lashes glisten with tears. But he’s grinning widely. He’s laughing. He’s laughing a lot. Padma sings ‘Auld Lang Syne’, for some reason.

The goodbyes are a little maudlin, but sincere.

It’s time for you to all go home and actually get over your exes, which feels a bit jilting.

Art walks you to your car, and you let him, and you even let him get in your car, which is probably not a good idea. But it’s the end of the stupid workshop and you want to spend more time together. There, you can admit it.

You even say it out loud.

“I’m gonna miss this corny bullshit.”

“Yeah, me too,” he says, a little more quiet.

When the middle backseat belt buckle is digging sharply into your hip, and he’s got you pinned beneath him, and his hands are everywhere—seriously, it seems he was just waiting for your permission, because he’s squeezing all the flesh he can reach, slipping his hands under your shirt, between your thighs, just absolutely no decorum on this guy—you think to yourself, this motherfucker.

A spherule of spearmint gum slips from his mouth and into yours.

You’d thought, too, that he’d be more deft with this. And he is, but he’s also very clunky. Maybe because your car’s quite small. He’s not huge, but he is still fairly tall and broad and trying to fit himself between your thighs while covering you with his body in this small space, so it’s a bit chaotic. You don’t really mind.

And—yes—you have thought about it.

There’s a shot of him, in the Calvin Klein campaign, sprawled across the court in greyscale, his hand resting on his middle, his other arm above his head.

You know they edit those photos. That there’s some kid, fresh out of graphic design school, rubbing one out while airbrushing these halfnaked men to oblivion. But you now see—feel, more than see, really; there’s a streetlight nearby, but it’s blown, so you’re all touch—that such satin cannot be contrived. He really is that smooth. There’s not a bit of fat on him, but he’s oddly liquidfeeling, skin sloughing off like cream.

He’s always looked almost uncomfortably boyish to you. But you’re realising now that there’s an abrasiveness to his haggard breathing, and that potent, vaguely olid, mannish fume to his skin.

It's really doing it for you.

In that shot, he was lying right beside the polyethylene net and the sun was beaming down, searing alabaster, through the lattice, at an angle that splayed shadows all across him. The lines warping over the slopes of his body.

You feel the phantom crisscross of those shadows between your thighs now.

His eyes are still a little wet. He tells you he’s wanted to do this since he saw you giving him the jettatura while he was signing that racket for Harper's daughter. He also tells you he bets you’ve wanted to do this since you saw him in tightiewhities lying under a tennis net.

Can he be your tennis net?

You don’t even know what that means.

You laugh a little, but then he slips a finger inside you and latches his mouth to your pulse, and it is hot as magma, and you forget all about Great Danes and apologies and fires.

You would think they do some computer magic to make the cocks look bigger in those things, too.

They don’t.

To be fair, he doesn’t have some kind of doubletake worthy, John Holmes ordeal or anything, in the pictures. But the slope beneath the cotton, the bend of his hips like the handle of a water pitcher, all that pearlescent skin—so what if your saliva gathered on your tongue as you leaned in (way too closely) toward your laptop screen?

You feel especially shameless now as he slides into you.

Sure, the buckle is a bitch and the seatleather’s sort of chafing your ass and your elbow’s in a cup holder. But you take furtive pleasure in thinking that some people’s fantasies about him probably go like this.

The softest thing is his hand cupping the back of your neck, dragging your head up. It’s a weird contrast to the way his dick is pumping erratically in and out of you. Like he’s trying to control himself, maybe add a little romance.

You keep your eyes open to watch the way his body moves. Fuck it, you wanna see what all the fuss is about.

The talented Mr Ripley whose volleys (and probably orgasms) are intensive, frenetic affairs of selfpersuasion. Unless, of course, he’s fucking the random, judgy woman he met in a group therapy session. In this particular case—though laboured all the same—he comes harder and slower and you hear his panting groans in your ear as you shudder through your own pleasure.

He pulls your hips closer and empties himself in you and you rub yourself against him and you try to keep your eyes open, but, ultimately, you concede that you can only experience this pleasure in the dark.

You keep feeling his muscles work beneath your hands, though.

Dr Harper strongly recommends that you two not start seeing each other. He does just about everything but get on his knees and beg. And even that he nearly does. He reminds you that, on your Vision Tree, you mapped yourself single for at least the next two years.

But Art says he’s had enough of other people saying what’s good for him.

And your Vision Tree also forecasted you taking up jogging, which—come on.

[nightmare-grass]

Odd Moon-related Connections in Genshin Lore

- Glaze Lillies and Nilotpala Lotuses only bloom at night

- Glaze Lillies may have been the favorite flower of Guizhong, who’s hair was grey/white and who’s outfit had stardust on it (she was the god of dust, so unless she was a god of stardust specifically that’s some odd things about her)

- Nilotpala Lotuses bloomed at the bleeding feet of the Goddess of Flowers after being cast out of Heaven in the wake of the Seelie disaster

- There is at least one account in Sumeru that claims Liloupar came to the people in a moonbeam. Quote: “Our prayers to the Goddess of Flowers have borne fruit. Her envoy came to us in a moonbeam, granting us life-saving medicine and clean water … …She called herself Liloupar, born of the lilies” and later in that same passage, Quote: “At moonrise, she warned us that the water from the canal may carry disease.” So many mentions of the moon in one text about Liloupar and her relation to the Goddess of Flowers.

- Seelies seem to have a moonlit sky with sparse clouds reflected in their bodies, the bright orb in their heads looks like a moon.

- Guizhong’s death produced a cloud of dust that blocks out the sky and creates a darkened area in Liyue.

- Istaroth was said to be responsible for the Sin Shades, who only show up in Evernight in the dark.

- Nahida has some moon connections in her titles, and she has white hair and pale skin, like Paimon, who has a starry pattern on her scarf like Guizhong had on her robes.

- The Goddess of Flowers built a city for her offspring, the Jinn, and she called it Ay-Khanoum, translated to English that’s the City of the Moon Maiden.

- You can link the mythologies of the Goddess of Flowers and King Deshret to King Solomon and Astarte, who was a version of Ishtar, who is the root for the name Istaroth

- The power of the Aranara is the power of dreams, they exist in the dreamscape. And with how much we use a harp to connect with Aranara, it’s just as likely that music is linked to dreams. And Venti, one of Istaroth’s thousand winds, is a bard who knows all songs past and future, and plays a harp.

- The moon sisters were named Aria, Sonnet, and Canon, literally musical terminology.

- There’s probably a connection between the three moon sisters and Teyvat’s concepts of Time, Memory, and Dreams

- One of Venti’s powers is that he can pull up memories from the far flung past

- The quest for Time and Wind has these sun dial looking things that are actually moon dials since the puzzle only activates at night

- Seelies make a jingling tune, Nahida makes a jingling tune, the Goddess of Flowers taught Rukkhadevata the “source song” which birthed the race of Aranara, and the Pari fought the abyss using the Great Songs of the Khavarena, which seem to summon pure elemental energy aligned with Dendro.

- One of the fairytales that was weirdly important to the Abyss Order before we learned that fairy tales could hold the truth about the past if it’s been rewritten/deleted in Irminsul was the Pale Princess and the Six Pygmies. I’ve already noted a few pale characters with crowns or royal status but there was also a character called the Night Mother, who seemed to be the villain of the story. Another odd Night connection.

- Andersdotter wrote The Boar Princess, her signature rose design is on the cover. A rose is also on the cover of The Pale Princess and the Six Pygmies, so could she have written that too? As a member of the Hexenzirkel, it’s pretty likely.

- The Seelies were said to be beautiful pale people, and Rukkhadevata is pale with white hair, as is Nahida. Another trait they share are elf ears. Klee is pale with fair hair, and she’s an elf; from what we know of Alice, her mom, she could look much the same. Although he’s old, Pulcinella of the Fatui Harbingers is also an elf with white hair and pale skin, fitting the description. Seelies are fairies, and elves in real world folklore are considered fae, so could the Seelies have given us the elf race in Genshin? Or the Moon Sisters, who presided over the Seelies? Elves seem to be as long lived as gods, so it’s not out of the realm of possibility.

- I think Aria, Sonnet, and Canon represented Memories, Time, and Dreams, symbolizing the past, present, and future respectively. I don’t know the order of the goddesses in their roles, but I do know they had a fight and two died, leaving only one, and wouldn’t it be something if that surviving moon goddess became Istaroth, the god of Time? Maybe even Irminsul came from the death of the moon goddess of Memory? I don’t know what could’ve happened to the goddess of Dreams, but maybe her death caused the constellations that are canonically made up of the crystalline fruits of Irminsul in the sky box of the Firmament.

(If I could post more than 10 pictures I would but you have the internet, you can look up photos of the stuff I’m talking about.)

[konniesreality]

Hi, okay, I just have to complain a bit. And if you have some tips to me, like for example “try doing this”, “or this”, or “take a break, you silly goose”; I am quite open to those.

Okay, I know for a fact that the void is real. I know that entering is easy, however.

I’m actually getting frustrated that it feels like I’m procrastinating like this. Like, I’m not really procrastinating, since I’m trying, but I could put in more work.

The dumb thing is that I have this feeling I can enter the void any minute now. I guess what’s stopping me is the feeling of not being confident in the sleep methods, because my ego can’t find it normal to command the subconscious to yeet me into this meditative state. Awake methods at night gives me super dry eyes- my tear canals just says “bye” and leaves. Hurts like a butt cheek on a stick, and it’s just overall an inconvenience to me.

I feel like a failure.

Oof, I’m sorry for venting to you about this. I just don’t really know what to do, and you’re my comfort blogger, so yk. Idk

It’s okay, and I’m glad you find me as your comfort blogger. The truth is, even if you deny it, you guys have over complicated this WAY to much. I understand there are certain things that are hard to believe, and I understand the procrastination thing. I want you to get off of tumblr and read this. Take the information and GO

1. Lay in a comfortable position.

2. Breathe in and fill your belly with air, then breathe out at your own pace, continue until there are no thoughts.

3. Affirm “I AM” do not condition this awareness just affirm I AM.

4. Then you’ll be in the Holy Nothing. It should take 10 minutes or less. Don’t focus on time, or symptoms.

5. Affirm and come back

See? It’s easy and simple. Just relaxing, so stop procrastinating, get your dream life honey I’m rooting for you 💗

You can get into the void with open eyes, put a sleeping mask over them (idk what you mean by dry eyes)

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

Tidbit Tuesdays: And We're Back

*slides in with a coffee and sunglasses to hide the dark circles under my eyes*

It hasn't been two weeks since I posted, I don't know what you're talking about.

Anyway, an emergency root canal, a crown, and quite a lot of money later, I'm back on my LaDs grind. Truth be told on top of everything else, I'm going through writer's block, so WIPs is just about all I've got.

Can't commit to anything, like my teeth can't commit to my mouth.

If you've survived this rambling, bless. This week's WIPs are just a random assortment of things. And if you're new here, this is where I post things I'm proud of, just generally like, or am currently working on.

If you enjoy this (or just generally appreciate people) please leave a like or a reblog! It lets me know people like what I'm doing, and encourages me to keep writing!

---

Notes: first up is Zayne and Kiri, my MC. I recently finished catching up on the new (!!!) main storyline additions, so this is your spoiler warning before I continue.

I loved where the story went, and so decided to do a "what if" in which Kiri temporarily has her memory restructured by the Protofield and the Myst, dropped into a dreamscape that reflects Dreamwalker's world.

It's fun. It's SUPER fun. I should get back to it soon.

❄️❄️❄️

Kiri’s day ended like this:

Akso hospital had strict regimented shifts to combat the constant wave of abominations. At the end of hers, she got scanned, tested, and questioned before she was allowed to leave. A pair of military men in uniforms escorted her down out of the hospital campus, waiting with her until someone could come pick her up.

They never needed to wait long.

Zayne was almost always perfectly on time.

The black silhouette appeared silently through the thick mist, her escorts tensing before realizing who it was. She patted one on the shoulder, saying her goodbyes before stepping forward.

Her hand found Zayne's before she'd even said a word.

“How was work?” He murmured. In his other hand were groceries, the plastic sack sagging with the weight.

Kiri sighed, pulling her hair loose from its bun. “Long,” she replied. “Three more cases today. The ACU ward is overflowing already, and Chansia hospital can't take anymore. They're bursting at the seams.” She leaned into him, her pink scrubs brushing against the wool of his coat.

He frowned at her. “You took your jacket this morning. Where is it?”

“Hm?” Kiri blinked in surprise. “Oh. Someone needed it more than I did.” She smiled at his exasperated sigh, tugging on his sleeve. “Come on. I have you to keep me warm, don't I?”

Zayne shook his head, a slight smile forcing its way through his irritation. “Still. The nurse can't help people if she gets sick, can she? Your health has to come first.”

She hummed, neither agreeing nor denying it. He huffed in response. “Let's go home, my moon.”

Kiri had worked at Akso hospital as long as she could remember. She'd graduated top of her class, with perfect marks, and settled easily into her new life. Work in the Abominations Containment Unit was intense, and it seemed her coworkers were on a revolving door roster. Few people stayed as long as she did, with cases increasing every day.

It was at some point during that that she met Zayne.

A former patient of hers had cornered her in an alley, begging for help before turning into an awful, monstrous thing.

A sudden explosion of black ice had been her saving grace.

The man in black had vanished as quickly as he'd appeared, and, well…

As if following a thread of fate itself, she chased after him.

It was unconscionable for a nurse and someone like him to fall in together. Kiri was well aware she was breaking the code of ethics, not to mention the oaths she'd taken.

Yet here they were.

It felt like it had been forever since they'd gotten together.

It felt like it had been no time at all.

❄️❄️❄️

Notes: This one's been in the mental WIP for a while. I usually let ideas ferment in my head for a while before I bake them into fics, like a good sourdough.

This one focuses on Kit and Sylus, Kit being his second in command and NOT the MC. If you've been here a while, you know her. Anyway, I wanted to do a "what if Kit got hurt" thing, and as usual, they can't help bantering even when she's been stabbed. Go figure.

Fair warning, this one does feature some gruesome imagery. Not a lot though.

🐦‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐈‍⬛

The remains of the building shuddered, dust and sheetrock crumbling down. Sylus ran his flashlight over the rubble, keeping an ear out for any voices.

“Keep a low profile,” he murmured to the twins. “It's not just Kit that might be down here.”

The twins nodded firmly.

The building was a winding, gray mess, shadowed corners scurrying away at each sweep of the flashlights. Every once in a while, they would have to make a wide berth around slowly seeping pools of red, checking the remains for identification.

So far, there were only strangers.

“Fan out,” Sylus murmured. “We'll get more coverage that way.”

The twins and the other men he brought along nodded, splitting up into groups of two. All of them had radios, but it was a shot in the dark whether they would keep working in the lingering metaflux.

It was eerily quiet down here.

The rubble blocked all outside noises, leaving nothing but the occasional whisper of dust or the clatter of stone.

At last, he came to a room that was nearly intact.

It appeared to be a lab, the viewing windows completely shattered. A single threadbare bulb struggled to stay lit, swinging to and fro as it flickered dangerously.

Sylus carefully stepped inside, his feet crunching softly on the broken glass.

A body lay inside, the head twisted unnaturally. A badge on the lab coat proclaimed this to be someone who worked in the building.

The position of their hand was odd, and he leaned closer to examine it. There were faint marks to indicate they'd tightly gripped something before they died.

A second later, his instincts screamed for him to move, and he rolled out of the way, just as someone dropped down from a ceiling panel.

He swiftly got to his feet, ducking left as a shot fired, cutting through his jacket. With a lunge forward, he slammed his hand down, disarming his opponent.

A blade kissed his throat from their other hand, and he looked down into the cold, wild eyes of Kit.

“It's me, sweetie,” he said breathlessly.

Kit blinked. Her hair was messy and dusty, falling out of its usual braid. She held herself strangely, almost curling forward as she gripped the blade.

“Prove it,” she snapped.

Red mist yanked the blade from her grasp, pulling her into his arms. Sylus let just enough power through to make his eye glow without invading her thoughts. “How's that?”

She hissed in pain, grabbing his jacket to steady herself. “That works,” she grit out. “Someone had a doppelganger evol here. They looked like Evan, our diagnostics head.”

Sylus swore, thinking of the nervous man he'd spoken to before. “He might have made it out. I just spoke to Evan before we entered. Are you alright?”

Kit shook her head. “Took a piece of rebar to the side. I didn't have the luxury of keeping it stuck in there, there were people trying to kill me. How did you of all people not notice Evan?”

He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Occasionally things do escape me, kitten. It's harder to tell when the man in question is always sweating like he's in a sauna.” He glanced at her sidelong. “Speaking of, you bring up a good point. What's to say you aren't a doppelganger? A good one, but one nonetheless.”

She reared back, offended. “Excuse you! Are you implying my fighting is on the level of any average person?”

Sylus smirked. “Your ability with firearms does leave something to be desired.”

“You motherfu- eep!” Kit squeaked as Sylus picked her up, his arm settling neatly under her bottom. She clung to his shoulders as a scarlet flush swept across her skin.

He chuckled. “There's that beautiful full-body blush. No imposter after all.”

“If I survive this,” Kit snapped, “I'm going to do my best to choke you out.”

“I look forward to it.” He stepped out of the room, grabbing his radio. “Twins, can you read me?”

The radio crackled for a moment before a reply came through. “Loud and clear, boss. Has mama bird been located?”

“I take it back,” Kit muttered. “I'm killing them first, and then you.”

Sylus smiled at that. “Mama bird is with me, yes,” he replied, his eyes crinkling at the murderous glare she shot his direction. “We're exiting the building now. Withdraw and rendezvous at South Tower.”

🐦‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐈‍⬛

Note: Ahahaha. Our last one is Omegaverse. That's flustering and fun. This one's less suggestive, mostly due to the fact that I was jotting down headcanons for Omegaverse AU and it turned into mini fics. So this one is Zayne and Kiri.

❄️❄️❄️

For some reason, the universe decides to bless Kiri with the worst possible heat to go along with her myriad of health problems.

In the week leading up to it, she feels exhausted and sick, throwing up food easily and sleeping poorly.

Previous doctors have told her that it's because she has an extremely high hormone production rate, and it means she's extra fertile.

That she should be grateful.

She had to hold herself back from strangling them.

It also means she can't take suppressants.

Zayne, at least, is sympathetic. Even long before they begin a relationship, he reaches out through his connections to find her hormone specialists, people who can help her manage her symptoms.

And after they start dating, well.

He spoils her rotten.

Zayne can only really take the week of her heat off, with how vital he is to operations in Akso Hospital. However, the clean house, fresh linens, and hot food he gets for her goes a long way towards helping.

She always tries to protest his help after his shift is over, stating that he already works enough.

He just does it anyway. All her plushies get scented, her favorite pastries are bought, and her extra expensive jar of tea is left out by a new mug on the kitchen island.

She could just cry from how sweet he is.

When her heat strikes, it's similar.

Kiri becomes very particular about her nest, only choosing the most recent articles of clothing he's worn. She gets exhausted very quickly, and Zayne purchases scent blocking candles to light throughout the entire apartment.

(He's seriously considering how much it would be to get a house outside of the city. If he catches another Alpha lingering at his doorstep or below his balcony window, he's going to break his doctor's oaths on purpose)

❄️❄️❄️

Thanks for reading, and have a good Tuesday!

[tommyboweinabowtie]

About Spencer's One Ball

okay first of all disclaimer: I know that for some people this post will seem too much and I'm aware, but to be clear, all I used was what Spencer talked about publicly in videos, mostly in the 2 truths 1 lie with Tommy, everything else is Medicine and Science and statistics. I did not have access to anything else like medical records or anything related.

Also important here: I am a certified doctor, I know I just be silly online but I studied medicine and I happen to be in pediatrics, one of the few specialties that would deal with said diagnosis, so since the first time I saw that video it got me wondering exactly what kind of "condition" it would be, I was curious, so I decided to research. And bring my research findings here.

Keep in mind english is not my first language, but I tried to be clear and simple.

"Having only one ball" medical term would be "monorchism", or "monorchidism". That means only one testicle in the scrotum. (Trivia no one asked for: everything related to testicles has "orchid" in its name, the plant is also called that because it has a scrotum-looking thing in its roots). Having only one ball later in life usually means surgery or injury, but as he said, not the case.

In the video he says he was born with only one testicle. So he didn't say he had any testis removed, or that it was somewhere else, just that he only had one. Okay keep that in mind. Let's understand first how normally a testicle develops. A healthy embrio is sexually indifferent at first, the Y chromosome has a gene that makes it develop testicles instead of ovaries. That happens inside the abdomen, below the kidneys, and when the testis cells are developed, they produce an hormone that will supress other "female" anatomy. This hormone is also responsible for the descend of the testis into the scrotum. This descend happens after the seventh month of gestation. So until then the testicles are inside the abdomen. About 3% of XY term babies are born without 1 or 2 testicles in their scrotum. That's calles cryptorchidism ("hidden testicle"). It is more common in premature babies and babies with conditions such as down syndrome. More than half is unilateral. So when a baby is born doctors examine it and see if the testicles are inside their ballsack, if not, usually (80%) within the first year it has a "delayed" descent. If it is not in the scrotum, maybe the doctor sees it somewhere else, close, right above it. Little image to show where it can be found:

So directly from the simplified words from wikipedia: A testis absent from the normal scrotal position may be:

Anywhere along the "path of descent" from high in the posterior abdomen to the inguinal ring

In the inguinal canal

Ectopic, having "wandered" from the path of descent, usually outside the inguinal canal and sometimes even under the skin of the thigh, the perineum, the opposite scrotum, or the femoral canal

Undeveloped (hypoplastic) or severely abnormal (dysgenetic)

Missing (also see anorchia).

So if we can't find the testicle in the first few months, we usually ask for an ultrasound, to see if it is inside the abdomen and to search if there's any intersex characteristics, or other conditions, associated. If it is found, usually there's a surgery, either to place the testicle where it is supposed to be, or to remove it. Why not just leave it inside, or forget about it? Well, undescended testicles have a higher chance of testicular cancer. So it either has to be in the scrotum to keep it in check with self-exam and ultrasounds, or completely removed.

Spencer never mentioned a surgery, and they talked about surgeries and procedures in that episode. He'd probably have talked about it. So I don't think he had ectopic or undescended testicle.

The abnormal testicle also rules out because he would have said it was deformed or something. Not that he was born without it.

So that leaves us with anorchia. Or in his case, monorchia. (He has one normal right testicle there, the left one is missing.)

If you look for this terms you will find mostly genetical disorders, or like intersex individuals with other health issues associated. I don't think that's his case.

So what I think it is, is a condition called "Vanishing testes syndrome" or "testicular regression syndrome". It results in anorchia or monorchia. It is kinda rare, less that 5% of those with cryptorchidism. To make it simple, the embrio develops the testicle, but something happend with it along the way before the baby is born, like a torsion, or ischemia, and it "dies" or stops developing, leading to a baby without the testicle. It is more common to happen to the left testicle. The individuals usually delevop a completelly tyical male phenotype, as seems to be Spencer's case as well. (Unless the regression is bilateral and happens too early in the pregnancy, leading to lack of testosterone, but thats less usual). Some doctors and scientists recommend a surgical approach to remove the small scar tissue and remnants (0-16% of studied cases have like a tiny amount of live testicular cells in the scar tissue wherever the testicle died) to avoid potential testicular cancer as well, but it was never documented, so it is not needed, it depends on the attending doctor.

Also some patients may want to have a prosthesis implanted, for cosmetic purposes, but also not needed.

Let's just trust that Spencer was cared for by good doctors that did whatever testing it was needed and got to the most likely diagnosis.

So that was my wild research You can officially read the paper about this condition here: https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC3459158/

I have more commentary about smosh health conditions and stuff, this one just was more in my field and also spiked my curiosity, i just needed to. But like about Tommy CPR thing, Shayne drowning, probably more stuff i can't remember now. Let me know if any of you would like to see more lol.

[sabrondabrainrot]

Sun is technically the first animatronic most of the family have met. (Watch as I give shoddy examples and argue my way into convincing you to see only my truth.)

Old Moon first met Sun in the daycare mirror. (also the reverse for Sun) Sun, quite literally, is the first person Moon meets. It makes sense why they're so important to each other. It's sad it was with the circumstances they had.

Lunar when he first came to as a new AI, he met Sun (I think Lunar did meet Eclipse in the mind scape first?) while in control of Moon's body for the first time. Sun has quoted Lunar's first words on multiple occasions. It's actually a running gag to everyone's confusion but the audience's. Tickle cuttlefish 27, I'm gonna kiss your dad. Baby's first words. (I think I might have remembered the quote wrong)

Eclipse as we know used Sun's eyes to see so he like Old Moon met him by looking at an old worn mirror. I actually am not sure if I would argue Sun was the first being he met but Eclipse did gain sentience in his mind. He talks about how he knows Sun in and out so idk Imma argue Eclipse saw Sun's inner thoughts for the first time. (Eclipse did him so dirty)

For Solar, I'm theorizing when he comes back Sun might be the one to pick him up? (Eclipse did say he thinks Solar would like to probably be greeted by a friendly face) so high brain theory moment but when Solar gets his dimension signature changed to the main dimension I think Solar will most likely meet Sun first?

Bloodmoon's intro is pretty confusing but after meeting Eclipse for the first time he did go on a murder spree and then evacuate himself out Sun's body (so wouldn't he have seen him? Doing leaps of logic) Like...Sun's his first introduction into the world. (It's SO SAD I think the kids at the daycare dying from Sun's hands is the SADDEST THING EVER, Bloodmoon did everyone so dirty.)

Earth found Sun first too. She met him when he was at his lowest in a literal crater caused by himself (Eclipse did trick him but that crater is so badass). He was having the biggest breakdown of his life and Earth just approached him so calmly and held him. I adore their first ever meeting to BITS. It's such a defining moment in the show for me. New Moon, when Old Moon resent the first person to meet New Moon was Sun. Hee Hee. Sun having another emotional breakdown as he meets a baby AI in his brother's shell. It's not even the first time that's happened to Sun but man. New Moon was so giddy poor thing (praying for Nexus) he was so hyped they were brothers man.

Was Frank's first meeting with Sun too? It's pretty interesting to think of.

Rambles about Dazzle how she watched Sun from the start teehee I love that she watched him so much she could perfectly clean to the point no one noticed her. Dazzle supremacy.

Also Jack didn't start showing sentience until he basically almost accidentally killed Sun's cats. He went out of his way to appease those cats and called them his masters and brought them treats. I think that was his first earliest acts of sentience and even that had something to do with Sun.

If I missed anything please let me know (I crave the Sun content)

anyways this is just the crazy rambles of a Sun simp. I bet this has been said before but I just wanted to ramble cause Sun is my bookie. Can't stop rambling about my blorbo. He's special to me~

👉👈

Also got my root canal today it was traumatic and horrible but went well. I wanted a hug after and didn't get it but at least my mom took me to the fabric store. I was very brave today. (also been literally typing this spiel since this morning)

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

Daughter of the Rain and Snow

Concept: Around ten years after the events of Crooked Kingdom, 25-year-old Captain Inej Ghafa frees Maya Olsen from a pleasure house in Ketterdam. Maya is looking for revenge against the man who put her in her position, a man who she knows nothing about except his name: Kaz Brekker.

Tags: @wraith--2 @lunarthecorvus @just2bubbly @real-fragments7 @ethereal-maia @cartoon-clifford @origami-butterfly @lady-a-stuff

Content Warnings: in more general terms I want to remind people to be aware of the nature of Kaz and Inej's experiences and relationship since even if I'm not directly addressing these things they tend to be implicit in any writing about them, but specifically to this chapter there's death, gore (including burning bodies), descriptions of dead bodies, blood, ptsd references/responses, loss of a parent, implied abuse, and sorry I don't know how to word this but if you don't like/are specifically squeamish about eyes there is a reference in the gore that is specific to eyes so I thought it might be worth mentioning.

Chapter 21 - Maya

Maya was twelve when she first discovered she was Grisha. Little things started… happening. Things she didn’t mean. Or at least, they started happening much more frequently than usual. It wasn’t until then that Stephen Olsen had taken his daughter by the hand, and told her the truth.

Maya hadn’t cried, when she learned her mother had been Grisha. Had been killed for it. She didn’t know how to mourn a woman she’d never met. But she cried when she learnt that they had burned her.

“You told me she was with Djel,” she’d said, “That she died in childbirth and you buried her, to take root,”

Her father had looked down.

“Because I cannot think of the alternative,”

“Is that what will happen to me?”

He had wrapped his arms around her.

“Never,” he’d whispered, “I would fight a thousand armies before they reached you, little wolf,”

Her father hadn’t known that she was Grisha, he told her, or he would have got her out sooner. It didn’t occur to Maya, at 12 and in what was soon to become a perpetual state of fright and shock, to ask why her mother hadn’t been able to get out. To ask the entire circumstances of her loss. The next thing she knew they were making plans. They moved to Ketterdam, and the world ended before her eyes. 

That fucking ledger had set the wreckage on fire.

Maya tried to imagine the feeling of her father’s arms around her shoulders. She was his little wolf, and Djel had given her a gift to make him proud. But it was an untouchable memory, sinking beneath the waves just out of reach, tangled and bleeding and mixed up with the messy scrawl that set the last thing she clung to ablaze. 

Maya had left Inej telling herself that the ledger was a lie, but if that was true then why was she still thinking about it? Like the words were scarring her. Like they were smoke and she was choking on them.

The world was buzzing from a great distance. 

Maya didn’t know what she was doing.

She could feel the shadows of Aimee and Kiada’s hands throbbing across her own. It wasn’t quite pain, but it was excruciating. She heard everything muffled through a barrier of rushing blood, her head spinning and her stomach threatening to empty its contents into the canal. Real pain split her shoulder, pain worth feeling, piercing through the din of everything else. The kind of pain that meant you were alive. Her vision blurred, just for a moment.

Maya was realising what she’d done.

Kiada was on her knees, holding herself up with shaking arms. She looked at Maya like a rabbit staring down the barrel of a gun. There was a graze on her cheek. Maya felt herself choke, stumbling backwards and shaking her head.

“I don’t-”

The girls looked at her in silence.

Djel, what had she done? She was meant to protect them. She was meant to be brave for them. She wanted to be brave for them. 

“No, I didn’t - I -”

She stumbled a little as she stepped backwards, and she saw Aimee inch towards her before freezing in place. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words scratching her throat, “Oh, Djel, Kiada I’m so sorry. I didn’t…”

She couldn’t breathe.

“I…” 

She was choking on the smoke. She was burning.

What had she done?

“Maya?” said Aimee, looking between her and Kiada

Maya realised dimly that Aimee didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know if she was safe to help Kiada.

Maya had done that too.

She’d made her afraid.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I’m sorry,”

Aimee helped Kiada to her feet.

“Do you want to go?” she asked, staring at them, “You can. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t - I’m so sorry,”

“We need help, Maya,” said Aimee, moments before Maya thought the silence would become too much, “We have to go back. She said if you went back she’d help you,”

She shook her head.

“I can’t,”

“Inej did nothing to you,”

Maya’s shoulder screamed its disagreement, but she knew that wasn’t what Aimee meant. Still, she didn’t know that she believed it. If she was supposed to believe that her father had… no. One page of a gambling parlour record wasn’t going to cut it. She needed proof. There had to be someone she could make pay. She needed it, before it ate her alive.

And even if Kaz Brekker wasn’t to blame for this sickness inside Maya, his death would pay for Celina’s. Wonderful, wonderful Celina, dreaming of going home. Dreaming of the ice and the semla from the bakeries and her mother doing her hair for a village dance. Maya had seen the Reaper’s Barge only a few times; even from the shore the flames were high and bright enough to be visible. She imagined Celina, 6 slashes on her throat, a tulip on her cheek, lying at a broken angle with pale, twisted limbs tangled amongst a thousand others. She imagined the flames swallowing her, her glassy eyes still staring to the very last moment. Still full of their fear. Their guilt. Their blame. What happened to eyes, when they burned? Maya didn’t know. In her head they remained the longest, watching everything else burn away, and then they melted. Slow and grotesque.

She hoped that was what would happen to Yennefer. Maybe it already had. Maya thought of Yen's blood on her hands, congealing slowly beneath her fingernails. She'd wanted to be sickened by it, but she hadn't. She'd felt empowered - she'd felt high. She wanted to feel like that again.

Yen was to blame for Celina's death, and she'd got what she deserved. But Kaz Brekker was responsible for it as well. He would pay the price.

Kiada stood in dazed silence, half leaning on tiny little Aimee for support. 

“You shouldn’t trust her,” she told them, “She lied to us,”

Aimee’s little face was hard. Her arm hooked around Kiada’s waist to hold her up, and she reached to brush gravel off the graze blooming on the older girl's cheek. Even looking at it happen, Maya felt tension in her back and rushing all the way down her spine. She squared her shoulders. Holding Aimee through the makeshift blanket had been her limit - and she hadn’t managed that for long. The girl lifted her chin, a kind of shadow in her eyes that should not have belonged to a child so young. 

“She didn’t hurt us,”

That was all Aimee said before she turned away.

[taraljc]

The thing that pisses me off about people opposing universal basic income is that late stage capitalism and Western civilisation require that people uphold the lie that people deserve the circumstances they are born into--whether that is poverty or generational wealth.

It's impossible for so many to confront the reality that the wealth that allows generations of people to live in comfort and ease was bought at the cost of taking comfort and ease from other people.

That the richest nations on earth subscribe to the idea that there is such a concept as the 'deserving poor'. That poverty is a moral judgment and not the most telling symptom of a sick and decaying society.

Every single time I've tried to talk about how awesome it would be to have $2,000 a month to cover all of my bills so that I can pour all of my energy into actually living my life instead of scrambling to come up with $2,000 each month to pay all of my bills, I hit the brick wall of 'no-one deserves to get something for nothing. everyone should have to work hard for what they get'. from people who are perfectly comfortable with the idea of the 1% getting everything for nothing and not having to work at all for what they get.

In America especially it's like we left a constitutional monarchy for a reason. We rejected the divine right of kings for a reason. We came to another country to have the freedoms to practice our own religion without persecution or genocide. and then we turned around and oppressed the fuck out of everybody else the exact same way we had been oppressed, and the idea that our way was smoothed by the colour of our skin or the Anglo-Saxoness of our names or the acceptance that comes with evangelical Christianity's us-vs-them mentality offends us so deeply that it is rejected out of hand over and over again.

Because it's impossible to recognise the universal unavoidable truth that people do not deserve the circumstances they were born into. There is no moral judgment from God that says anyone deserves to be rich or poor.

However the basic tenants of almost all religions do teach that it is the moral obligation of those with more to give to and protect and raise up those who have less. To literally share the wealth, look after not just our neighbours, but strangers and foreigners and even the people who do not share any of our ideals--and provide shelter, food, and clothing for those in desperate need.

And you have all of these supposed Christians ignoring everything they loudly and frequently profess to believe in, while constantly trying to shove everybody who doesn't meet their arbitrary criteria out of the lifeboats to drown.

And it all comes down to this idea that people are worthy or unworthy not based on their actions or inactions, but simply by existing.

That is so fucked up. How is it the 21st century and we are still acting like bronze age barbarians, raiding our neighbours' villages, raping and killing, trafficking in slave labour, and burning their libraries and places of worship to the ground?

It is all such fucking bullshit.

These thoughts brought to you by the facts that I need a root canal and a crown that cost $2,000 I don't have. I need to bring in at least $2,000 a month to keep the lights on. I need $6,000 to drop out of the sky to wipe out credit card debt. I need to never leave my home state for extended periods of time because I can't get the medications that help me manage my physical and mental health because my Medicaid coverage is limited to the state of Illinois.

[reachartwork]

Chum 112: Homecoming

"Is it done?" I ask, my voice low as we make our way through the throng of bodies towards the punch bowl. "Did the post go up?"

Jordan's grin sharpens, their eyes glinting in the strobing lights. "Oh yeah. It's up. The server logged thirty comments in the first seventeen minutes. By the time anyone thinks to look our way, we'll be old news."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, some of the tension easing from my shoulders. We did it. The truth is out there, and there's no taking it back now.

Of course, that's when Mike fucking Giannopoulos comes bounding up to us, his tux straining around his football player bulk. "Yo, Westwood!" he crows, slapping Jordan on the back hard enough to make them stumble. "Looking sharp, dude! Didn't think you had it in you!" Then he turns to me, smiling. "What's up, Sam!"

I smile back thinly, trying not to grimace as the scent of his body spray clogs my nostrils. "Hey Mike," I say with about as much enthusiasm as if I was saying, "Hey, root canal".

He doesn't seem to notice, already turning back to Jordan to yammer on about some boring football bullshit - football bullshit that I'm sure Jordan couldn't care less about. I tune him out, my eyes scanning the room. The chaperones are all clustered by the doors, their heads bent together as they mutter into their walkie-talkies. Every entrance and exit is manned by at least two security guards, big beefy dudes who look like they bench press Chevy Tahoes in their spare time.

[moviesludge]

its 7:00 am and i woke up to ur posts. Fuck that dentist

I hope I didn't put anybody out too much. Sometimes I forget how sparingly I post gore and stuff and I'm sure people follow me not even knowing that the stuff might show up sometimes. I guess I feel like it helps diminish the intense reality of it if I post a bunch of exaggerated stuff about it.

I don't have any hostility toward the dentist. The only gif caption that's kind of true of my feelings about my experience with my dentist is the one on the Terminator-esque robot from WAX MASK that says "this is how I'll look if my dentist has anything to do with it" because with all the work I need, sometimes it feels like they just want to pluck out all my teeth and put in dental implants. But the truth is that I've been a heavy soda drinker my whole life, and there was a fairly long period when I NEVER brushed my teeth. And then I finally got in the habit, but even then I wasn't going to regular dental visits, because my parents used to take care of it when I was little, and once I was off their insurance and working, I just didn't understand the importance of getting regular cleanings. If you're not having pain, it's easy to just ignore it and go about your life. And who really wants to go to the dentist?? So once I finally went in a few years ago, my teeth were pretty wrecked. But a lot of the damage has since been mitigated and thankfully, my insurance is covering everything they have planned so far. I remember hearing someone ask what are the chances your teeth will rot without dentist's cleanings, and the answer was 100%, no matter how diligent you are.

As for the dentist himself, I'm kind of on the fence about what to do. I'm pretty convinced that he's good at his job. I had a lot of work done by him in the fairly recent past (4 root canal/post/crowns) and it all went down very smoothly and as routinely as it seems possible, and it has all held up. I've asked a lot of questions and he's really patient and seems forthright about everything. Other than scheduling my initial appointment, the dental office has done everything I've asked of them. They emailed my xrays, made sure I had plenty of meds, and put the temp filling in that I asked for even though they didn't think it was going to hold (it didn't, but if they hadn't put it in, I probably would have been in pain for longer).

But just on the off chance that this is the type of place that finds/creates problems so they can make more money, I did look into what other dentists are available on my insurance, and the results weren't very heartening. There was one option that looked better than the others. Regardless of what happens during my next couple of visits to the current dentist, I can take my xrays and get a second opinion and explain the course of action that my current dentist took and see what they say. But also, I feel like the fact that they sent me the xrays at all sort of tells the story.

[thatdodoanonx]

Hey dodo, I hope you're doing better now. I really wish i could help you out in some way or another and that you get help financially so you can leave to find a safer place to live. I'm really happy we met and whenever we interacted it always brought me such joy, and i just want happiness for you too. Nobody deserves being treated in such ways, i hope you're safe ❤️

Hey, man. Glad to see you again. I really missed you and I'm happy I left some good impression. Sorry I wasn't able to answer sooner , I was busy the last few weeks, so I'll use this opportunity to update y'all.

First thing I find I did have a bank account with money my dad left for me and my siblings (each one of us have their separate account) and since I'm legally adult I was able to open it and pay both of my college Depts and my siblings' too, I'll receive my credit card in a week or soon. there's a small amount of money left but I don't care, this the only form of freedom I was able to receive and my mom can not do anything about. It's nice

Second and speaking of colleges both of my brothers left for their (both of them out of the town). It's both scary and good at the same time. One thing I won't have them hanging around my head and reporting every move I do to mom but at the same time I miss them y'know? That means it would be me and her. Alone. With no one around. But on the good side I return from my college pretty late so we don't talk much.

I unfortunately started to fall back into some bad habits, you see food has been my source of comfort since I was in high school that why I used to be fat back then and my mom made it her mission to remind me. I catch myself eating unhealthy food and that came consequences. So I have both Calcium and vitamin D deficiency and alot of my teeth got damaged because of it, yesterday was my 4th visit to the dentist this week. I rescheduled another visit after my mid term exams.

Lastly things between me and mom are calm for now mostly because I come from my college pretty late. We only had 2 fights now and you guessed it both them after my visits to the doctor. First one because I wasn't in the mood to talk to her (idk about you but getting 2 shots of Anesthesia and whole ass Root canal treatment makes you a little angsty y'know?) So ofc she took an offence to it and started yelling me at am and call disrespectful and stuff. The second time I told her at this rate I'm not having kids but my body won't be to handle it as a joke (while there's some truth to it) , again she got mad for no reason and started yelling at me and said something along the line of "everytime we fix you you have to go back to this (f-slur) shit??", I didn't have the energy to tell her she's the reason I'm not having kids.

That's all my the major stuff that happened, currently studying for midterm so I won't be able to available soon. Thanks to anyone who took time time to check on me. I'm forever grateful to you. Until next time 💖

-🦤

[balshumetsbaragouin]

Bittersweet Future: Chapter Fifteen

Summary:

Jack faces a reckoning at the White House, and we get a closer look at the Amity Park GSU HQ as two ghosts try to escape.

If You're Hoping For A Break...

He watched impassively as the last of the tanks disembarked from the Air Platforms. It had taken an hour after landing to get the final equipment and personnel out of the floating war centers, but finally he had no more excuses to put off meeting the F.B. He had been summoned before the President himself in an emergency meeting. He was looking forward to it as much as a root canal.

The determination and fire he’d been feeling as the sun set had solidified into a core of steel around his spine. This would be the battle of his career. “I can hear you cursing them out in your mind from over here Fenton.” Lt. Castle leaned in to whisper next to him.

“In every language I know, even that infernal Spectral bullshit.” Jack groused back. He suppressed a wince when leaning back to parade rest earned him a burst of protesting pain all through his ribs. He really should not have used that grenade, the fuck had he been thinking? “It’s not like I can hide in here forever; I’m sure they’ll bring a military escort to the facility if I take much longer.”

“Oh they wouldn’t dare. A bunch of jeeps with fatigued soldiers driving through the middle of D.C.? The last thing the President wants is to make things look more dire. D.C. loves to pretend it’s untouchable by war or danger, they wouldn’t give up the illusion just to drag you out of your kingdom.” Jill frowned. She sighed then and started to move away from the observation deck. “Come on Head Commander, we should go over some last details before we head to the White House.” She paused by the door when she noticed Jack still lingering.

“You’re not coming with me Jill.” He nearly whispered it, having just come to the conclusion firmly enough to say it out loud at all.

“Excuse me? In what universe would I let you face those vultures alone?”

“In the universe where I need you to be out of sight to avoid taking the blame.” He saw her beginning to work herself up for an argument, and cut her off at the pass, “Jillian, there’s a good chance they’re going to try and dismantle the agency.”

“Which is why I should be there! You know we’re unstoppable together.”

“I know we feel unstoppable together, that’s not the same thing as actually being invincible.” He groaned as his stiff protesting spine popped when he moved away from the observation window. “The President didn’t change the meeting with the Joint Chiefs to tonight because he wants a nice chat, or even a normal dressing down. If they only have one person in front of them to blame, then they’ll be happy to focus on them.”

“Jac—”

“The last time a mission went this badly on America soil, the President torpedo’d his career to protect mine. There needs to be a fall guy for this mess Lt. Castle, and they’re pissed enough to be glad to have two instead. I need you untouched after this bomb goes off. Someone I trust has to run this organization after I’m gone. I’m not convinced I can save my own career, but I will save the GSU.” He watched as she crossed her arms, still determined to argue this out with him.

“If we handle this meeting properly, no one’s career is going have to go up in smoke. Muller himself already said not a single person could have handled this operation better than us.”

“He thinks that at least…” He mumbled.

“It’s not just his opinion, any reasonable assessment of the situation will say the same. There’s no one else qualified to run this operation, and even if they want to cry about it, it’s not like they could do any better. Our job is to drive home into their useless skulls that truth.”

“Be that as it may, we both know politics isn’t about logic, it’s about feelings. They feel like someone has to be to blame for this clusterfuck, so they’ll string someone up regardless if it couldn’t have gone better. I need there to be fewer targets for their rage. Further,” he continued, barreling over her as soon as she opened her mouth, “there’s still all the post-battle data to go through, the forms to be signed to release bodies to families and inform them of the deaths, and I think you promised that pilot a proper chewing out earlier today.” His tone was lighter here, but he was no less firm. She wasn’t coming with him this time. He felt his shoulders tighten at the expression on her face. She still wanted to argue and he didn’t have the time for it. “Don’t make this an order Jill, please…”

The sigh she let out was resigned then, finally, “alright Fenton. But if I hear from some of those White House aides, that you just rolled over and made a fool of yourself in there, your career will be the least of your worries.” She half-limped over then to punch him on the arm. “Go get ‘em soldier.” With that, she walked out of the observation room, her uneven footfalls growing ever softer in the growing gloomy misery left with her retreat.

One fight down, the main event to go...He thought. He pulled up the last of the forms needing his signature on the digital screen before him, trying not to think of them as the last acts he’d have as the Head Commander of the GSU. A few minutes later, he was dressed in civvies, his comfortable ecto-suit traded for the much more mundane kind. He didn’t have time to do much more than wipe the worse of the grime off his face and hands. He still smelled of spent munitions’ smoke and the sharp ozone of anti-ectoplasm fire when he slid into the chauffeured car headed towards the heart of D.C. He hoped rolling down the window on the way to the meeting would blow off the worst of the stench. He might think of the smell as the glorious remnants of battle, but to the pencil pushing bureaucrats that ran the F.B, it was the smell of failure.

The car ride went by fast. He’d spent it with his head down reviewing the printouts of the battle’s summaries and the hastily cobbled together analysis of the worn-thin remaining officers. Several of them were completely useless, written by drained human beings who’d never had to write up a field report before, the consequences of all the field promotions. Luckily, several of his oldest officers had survived the battle, and given proper assessments...those weren’t any better than the inexperienced cruft he’d sifted through. They were more competently written, but all the competence in the world didn’t turn a disaster into a resounding victory. Still, their information was invaluable. General Birch especially liked to get into the nitty-gritty of individual team tactics and weapon’s usage.

He was a personnel person at heart, much like Jack Fenton himself, and so zeroed in on proper training and group tactics before technology or even larger command tactics. He thought if they’d met under different circumstances, they could’ve been proper colleagues, friends perhaps. But tonight, he was the enemy. The thought was grim and sour in his mind as he car pulled to a stop outside of the White House.

The omnipresent security around the President’s residence waved his car through, directing him around the back. At this time of night, the lights illuminating the front-facing façade of the building was more ominous than impressive, making hollowed out skulls of the faces of the men guarding the place. The stone faced watchers observing my solemn walk to the gallows. There were more Secret Service standing around than usual, the President likely aware of the way the light threw their faces into unforgiving relief. Now, he was amused; they were trying to intimidate him.

They still felt he had the upper hand on some level. Why else go through all the trouble to try and dampen his spirits? When he slid back out of the car and started up the walk to the back of the White House in the sticky warm D.C. summer air, his confidence only grew with every mean-mugging Secret Service agent milling around to greet him. He kept it in check, trying to conquer the feeling of misplaced confidence. They’d likely also reckoned Lt. Castle would be here. He reasoned. His assumption was rewarded when the aide standing at the door did a double take when only he appeared to be guided inside.

“Is the Deputy Commander not here? I didn’t think her injuries were so serious…” the aide trailed off, trying to further poison the well against the agency.

“Not at all, she’s in no danger health wise. But, someone must remain at HQ to continue the rest of the post-battle operations. There are officers to interview, masses of data to review, and since this meeting was called as an emergency, there hasn’t been time for any of the necessary procedures to be done between Colorado and D.C. She asks the President’s forgiveness for being unable to attend, but the wheels of military stops for no one.” He stepped inside to join the aide by their shoulder, neatly ignoring the lack of invitation. They’d already called him to this charnel house, he didn’t need to be invited directly.

“Er, yes—I mean of course we understood that before we called the meeting, but that is—that’s why the meeting was set for an hour after—”

“Yes?” Commander Fenton said cutting off the flustered aide, “and you all believe only an hour is needed to secure and disembark a thousand soldiers, and hundreds of individual pieces of highly sensitive equipment?” He clicked his tongue then and started walking down the hallway, deeper into the metaphorical lion’s den. “Perhaps that is one of the misconceptions I can clear up for the administration tonight.”

The aide didn’t respond again, trying to hide the tinge of pink coming to their cheeks by taking the lead in guiding the commander deeper into the building. For all its size, the White House was still intended to be a Residence on some level. This meant much of its interior was taken up with kitchens and bedrooms and ordinary sitting rooms. There were a few places suitable for large meetings though, and that’s where he was being led. He’d been through these halls several times.

The newest administration had...tacky tastes if he thought about it. It’s not like his spartanly decorated D.C. apartment had a lot going for it, but at least it didn’t come off both pretentious and kitschy at the same time. The President’s poor taste in all things trickled down into his politics in Jack’s opinion. He disliked the GSU, despite the huge scientific, military, political, and financial benefits it gave to the United States. Instead, he favored ostentatious displays like driving tanks down the street in military parades as shows of power and stability. That was what had gotten them on the President’s bad side originally. Secretary Birch had caved and given into the President’s childish desires for might displays, and he had told the man where to shove it...politely! Some grunt working as his secretary had worded the refusal, it had even been looked over by the Deputy Commander.

Unfortunately, refusing to use the country’s best military hardware for dick swinging displays of power to other nations had earned him the President’s ire. And with the easily led man possessing a cabinet full of more forceful personalities and sharper minds, the members of Capital Hill that always had it out for him happily used the President as a means to forward their agendas. He frowned then, thinking of General Welsh, and his petty dislike of the GSU based on it taking the best pilots. If the leader of the Air Force wanted better recruits, all he had to do was offer better benefits and prestige than the GSU. It’s not his fault flying in Earth’s atmosphere was less appealing than the cutting edge technology that allowed them to fly through the Zone.

Outside of Welsh and Birch, even the Secretary of State had it out for them, though his disagreements were more principled. The GSU had all the power of a branch of the military without being one. That sort of power without any real oversight or mandate by Congress spelled the potential for disaster. The agency had the most advanced technology in the country, and even he could admit his members were more akin to fanatic adherents than soldiers on some level.

Wanting to bring the GSU under closer control of an authorized branch of the military was completely understandable, if utterly ridiculous. There was already legislation going through both houses of Congress to officially establish the GSU as a separate branch of the military. Though it had stalled out recently as the aftermath of Austin loomed large in the public consciousness. Another reason Colorado needed to succeed, they needed more public goodwill, the passion of declaring the end to the War beginning to cool.

Jack smoothed out his face as a frown threatened to inch its way across it. Now was not the time to look unsure or weak. The aide stopped just outside of the door, waiting to be allowed to enter by the underpaid goons in suits the President employed instead of proper security. He’d decided to chose his own security, contravening tradition entirely, and the men—and they were all men— he picked were hulking mountains of flesh. They looked more like wrestler or body building champions than inconspicuous security, but such was the whims of the empty headed populist the country had elected. Besides, the President had told him, their guns were the real stopping power. It’s best they look intimidating instead of invisible. They left them hovering outside the door for some minutes. Before long, he realized it wasn’t a legitimate delay, but another attempt to demoralize him, make him feel trivial. Pathetic.

One of them spoke into a wrist communicator for a brief second, before touching something in his ear, and nodding. “The President and Joint Chiefs will see you now Mr. Fenton.” Mr. Fenton. Oh yes, they were definitely trying to demean him now.

He nodded at the bulky body guard who’d addressed him, and waited for the aide to either step aside or open the door. Neither happened. Instead, the door moved inwards, opened from the other side by another intern or lackey they made stay late for this meeting. He waited the time needed to allow the smaller aide to move, before striding inside with a calm even gait. Into the first circle...He thought with some amusement. It was a good analogy. After all, Dante returned intact eventually…

Inside the spacious interior of the meeting room was a truly unreasonable number of people. He’d been expecting the Joint Chiefs of Staff and their secretaries, maybe some aides for the President himself, and some consultants. This? It was like the audience to the Salem Witch Trials; every Tom, Dick, and Harry in the White House seemed crammed inside to witness the downfall of the Great Jack Fenton.

He took in the mass of staring eyes impassively. It would take more than an audience to rattle him.

“Mr. Fenton, glad you could finally join us.” So General Birch was leading the charge? Not too surprising considering the man’s current political pull, still, an annoyance. He’d been hoping Secretary Muller would have had more influence.

“As I’m sure the Chiefs are aware, disembarking procedures for a convoy of that size takes some time. I saw to my duties and joined the meeting here as soon as feasible.” A good opening, if he said so himself. Or he thought, before he saw Birch’s negative sneer.

“Surely, after the destruction wrought by the hybrids in Colorado on your equipment and soldiers there wasn’t much to oversee for disembarking.”

A cold way to start this meeting. “Though we lost several Air Platforms, most of our personnel and all of our tanks survived the encounter. They all had be shepherded safely back to HQ and properly organized for repair and any needed medical aid.”

“But, Commander,” Welsh’s turn then, “weren’t most of damaged equipment left in Suffolk in the repair depot?”

“A fair question General Welsh. Though the most damaged of our Air Platforms were left in Suffolk to begin repairs, two were still fully operational and landed in D.C with the remainder of the crew, tanks, jets, ect.”

“If you lost that much equipmen—”

“I hate to interrupt you General Welsh,” he didn’t really, “but our Air Platforms are built with a significant amount of volume redundancy. They are capable of handling a 60% increase in typical operational mass when fully operational. Even having to collapse the remainder of the crew into two platforms, it was tight quarters, though equivalent to approximately five Platforms operating at typical capacity.” So having defused that particular landmine, he turned to address the rest of the amassed senior staff in the room. “Naturally, this fight was not without casualties, however, they were not so severe as to deplete all of the Air Platforms we left with. We are still counting to be absolutely sure, but preliminary counts puts the loss of life at 257. A blow, but a less than 20% casualty rate.”

“18% Mr. Fenton. You can appreciate the seriousness of that death rate.”

“Perhaps more than you General Birch, I saw to the training of many of those GSU members personally.”

“Then maybe you can explain the tactical failings that lead to their deaths, being so intimately familiar with their training?”

Birch was being a hard-ass, but he wasn’t so easily quelled. “Well, it’s hard to avoid the wing of a fighter jet being suddenly flung on top of you from above, or the crush of steel when two Air Platforms are forced into each other by unnatural powers.” He enjoyed the slight paling of the man’s face when he realized the state the bodies must be in from those incidents. Good. He hated the implication his brave men and women were simply incompetent instead of unlucky enough to be caught in an impossible to avoid crash.

“B-Be that as it may, I’m sure you are reviewing the specifics of the battle to shore up any failings. I saw a preliminary report that there was some evidence of ghost possession?”

Jack’s mouth did quirk into a brief frown then. Someone in his organization had loose lips that needed zipping. “That incident is still under intense investigation. It does not seem to be a typical possession.”

“You can’t even train your men to avoid possession Fenton?” Secretary Fitzgerald spoke up then, spitefully poking in from the peanut gallery.

“I think a few members of Staff are laboring under some misapprehensions as to the nature of possession.” Muller. Finally. “Ghost possession isn’t a matter of free will. They use their ecto-powers to override your self-control with their consciousness. There’s no way to avoid it through simple training. Though some mental training has been shown to increase awareness during and after possession, it doesn’t give the person being possessed any more control.” The Secretary stared down the rest of the most senior members of the room then, willing them to marinate in their own ignorance for a spell.

“Well—you—how does your personnel avoid possession all the time when fighting ghosts?!” Fitzgerald sounded incensed then, half from the embarrassment of being so thoroughly reprimanded, half from his line of questioning being waylaid.

“Our ecto-suits usually prevent the intrusion of any ecto-being’s consciousness from interacting with or overlaying with our own. They’ve been specifically designed just for that purpose, which is why I said the incident is under review. To be frank with you gentlemen, it wasn’t a single person who was behaving erratically, but an entire squadron.” He paused to let the gravity of the number of people involved sink in before continuing, “that is far above the maximum number of people under possession we’ve ever recorded in any encounter, let alone controlled by a single entity.”

“But they were behaving erratically?”

“Yes. Our current leading theory is that this is an extension of Second Priority’s… powers over water. It’s demonstrated recently an increase to its abilities. The ecto-hydromancy, if the culprit, would explain the widespread effects and why the suits were less effective.”

“In what way Commander?”

It was nice to be referred to by his proper title. It seemed to have come out of Birch accidentally, an amusing sign of his deferring to his expertise. “Our polymer suits are designed to detect and repel ectoplasmic… “consciousness” let’s say. Their consciousness gives off a very specific and consistent ecto-electric signature. The suits produce a counter signal that prevents possession from happening. It also repels higher densities of ecto-energy, which prevents damage from their ecto-blasts and other attacks. However, it would be impossible to filter out all concentrations of ecto-energy and produce tactically viable suits.” He stopped then to take in their confused expressions. “The suits would be stiff immovable bricks instead of pliable polymer, even medieval suits of armor had movable joints. Concentrations under a certain amount aren’t even harmful to human cells, and so there’s no point in filtering it out...or so we thought. If Second Priority’s powers have mutated the way implied by this last encounter, we’ll have to re-think our suit designs.”

“A constant of this organization, a failure to properly account for the dangers of the hybrids.” A feminine voice spoke from near the President’s side.

Triple damn. Why is Claudia Hying here? You’d think the seriousness of the security clearance needed for this meeting would preclude the harpy from darkening my evening. Jack groused, while turning to face his most serious adversary of the night. The other members of the Joint Chiefs might have personal animosity towards him, but they were military men. They understood or could be made to understand the calculus of battle. Hying though, she was pure F.B., all congressional appointed civvie. “I think we’d require the ability to see into the future to predict this level of hydromancy Ms. Hying.”

“Be that as it may, this is a footnote in the larger tale of inadequacy of the organization on the hybrid topic. But, was it not Second Priority’s ‘hydromancy’ that allowed it to escape your facility in Austin.”

“Theoretically, but it should not have been able to use those powers with the suppressant cuffs we had on it.”

“Then you have another much more serious piece of equipment failure to consider. Are those not the same cuffs you typically use to control ghosts in general?”

Gods above if he did not hate this woman. He could never catch the smallest break when she was involved. “We use a different specialized series meant to prevent them from transforming at all. If we used similar on ordinary ghosts, it would kill them with how strongly it suppresses spectral energy. Of course, we realized there was a flaw in the design after it escaped Austin. The cuffs only prevent them from manifesting their ecto-energy externally, which stops their transformations of course. But the first design didn’t stop them from activating their spectral cores. In as non-ectobiology an explanation as possible, it’s like a device that stops you from moving while allowing the internal contraction of your muscles running your heart or bowels to continue. We thought without being able to manifest their powers, they would be harmless.” “Clearly not—”

“—Indeed, we didn’t realize it could energize and control its own blood enough to pull it out of its eyes and use as a weapon.” Several of the generals squirmed at the imagery, but Hying looked unphased. “The generation two devices are much more thorough, though they’ll require internal implantation, they’ll prevent their cores from activating without our control.”

“Why would you need them to turn on?”

“Fascinating question Chairmen Jefferson, the simplest explanation is for scientific research. Hybrid cores are very much unlike normal ghost’s, allowing them to continue to grow in power seemingly indefinitely, among other horrifying abilities. Additionally, we think several of these hybrids are...natural. Plasmius produces them not through exposure to high levels o—”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure you’d love to get us distracted into the minutiae of spectral science to distract us from the failings of your organization to capture these beasts, but I’m sure the biology lessons can wait for another time Mr. Fenton.” Claudia neatly interrupted his diversion with a predatory smile. “Now, let’s discuss the equipment loss from this excursion.” She stops to shuffle a few papers around, purely for show, before humming and continuing, “if I’ve done my math correctly, the total sum of lost equipment and munitions totals over 500 million dollars?” She phrased it like a question, but there was no inquisitiveness or doubt in her tone.

“That is close to correct. A preliminary accounting puts the losses at around 490 million, subject to further investigation of course. It can be hard to pin a number of these things so soon after an engagement.”

“Of course,” she simpered, looking back at him from across the table with an artfully crafted sympathetic downturn of her lips. “There’s a lot to take account of in the aftermath of such a poorly executed mission, so let’s say 500 million is a close estimate for the final tally.” He knew this tactic, making it sound like she was doing him a favor by choosing a number closer to his estimate. The witch. “Even saying so, that’s a lot of money, or well, equipment to replace. Even assuming you have the slack in your budget to finance such a sudden loss, there’s the fact your equipment is specialty. It has to be ordered months or even years in advance for some parts.”

“We have a stockpile of all regulation equipment lost in the encounter.”

“Regulation? I’m sorry Mr. Fenton, you just have Air Platforms laying around in wait?”

“The Platforms, no, but jets, munitions, guns, the vast majority of equipment lost. We are an operation that deals in battle, and every military man knows your need surplus ammunition and guns.” He finished then with a quick glance around the room to gauge the general’s moods. So far so good…

“I see. So you’d be down only some specialty equipment...and personnel of course! Then I imagine you’d be spending most of your time and money to replace and train people and to replace…?”

“Eight Air Platforms, and five dozen Levitators, plus one dozen tanks, and several hundred rounds of more specialized munition,” he answered, struggling to keep the crossness out of his voice. He hated details like this, but he also knew she knew that. Trying to get him riled up was definitely part of her strategy to undermine him.

“Some of those pieces of equipment seem regulation to me? Like the tanks for instance—”

“They are not US military issue tanks, their plating and design are specialized to withstand bombardment from all but the most powerful ecto-attacks. They are a re-design of the ones used by the Army, and no Ms. Hying, not the ones used during the War. The only thing close to regulation on the list is the Levitators, but even those are a specialized re-design of the hovercraft the Air Force got from us after the War.” He reached down then to open his brief case, and placed a few papers onto the table in front of him. “If you’d be so kind to pass this along,” he said while handing them to an aide hovering about, “you can see for yourself which items are regulation or specialized and how many we’ve lost by current estimate. Keep it, of course, I have plenty of copies.”

“I’m sure.” Claudia frowned down at the white sheaf of paper, before smiling blandly back at him. “I’m glad your accounting hasn’t suffered any since, from my understanding, most of the causalities were in officers?”

“That...is true. This enemy tends to target leaders of squadrons preferentially—”

She snickered, interrupting him, “you’ve noticed then? Because after Austin and, ah, Amity there was a similar culling of the ranks. One must wonder what your lower ranked soldiers think after a promotion.” Her smile was sharp then, relishing in his tightened shoulders and slight scowl. “How do you plan on replacing this many officers? You have plenty of grunts, assuredly, but from my understanding of your organization’s structure, you expect squadron leaders to head expeditions in the Zone and they need a certain amount of hours to even qualify for a proper promotion.”

“Our bench is deep—”

“Oh please, do not give me sports analogies Mr. Fenton, I like data. Neat. Concrete. Factual. And, do be concise, you can get bogged down in pointless details in your enthusiasm.”

She could smell blood, he could tell, and now she was biting at him. Another glance around the room gave him a variety of patient, expectant faces. They were happy to let her lead the discussion it seemed. Easier for a bureaucrat to get away with it. “Naturally, we’ve had to make emergency field promotions, however after the initial assessments are finished post battle, we’ll be using normal promotion regulations.” He noticed Hying frown and look to interrupt him, so he started up again, “I understand that narrows down our potential options for replacing officers, so we will be scaling back Zone expeditions and making transfers from other facilities across the US as needed. Many of the lowest ranked officers have suitable replacements from willing and capable privates who needed only a position to be opened for them. For the higher ranked officers, approximately 25 positions, you’ll forgive the inexactness, we are still counting the bodies, we’ll use transfers and reduced Zone surveys to fill them until next year. Genuinely, my organization is blessed with many capable men and women who could be officers, but not enough positions. I am more concerned with refilling our lowest ranks since so many ‘grunts’,” and he did stop for bitter sarcastic air quotes around the word, “are going to be officers now. It’s not our typical recruiting season. So our officers will be pulling double duty until we can finish recruiting into the lower ranks.”

“You really think so many of your men are qualif—”

“If you disagree Ms. Hying, you’re free to attend, look through every prospective officer’s qualifications, and sit in on their interviews yourself. It will be a long process, with slightly over 100 roles to be filled, but you’re a focused and determined woman, I’m sure you’d manage.” He enjoyed the frustration blooming across her features as she realized this wasn’t the weakness she’d assumed.

“I’m glad you have procedures in places since this is such a regular issue for your organization.” She was retreating now, trying to find the smell of blood she’d lost.

“All military operations have regulations in place for both field promotions and recovery after such a loss; we do no less.” He noticed the calm nods from the generals around the room, understanding the necessity of such preparations well. It had been a long while since humanity warred with itself, with everyone so focused on the War with the Zone. But since it had ended, previously simmering tensions were coming back to a boil. There was talk of another gulf war...He found it as amusing it was as pointless. His own facilities ran on the near inexhaustible fuel from the Zone, oil was primitive and outdated. An argument for another time. “Members, I understand this was a disappointing engagement, but even loss is not without benefits. Our recovery team also gained access to the technology Plasmius was forced to abandon, including some of its shielding technology. Our technicians are already reverse engineering it.”

“You’d previously said that was impossible.” General Muller, pitching him a slow ball. Hying was shuffling paper about, bidding her time for another attack.

“It would be without access to some of its components, humanity simply has nothing similar in production globally. It was an unexplored avenue, how to hide ecto-energy, but not suppress it. We didn’t get access to the shields it uses to hide itself and its spawn’s nest, but we did find something much more interesting.” He paused to let the intrigue build, only to have Hying kill his building mood.

“I’m sure the Chiefs would prefer facts over your attempts at theater Mr. Fenton.” He hated that damnable woman.

“Of course, merely a break for breath,” he dismissed her charge easily. “We gained components and some blueprints for items that are portable miniaturized shields. Think small enough to wear, and light enough to be mistaken for an accessory,” he explained when he got only blank stares back. “The reason this is so enlightening is previous to this, we haven’t been able to track them. The Chiefs are aware we have their DNA imprinted into all of our global ghost monitoring satellites. I’m sure you’ve wondered how they’ve hidden despite this considering how sensitive they are, so have we. We have part of an answer. The devices are capable of filtering or shielding their energy before it exists their bodies. This will make them not only appear human to our satellites, but also the scanners that exist in stores and checkpoints around the country. As long as they change their appearance and falsify documents, they could pass as ordinary humans while wearing them. It is our belief now that there is a two tiered system of shielding, one they wear and another to hide their nesting areas from our satellites.”

“Is this why they only show up briefly on tracking systems?”

“Yes, we believe so. If the wearable device fails, or is temporarily offline, then they’d be visible to the satellites when outside of their nest. Plasmius is devious and likely carries back-ups to prevent this, but even it can’t think of everything.”

“This is all fascinating ecto-biology minutiae, but how does it help us capture these dangerous creatures?” Hying was back, chomping at the bit for another attack.

He did smile then, happy she walked right into his trap for once. “I’m glad you asked Ms. Hying. Now that we can reverse engineer the devices, we can update our systems, the ones running the satellites and the local scanners. Even if we can’t find their ecto-energy, there is no way these devices do not give off energy, a unique signature only the hybrids would have, as good as scanning their ecto-signature directly. It will take a few months, but very soon, we’ll have destroyed one of their biggest defenses.” He did pause for a sip of water, and dramatics, but the harpy wouldn’t be satisfied without a ready excuse. “That will leave them only their nest to hide in, and even then on borrowed time. The reason they move so often is to avoid our satellites triangulating their position from anomalies in ambient spectral energy readings. Once they are unable run and hide, it will only be a matter of time until—.”

“Until you have another disastrous, death filled engagement with them. Yes, I’m sure America can’t wait for another spectacular failure to be broadcast over their evening news.” Her tone cut through his bravado.

“With all due respect Ms. Hying, I’m sure with the time to prepare this affords the GSU—”

“Yes, but Plasmius was unprepared this time, and didn’t have time to feel backed into a corner. I have it on good authority animals are at their most dangerous with nothing to lose.” She smiles blandly at Secretary Muller, and turns her sharp red grin back towards him. “How would this theoretical engagement be any better than this last one, or any of the others for that matter?”

He did sigh then, put off by her relentless characterization of his organization as incompetent. “The reason the encounters are so deadly is because they are so few and far between. I can see you working up an objection, save it for a moment.” He knew it sounded hostile, but he was done caring. “These creatures must produce their energy themselves. The more time they have between assaults, the more they recover, and the more dangerous they are. If we are able to stay on them and they can’t recover, they will soon be no more dangerous than the average human against lasers and heavy armaments.”

“So your argument is that you haven’t had enough lopsided loses against them, and if you were just given more chances, it would somehow turn in your favor?”

“That’s the most uncharitable interpretation of my statement you could have made.”

“Is it untrue?”

“Yes!” He hissed incensed. “They only recover .075nFentons of energy a minute when completely drained. It takes two whole nFentons of energy to fire even the weakest of ecto-blasts. That means it takes them nearly half an hour to power a single ecto-blast. But this energy gain is compounding. All spectral energy builds on itself in cubic amounts. The weaker they are the slower they regain energy, and the easier it is to drain them further. In a war of attrition we win easily. We just have to stay on them, and it will be like fighting a kitten. Plasmius knows this. That is why its main tactic is to run and hide. Time is on their side, not ours. The longer it takes to capture them, the more their unholy powers grow and mutate. The more time they have to recover, the faster they do and the more powerful they are in the next confrontation. Do you understand now Ms. Hying, or do I have to explain it further for you?” Ok. So that last comment was definitely hostile; he’d have to calm himself before his rage made him misspeak.

“Oh, thank you. That explanation was enlightening. I understand now why your organization has a habit of continuing pursuit even when stretched thin on troops, even some of your decisions during the War make more sense now. Perhaps, I should give ecto-biology a more thorough study.” She was being placating now. Great. Now he looked even more unreasonable, out of control. I really should have brought Jill. She’s much better at handling this woman than I am.

“My field has many nooks and crannies, and the particulars of hybrid ecto-biology is niche, even as they plague humanity. It’s not something that would come up in a cursory study, or even graduate level studies to be clear. I’m not surprised you hadn’t considered the implications, I’ve had to explain them to the Joint Chiefs before. It is the nature of being a subject matter expert.” There. Placating...mostly.

“Understandable why you might feel a little irked by someone with the equivalent of a quick Bing Bong search asking uninformed questions about your subject.” She was retreating again, and the meeting was turning around. Now, all he needed was a slam dunk, and he could likely steer this completely under his control. Three quick chirps rang out into the room from his briefcase. His work cell. No one would dare interrupt this meeting without the world basically being on fire. He stiffened under the silent stares of the meeting’s attendees. They knew it too.

“Are you going to get that? There must be some emergency at HQ.” Ms. Hying’s shark smile was back with a vengeance, thirsty for a turn in her favor.

“If no one minds?” He’s already reaching for the phone, the question merely a courtesy. “Head Commander here.” He nodded as a communications expert on the other ended explained a contact made between one of the hybrids and a civilian. They were breathless. The details were beyond intriguing. The new hybrid had been in contact with an Amity resident. She was sure she could replicate the contact. The more details the technician gave, the more his smile grew. This was perfect, an answer to all of their prayers. He nodded a final time, and hung up the phone. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve just received some excellent news. A civilian has had contact with one of the hybrids and says they can replicate it. Calm down a moment! We mean over a phone or computer, not in person!” Jack waved his hands at the shouting group around him, corralling them into something resembling calm again. “Of course, we’d never put a civilian into harms way, even to capture America’s greatest enemies. The contact would be remote only, but they are sure the hybrid will respond.”

“What makes them so sure?”

“I cannot give details at this time, we are triple checking their claims, but I can say they say the hybrid feels indebted to them and trusts them.”

“These creatures don’t have feelings.” General Birch then, his voice filled with venom.

He chuckled, before addressing the man, “I agree in principle, but all ghosts have their habits, their obsessions. They are devoted to them onto ‘death’. In the case of the hybrids, they are very convinced of their humanity, to the point of imitating emotion and desire for human connection. They will form ‘friendships’ or ‘repay debts’ the way a human will, because it is their obsession to behave humanly, and ghosts always satisfy their obsessions.” His smile was predatory then, already thinking of the trap he would set. Willing contact made setting one so much easier…

“If you’re so sure, can use this obsession to your advantage?” The Secretary of State then, implicitly asking after the details for capture.

“We are sure they are still well out of populated cities. As long as we can confront them somewhere remote, I’d feel comfortable with another confrontation.”

“So soon?”

“General Welsh, I believe Commander Fenton has already explained that quirk of hybrid biology?” Ms. Hying, to his complete surprise. “Having said that, I’m sure with them so weakened, capturing them is within the organization’s abilities?” Of course, even her gifts were poisoned. With the hybrids so impaired, if they failed to capture even one, the GSU would be going under, even accounting from recovering from this recent battle.

“I’m sure all of them is too steep an ask so soon after a major engagement.” Muller, his only ally, but he was making it worse this time.

“Oh! I’m not a military woman myself. Perhaps all of them is too much. One or two then?” She offered, hands spread wide in a supplicating gesture.

“Ms. Hying is right, you should be able to manage a few, at least one, if they are as battered as your reports suggested.” The Joint Chiefs were all nodding in agreement with the Secretary of State. He’d dug his own grave on this one. Backing out would make him and even the organization itself look weak.

“Of course! I look forward to sharing the details of capture with you all afterwards.”

“See that you do.” The only words the President had said the entire meeting. The only ones that mattered. God help me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Amity Park, Michigan; 12.43am; May 6th, 2005

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The bustling city of Amity Park was more subdued than usual. The damage from the last ghost attack left debris all over, but it was especially concentrated downtown. Chunks of stone still sat pushed away from the middle of the road, and where they’d landed on top of buildings. Most of the worst had been cleared so that daily life could continue, but even though the ghost danger level had been lowered when the GSU had concluded the hybrid had moved on, the human residents were still hunkering down. Few left their homes for anything less than work or shopping for essentials, and parents flinched when they had to drop off their children for school, the tragedy of the last big incident in Amity looming large in the citizen’s collective consciousness. Still, the GSU never slept, and with increased patrols and a larger presence on the streets, the people of Amity were beginning to relax.

One such GSU grunt drove in for his shift at the main facility. He usually worked the beat, but with the recent attack, he’d been assigned back to the facility. The people wandering around still were imported from other cities. There originally had been a concern this was a break out attempt, the hybrid had walked right up to the facility door after all, but after it escaped, his superiors were left stumped. Unwilling to risk a breach so soon after an attack, or even the whiff of it being possible, they’d re-assigned their beat officers to the inside of the facility and transferred people over to stand around looking important on street corners. He huffed as he passed another foreign GSU member waving to him from his vehicle. He didn’t hate them, he loved his fellow soldiers, but watching them soak up the local’s attention and still not know how to best give them comfort a way a true Amity Parker would frustrated him. Posturing on some street corner was worse than seeing them marching in formation and doing drills in the park or even rescuing cats from trees. But, local grunts like him had lost this argument with the officers, and so now he was coming in in the middle of the night to check on the ghosts they already had collared.

He’d heard there was action, real action, out in Colorado. People had gone to confront the monsters filling the good people of Amity’s nightmares, and he was jockeying some desk. Not literally of course, only officers had any real paperwork to fill out, but it was the principle of the thing! He sighed again as he parked his car, slamming the door when it bounced back out of place. The piece of garbage he drove was a hold over from college, from before he’d gotten this great job with the GSU. It’d been worth delaying. It was faster and easier advancing with a college degree than without. Some of his friends signed up straight out of high school five or so years ago, right before the shit in Amity went down. He’d lost some of them. Truth be told, he’d been trying to avoid the vortex that GSU recruiting could be in his hometown, heading to college somewhere else had been his idea of an escape. After though, he realized there was no escaping ghosts. He’d felt safe after the War. Now he was determined to make the world truly safe.

The door to the GSU HQ greeted him, the hum of their electronic security a warm familiar tune to his ears. He held up his government issued tabtop, and it flashed twice, connecting to the local network. Everything in the GSU facility was isolated as a rule, though they had little to worry about in terms of hacking attempts. Other countries mostly respected their technological prowess and didn’t engage in espionage against them, especially when the GSU shared everything safe almost as soon as it was developed. The Head Commander said he defended humanity and not just the United States. Their advances were to be shared freely.

Still, an abundance of caution never hurt. He leaned into the hand scanner so it could read his prints and smiled when the door slid open. He didn’t know what that nasty creature had been thinking; this place was more secure than the bunker that protected the president in case of a nuclear strike. There was no way it could get inside.

He waved to the guard on duty who grunted in response. Agent Johnson wasn’t a man of many words, but nothing got past him. He heard rumors the man once sniffed out a pen capable of taking pictures from inside the pocket of some bureaucrat without even touching or scanning the guy. When asked, Johnson had said the man had looked guilty or something. No one tried him.

He nodded to the second set of guards as he rounded another corner deeper in the facility, leaning closer this time to scan his eye as well as his palm. The retina scanners were now standard after some crazy shape-shifting ghost was discovered two years back. It fed on human misery the disgusting fucker. It had been in a reporter, an investigative journalist. It also had somehow been licensed as a therapist. He had no idea how that shit worked. They’d found it in a region being decimated by famine, the whole of the country was suffering a drought so severe it culled food crop production.

When it messed up and possessed someone else; it had been close enough to the US embassy to wherever the fuck country to ping the GSU standing guard. It’d panicked, possessed one of the grunts, jumping inside them once unconscious, and tried to enter the embassy. One of the other security measures deeper in finally caught it, but reviewing the incident, they were sure retina scanners would have stopped it from getting that far.

He nodded to the third set of guards, a pair of women nicknamed ‘Thelma’ and ‘Louise’, in that they were definitely best friends, probably dating, and super deadly. It was a shame; his sister had been begging him to hook her up with a cute girl from the GSU and well, he was a tech really. Talking to people was hard and girls harder and doing so long enough to find out if they also liked girls? Ugh! He had to talk to Thelma and Louise though, so he’d thought it was prime opportunity.

He thought he should stop being such a coward about this as the final door that leads into the innards of the GSU facility opened. He was in his twenties now, and a year of GSU training had put some muscle on him. Girls! Not hard. He could do it! He owed his sister for pitching in for college tuition after his Amity specific micro-grants had dried up right after the incident, and he’d been short for that year. The least I can do, he thought while making his first sweep of this layer of the facility, is hook her up with a cutie’s phone number. He frowned as a couple ghosts scrunched up away from the forward part of their cages, flinching away from the ectoranium infused plexiglass lining the front of them.

It made his job harder, assessing their condition. They had to do visual as well as scanner inspections. Apparently, some issues showed up visually before it did on the scanner. Whatever. The couple extra seconds per cage was an annoyance, having to flash on the bright overhead lights to get a good look. The things hated it, but it was for their own good. The ones on this level were weak, level four or so, and recently captured, so they just needed a little training. He finished his first round of inspections, and continued down a set of stairs and to another retina scanner and print checking door. He walked through an energy scanner on the other side, spending a couple seconds being beeped at to be sure none of the ghosts on the previous level had possessed him, despite his spandex, and continued when he heard the “all-clear” beep.

The ghosts down here weren’t especially dangerous either, just more well trained. They stepped closer to the glass like good dogs. It made this level much faster than the previous, and in just another few minutes, he was being scanned again. The ghosts down here though...He thought grumpily. While they weren’t the most powerful in the facility, they were troublesome. The scientists claimed they possessed imprints of human consciousness, partial ones anyway. So they talked, screamed, made demands, begged. It was so fucking obnoxious. One of them whimpered and asked if they could be friends, another made box based threats. He was used to the two of them, they were basically ignorable at this point. They’d just recently gotten a transfer from the facility in Florida, near the Everglades, in trade for one of their ghosts. This one claimed to be a warden of some type, made vague threats about how we’d pay for treating ‘him’ this way. It wasn’t very powerful, but the threats it made...sometimes he’d wondered if it hurt humans the way it described cutting them into pieces. It seemed too visceral, too real. He passed a few more wailing and unwilling assets, before going through the rigmarole of the scanners again along with another check of his tabtop. The ghosts in level four were stronger and had much more dangerous abilities, unique shit like summoning fire and ice or something.

He passed the shape-shifting ghost that had made the GSU install the eye scanners to begin with. It was in its shadow form, having given up on convincing them it was a trapped human and this was all a mistake. It still tried sometimes, but less and less often. He then passed a creature with a muzzle. This one could breath fire. Another few cages, one with a creature shouting temptation at whoever would pass. That one was in a sound proof cage. It could, theoretically, make ‘wishes’ come true like a genie. And like a traditional genie, those wishes always turned out badly. It was responsible for an incident in California and another in Japan before it was captured. The destruction had been horrifying, he’d seen the pictures. It had brought Japan into the ghost hunting game, their summer festival of wishes was now a memorial holiday.

One last floor. He thought, satisfaction at the captured specters, with their fearful eyes pitifully staring at him, thrumming through his veins. It wasn’t as good as a hunt, but looking at their trophies was an adequate substitute. He hadn’t gotten his uncle’s desire to mount deer heads before joining the GSU. The final floor of the facility, past levels five and six that were non-containment, held some of the most powerful and dangerous enemies of humanity. Nearly all of the most dangerous were no longer in Amity after the incident years ago, transferred to Austin and DC. Some of the creatures were too feral, fragile, or horrible to be safely transferred though. The remaining dragon ghosts were among them. He’d only seen them transformed once, watching the footage released during the War by the GSU when he was a teen. Their humanoid ghost guises were much less deadly, but by God had their ‘leader’ been a terror. It was the Head Commander slaying that thing when backed into a corner that made a couple of his friends sign up out of high school…

He stood in front of the last set of cages, poking idly at his tabtop. It was fritzing again, the damn thing. This deep in the facility, the wifi didn’t work great too much concrete and metal in the way. He poked a little longer, switching it to the local network for just this level, and sighed in relief when it stopped freezing up. It was a pain to switch for just this level, but everyone did it, annoying as it was. He stood in front of the third to last door, the little green ghost inside floating, looking innocuous, inside its cage. It didn’t have a collar, unlike every other ghost in the facility. It was only a level 3, the thing would evaporate if left in the Human World on its own. That’s not why it was down here. Despite the pitiful amount of ecto-energy, it had human level intelligence, maybe slightly above human if the tests were to believed.

It was capable of controlling technology, and was capable of human speech. Worse of all, it had been caught using tools...building things. Ignored pieces of electronic scrap or wires turned into weapons under its focused efforts. Because losing track of a ghost this weak would be easy, and because of how creative it was when it came to making tools, it was here, at the bottom of the facility in level seven. He frowned when it ignored his tapping, trying to get it to turn around so he could finish the visual inspection. He sighed and tapped his tabtop instead, determined to finish the scan and then go back to coaxing the little asshole into behaving. This time the worthless thing turned off. He was about to curse his luck and check its battery, he...never really charged it, when it turned back on. It flashed a bunch of rainbow hues, screen glitching and fragmenting.

“Oh god damn it no!” He’d been putting off a needed system update for...ok maybe three months was too long. The abused piece of electronics was now making sad noises like some old dial up modem and flashing like it was trying to give him a seizure. “Please, please, you’re like the third one. I’m gonna get my pay docked if I break another one of you!” The first two were just bad luck, a drop into the family pool with the dog carrying it in her mouth, and kicking it off his nightstand in his apartment during a night terror, but this time...It finally stopped flashing and the screen cleared to the home screen. He poked it tentatively, everything seemed fine now.

Maybe he’d do that update right now. I’m on the least used network and everything, so it shouldn’t take so long. He reasoned before lifting up the taptop to get a little more signal. This time it flashed bright blue once, and something flew out of it into the cage’s electronic keypad. He jumped back, carefully cradling the poor neglected tabtop to his chest. “Oh God, don’t start sparking! Come the fuck on!” He looked down distressed at its now blackened screen, ignoring the flashing now going on the cage’s keypad.

When he looked back up, the keypad was back to normal. He turned away from the cage, trying desperately to reboot his taptop. When he turned back once more, he had just a second to panic at the bright glowing green heading for his eyes, before everything went black.

Skulker huffed, looking down into the face of the dumb GSU grunt he’d just knocked unconscious. “It took you long enough to show yourself Technus.” He turned away from the human on the ground to glare at the keypad in front of his cell.

The technology obsessed ghost materialized from within, hovering just in front of the keypad to sneer down at Skulker. “If I’d have appeared any sooner, the security systems would have caught me! Did you wanna get out of that cage or not?” He zipped back inside of the keypad, interest refocused on the wires and circuits inside. “It takes a lot of ecto-energy to manipulate this stuff now you know! Only an absolute genius, such as myself, could have the know-how and power to have freed you.”

“Yes, yes, the genius master of all technology, worship me, blah blah blah. If you’re done singing your own praises, you could help me locate my Suit, so we can be on our way.”

“Sheesh, so impatient! These things take time.” The electronic beeping coming from the keypad sped up in frequency. “I’ve almost hacked my way into the local network, after that, figuring out where your precious ‘suit’ is will be a piece of—” An alarm, loud and shrill, blared through their level of the prison. “I, uh, I’ve got that…”

“I don’t have time for your bumbling, and we don’t have room for mistakes.” Skulker ran towards the abandoned tabtop and levered it upright with some effort. “Get in.” He ordered.

“But, it’s so cramped in there. Do you know it’s been six months since he ran a defrag on that thing?” The alarm increased up in pitch and a flashing red light came out of the ceiling.

“Get in the damn tabtop and turn off this alarm Technus.”

“Alright, alright, but you’re finding me a better hiding spot after this.” With another grumble about the lack of organization, Technus jumped from the keypad and into the tabtop. It took a second to silence and then reset the alarm, and two seconds more to convince the system that it had been a false alarm.

“Why didn’t you just do that from inside the tabtop?”

“Skulker, what part of no defrag is confusing you? It looks like a tornado went off in here. I’m gonna have disconnected bytes stuck to my coat for weeks because of hovering around inside. You should be more grateful that I, Technus, have come to rescue you at all, let alone thinking you should be able to demand I stay in this disorganized prison of…”

Skulker began tuning out the other ghost’s ramblings, deciding to peer around at the cages on this level. There wasn’t anyone he could free down here, just yet, but he’d promised his and Technus’ backer that’d he’d catalog the max security level’s ghosts. “Hey, are you listening to me?”

“No.”

“Well! Maybe I should just leave you here you—”

“Technus, you know you’re not allowed to do that. Now, look into their network and see where they’re keeping my Suit so we can get out of here.” Skulker huffed when the tabtop flashed a series of rude emojis at him. Obnoxious arrogant ass. “Please, oh great and powerful Technus, help me locate my technology so I can be of service to you.” He could not find his Suit fast enough. If I have to lick boots any longer, my tongue will forever taste of rubber and dirt.

“Ya’ see? Was it so hard to ask nicely?” He felt his face scrunch up, irritation bubbling around in his core at the asskissing. “Bad news buddy, your battlesuit has been dismantled.” This time he couldn’t keep the frustration to just facial expressions, a litany of curses flying off his tongue. He sighed, and glared up at the ceiling towards a random Technus possessed camera.

“So, where are the pieces then?”

“Oh, totally scrapped. Some of it they melted down, others they used as components to build new guns. Huh,” he stopped to look at a particular file about the storage section of facility, “well there are still a few pieces here and there. Most of the good stuff has been trashed or broken down for study though.”

“Great. Fantastic. Is there good news?”

“There’s great news actually. We can rebuild you a better one from the tech they have laying around.” At the narrowed looked crossing the other ghost’s face, he elaborated. “Oh yeah the humans scrapped your stuff, but they did like studying it a lot. Looks like they have upgraded versions of all the pieces of your tech in storage or labs all around the facility. We can stick those pieces together, and then—”

“Technus,” Skulker started, aggrieved, “I don’t just possess technology like you do. The equipment has to be in a state where I can control it from a central hub. If I have to construct it all, that will take hours at best, days more likely. You think we can linger around here long enough to—”

“Don’t cut me off! I was going to tell you, that they made the pieces modular. They snap into each other. I think they are trying to imitate your battlesuit for humans, but doing it stupid-like.”

“Why didn’t you just lead with that?”

“You never let me finish anything, I was literally about to—”

A pained groan from the human laying between them got their attention. He stirred, briefly, before falling back into silence. The two warred with each other in gesture and glares, before coming to an agreement.

“Just help me get him into this cage, and remove his ability to communicate, we’ll figure the rest out later.”

“Fine. But only if you apologize for being so rude to me earlier.” He watched Skulker grit his teeth and cross his arms for a moment, before turning to glare at him more fiercely.

“I’m...sorry, for interrupting you. Now. Can we please put him in a cell?”

“Good enough.” Technus floated him into the cell using the cellphone in one of his pockets. He then fried everything that could communicate to the outside world, and slammed the locking mechanism closed. “Ok, so he’s not getting out of there until someone comes to look for him.”

“Do you know how long that might be?”

“I don’t know. I don’t pay attention to human routines.”

Skulker took another deep breath to rein in his temper. The technopath ghost was trying when they’d first met before the War, now a days, he was a menace to his fraying nerves. “You can check the handbook for the rules in the GSU server.” “Oh yeah!” Technus hummed for a few seconds before coming back brightly, “it should be about five hours. He’s known for slacking off, and no one really checks this far down in the facility for breaches. Between that and my genius keeping the system off our scent, we’ll have more than enough time to assemble that upgraded suit.” Technus bounced the tabtop in excitement and jumped in electric form to another piece of machinery. “I’m inside the mainframe now, so you don’t have to worry about carrying me around. Don’t worry, I’ll find something easily portable for you to sneak me out in later.”

“I wasn’t worried.” He gave the caged, still unconscious, human one final look before marching over to the only door to the lab. It’s keypad display flashed green, before it swung open into the hallway beyond. It had been a long time since he’d left the labs; he was looking forward to freedom.

He crept down the hallway, keeping an eye and ear out for trouble. Technus was connected to their security system and every piece of technology connected to the mainframe, but he was easily distracted. Right now, the ghost was rambling about how efficient the backups were for the archives of the GSU and idly noting that he was happy they were much better maintained than that taptop. He could already tell convincing him to trash the mainframe’s files would be impossible. Never mind that hindering the greatest threat to ghost kind was more important than the organization of some computer systems...He clenched his fists as he hid around a corner from the bootfalls of some GSU grunt at Technus’ urging. Ok. Maybe the ghost was paying more attention than he’d thought. Still, he knew asking Technus to trash something as “magnificently luminous” as the mainframe of the Amity Park GSU facility was like asking him to give up on a quarry. Less than useless, even if frustrating as hell for other beings. Sometimes, he wished they weren’t ghosts.

But then the humans’ obsession with eradicating all ghost kind came back to him, and he realized all beings were obsessed with something. Ghosts just got a bad wrap for being more enthusiastic than humans about it. He rounded another corner and finally made it into the first lab with a piece of potential equipment. Something approximating a gantlet was draped over the side of a lab table.

It didn’t look like a piece of his suit. It was a gauntlet, sure, but it lacked the intimidating bulk he preferred in his designs. The material was matte, instead of shiny, and black and cool gray, like the suits the GSU wore. It struck him as ugly on initial viewing, and he consider just leaving it in place and demanding Technus look for the pieces that remained of his real battlesuit. “Don’t be so shy, get over there and inspect it.” Technus hissed from a speaker near the top of the room. He knew he was being petulant about this on some level, but if the aesthetics were this poor, he didn’t have great expectations for the function. The GSU, humans in general if he were honest, had a sense of taste that merged the two together. If something was ugly, it was likely to function poorly too if made by human hands. With a great heaving sigh, he overcame his reluctance and worked his way up to the table.

“I thought you said they improved my technology? This gauntlet looks more flimsy than the very first version I made!”

“It’s made out of a new grade of ecto-steel.” Technus stopped to peruse the files detailing the specs of the armor piece. “They’ve got it blended with this polymer after they spun it into thread. This is really wild stuff Skulker, you’d love the research into—”

“So is it stronger than the original design or not?”

“Well, yes, if these test results are any indication. Maybe they did the tests wrong—”

“No, no, they are through about that.” Still, he frowned as he looked at the floppy glove and wrist bracer combo before him. His misgivings about the shape were making it hard to really assess the abilities of the tech. He closed his eyes for a moment to shove his personal aesthetic desires aside and assess the piece objectively. The bracer was seamlessly welded or molded into the rest of the gauntlet; the material that made up the hand was flexible and with a quick check he realized it repelled ecto-energy. He poked around the bracer section itself, watching compartments open up on its side, but no weapons appear.

“They’re for storage. They can miniaturize things, using something similar to those...ghost traps they shove us into.”

He grunted in acknowledgment, frustrated there were no weapons already attached; he’d feel safer with a gun. The stitching, what existed of it, was tight, the texture suggested the weave of the polymer metal blend was even and strong, even the weight of it was balanced, at least for a human to wear it. Outside of looking terrible, it was a well-made and suitable piece of armor, if the blend making up most of the material was as strong as Technus suggested.

“Alright, where’s the next piece of tech.” He picked up the glove, which was thankfully both lighter than his own original design and lighter than it appeared, and jumped off the table, marching towards the door. Technus whispered the next location and went back to monitoring for humans as he trudged through the bowels of the Amity Park GSU HQ. They popped into two more labs on this level, grabbing another gauntlet, this one blessedly with weapons installed, and a headpiece Technus assured him would allow them access to other parts of the facility. All of that was without incident, it was quiet this deep inside GSU territory. Now though, he stood at the door leading up to the next level. They had to go up two whole floors to travel to the main storage facility where the rest of the suit components were found. He was skeptical this headpiece would let them through. “How is this supposed to hide the fact I’m a ghost again?”

“Well, you��re a pretty weak one. Don’t get mad! I’m just stating facts. That’s the reason you haven’t been setting off very many alarms. You don’t have a lot of ecto-energy, and Amity has a lot of ambient stuff floating around. They had to re-calibrate their scanners to exclude the white noise. Your levels are so low, it comes just over their scanners’ sensitivity.”

“Great, but the door?”

“Right! So, that thing has a ID attached for some lab worker down here. Or at least, it will when I’m done installing the ID onto it. It’s made so people in these battlesuits they’re making can be ID’d without having to scan their hands and retinas, because that would be cumbersome, getting in and out of the suits right? So as long as I can fake the ID, the system will think you’re human and let you through.”

“That seems like a security breach waiting to happen with these things.”

“Hey, it’s the humans’ tech, not ours, no one said it was smart.”

“You said it was smart…”

“I said their mainframe’s organization was smart! Never mind. Just hold the helmet up to the hand scanner and it should let you through.”

“If these things were made to let people through without removing their helmet, why does it need to be read through the hand scanner?” He hopped on the box sitting haphazard near the door, definitely some rule violation, and held it up near the keypad.”

“They don’t have the eye level ones installed yet.”

The keypad beeped and the door slid open into the frame, no further activity or blaring lights happening. “Do they intend to install eye level scanners that can read these things?” Technus was quiet for a moment, likely looking through the archives, before popping back in with a barking laugh. “Technus, quiet…”

“Would you believe they haven’t thought of it yet? Right now when they are doing tests everyone just bends over and holds their head to the hand scanner. There’s videos! All of them bent over waving their heads in front of the keypad trying to find the part that reads the ID.”

“...Ok that does sound pretty entertaining, but try to focus.” He stood on the railing of the stairs, and was able to get the keypad to scan the helmet again. “It is this floor right?”

“Of course, I haven’t given you bad directions yet have I?”

“Just making sure, it will be hard to get these things open with more humans around.” He hopped through the door, balancing everything awkwardly. He was getting more grateful for the reduction in weight in the new designs as the minutes passed. He was huffing hard when Technus directed him to round a corner towards the next piece of tech.

“Don’t worry, this one will make everything easier to carry. It’s some type of storage device you’ll attach to the chest piece when we get to the storage facility with the last of the stuff.”

“It’d better. This junk is not getting any lighter.” He tiptoed into the new empty lab, hiding as the reverberating thud of human boots clanged through the ecto-steel floor on this level. Clutching his stolen pieces of tech closer, his breathing sped up, even after they passed. Damn. This wasn’t just the effect of carrying all of this metal around, he could feel it in the way his core ached ominously. There was a reason the GSU didn’t bother hunting ghosts in the Human World below a certain strength. Not just because they weren’t intelligent enough to cause problems, but because ghosts his strength, who got separated from the Zone, evaporated if they stayed in the Human World too long. They just didn’t have enough ecto-energy stored to survive without a constant influx from the environment. He groaned with relief when the tech was stored inside the much smaller and lighter storage device. Technus babbled something about it being the same one as what was on the wrist of the left gauntlet, but he was having issues focusing.

“Hey buddy, you’re getting real quiet. You ok?”

“Fine. Let’s just get this over with quickly.”

“Are you sure? Because you look sorta funny in the readout of the scanners.”

“I’ll be better once I get my Suit reconstructed and I get out of here.” He dodged down a new hallway to avoid another group of boots and headed towards the next internal door. Luckily, this one didn’t require any fancy scanning ID and he just tapped in a code, after pushing a chair close to the keypad. That’ll draw some attention. He thought tired, but they didn’t have time to worry about that now.

“Ok, so head down the hall to the right, make three lefts, and then go down a staircase. At the bottom there’s a door, no keypad or anything, that leads to the main storage facility.”

“How am I supposed to open the door Technus? Just tug futile-like on the handle until I disappear in a wisp of smoke?”

“Funny. No, I can open this one myself. You’d think they’d guard all of the stuff inside their main storage room more! There’s a bunch of guns and grenades and all sorts of dangerous toys in there.”

Skulker hopped down the last of the steps with a pained grunt and waited in front of the door. “They’ve got a scanner to get into this part of the HQ, is there anything over here that isn’t storage.” Technus hummed before confirming there wasn’t and opening the door. “There’s your answer, the last security door covers everything.”

“Sure, but it has a logger in it that I can’t bypass.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Only because it might look weird in a few hours if this scientist doesn’t come out of the area...or they show up at the entrance. That would be wild.”

“Technus,” he said while heading towards the first crate with the tech he needed, “you’re sure this scientist won’t show up at the door right?” He didn’t put it past the scatterbrained ghost to forget a detail like that.

“Of course not! You doubt my genius problem solving skills?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, he won’t show up at the front door, because he’s in the cafeteria right now.” Skulker paused while grabbing something similar to the design of his original Suit’s boots a warm tingle of panic shooting through his core. “Technus, he’s in the facility right now?”

“Duh, it would look weird if he just showed up without having gone through—”

“So what happens when he tries to leave his lunch break and the system realizes he’s in two places at once?” His harsh whisper was closer to a scream by the time he finished the question, rushing towards the next spot designated by the technopath ghost for needed tech.

“Uh...you know? I didn’t consider that.”

The Zone’s greatest hunter snatched the last piece needed to complete a leg from another crate before a facility wide blaring alarm went off overhead.

Attention GSU personnel, the facility is now entering Lock Down Mode. Personnel ID discrepancy has been detected. For your own safety, please follow all ID registration procedures and proceed to your assigned positions to have your ID’s scanned. All attempts to access the mainframe at this time will be treated as hostile. Thank you for your cooperation.

“So, bad news, I am locked out of the system, or well to be more accurate, I’m locked out of making any changes to security or anything else.”

“Is there good news?” He grunted, hefting a final arm piece out of a box and sucking it up into the storage device.

“Oh no, there’s just worse news. I think I’ve been found out?”

Another alarm went through the facility, a siren screaming out Ghost Detected. “Oh, what would give you that idea?”

“Hey! Don’t get snippy with me; it’s not like I planned this.”

“Can you still get out of the mainframe?” Skulker jumped into the box containing the chest plate, knowing it was too heavy for him to lift out on his own. He slammed the button to absorb the material and then flopped back out over the top of the crate’s edge, bouncing off the floor in his haste.

“Yes? But then I couldn’t give you any directions. I can’t touch anything, their anti-virus is pathetic in its attempts to oust me, but I can still tell you where your tech is.”

“What good is that going to do me when I already know where everything is? What? Are you going to give me a play by play of the GSU pouring in to kill me?” Technus didn’t respond, and he opted to run over to a flat clear area in between some shelves to disgorge the contents of the storage device. Another click and out came a clattering of sensitive tech onto the concrete floor. He gave it a quick once over. Everything was there, he just had to assemble it. It looked like there was space in the chest piece for him to control the entire completed suit. Not ideal, but he could change it later if he survived. “Technus?”

“Just searching for something, and dodging the anti-virus. Oh, they are almost at the security door to the storage area. Looks like they figured out the scientist was in the cafeteria and not possessed fast...There’s a lot of agents.”

“We’re in one of the most secure GSU facility in the country, of course there’s a lot of agents.”

“Are you gonna be able to get out of here by yourself?”

“Of course I will. I’m not just the Ghost Zone’s greatest hunter, I’m also an excellent fighter.” Skulker grunted a few times trying to get the ends of the Suit that connected up to each other to seal together. The lightheadedness was getting worse. He looked over the pieces he had left with detached alarm, he didn’t have time for this. “What?” He’d been ignoring the other ghost again as he slotted another piece together.

“I said I’ll cover your escape! You should be honored to have one as amazing as me sacrifice himself in this way. But fear not! Because so great is my infinite brilliance that there are many copies of—”

“—You’re the last.”

“I’m the last what?”

“The last Technus copy, you’re the only one that still exists. Check their archives, if you still have access.” He wiggled the boots into the connection bits for the legs, breathing hard as he struggled to move even that anymore. “If you get captured and deleted or whatever, then you’ll be dead...dead-er.” He amended when he remembered Technus had actually been human once, unlike many others of their kind. At Technus’ frank silence, he continued, “if you want to sacrifice yourself for the ‘greater good’ or some such noble bull, then feel free. But if you thought it’d be fine because you’d live on through another perfect copy—”

“There really isn’t another…” He interrupted, genuine wonder and horror warring with each other in his voice. Instantly, Technus’ full form was in front of the pile of still partially assembled parts. “You aren’t gonna get that together in time.” A loud banging came from the front of the facility. “I’ve got the door locked, but they have a battering ram.” His tone sounded cheerful, like the idea of crumpling in the door was just amazing. “They’ll have to use real explosive to get through. You should’ve seen them bouncing off the door with the ram though, it was hilarious.” Skulker struggled through connecting another two pieces together, hands burning and buzzing. “Maybe you should let me do it, this stuff’s got an ecto-ranium coating on top of it.”

“Oh, now you tell me…” He lies flat on the concrete, staring up at the bright halcyon lights in the ceiling. The concrete really does feel cold. He noticed with dispassion, the energy to get worked up drifting away with the rest of his fading consciousness.

“If you were this fragile, how’d you survive this long?”

“They starve us you asshole.” He still had enough energy to be cross with Technus though. He ignored whatever the other ghost said in response, concentrating on figuring out how to escape. He did perk up when he said it was done, interest turning to ash when he saw the still inactive tech sprawled across the ground. “It’s not online.”

“It’s not charged.”

“Yes, I can see that. If it needed battery packs, why didn’t you—”

“It’s...not supposed to? Too bad I can’t check since I’m out of the mainframe now.”

The room was spinning, and he didn’t even have it in him to frustrated with Technus not checking this beforehand. “Do you remember enough of the specs to know how to charge this thing?” He panted as the ceiling came into and out of focus, the surface pitching like rippling water. He couldn’t pass out. He heard Technus say something, or he heard the noise, but it didn’t resolve into words, disappearing into the rising staticy sound screaming in his head.

He came to with a start, leaning against hard cool metal, sickly green ectoplasm leaking over the surface of the control panel underneath him. Novas my core aches. His hearing came back to the frantic commentary of his escape partner. “What happened?”

“Well you tried to evaporate, so I re-wired the life support system in this thing to send you ecto-energy, and thanks to my supreme intelligence, it worked. You’re, uh, kinda still melting though.”

He grunted pushing himself upright with the half-melted stump of his left arm. “It’ll stabilize and reverse once I get enough energy.” He squinted as the display came up, neon bright and overwhelming. It suddenly dimmed to a more reasonable level. He swiped sloppily against the inside controls, his re-charging ectoplasm slowly rejoining his form. “Ok, looks like you overrode the operating system of the suit.”

“I am far superior to the pathetic OS they installed.”

“I’m sure.” He groaned as his left hand reformed; he flexed all of his still numb fingers on both hands. “How long was I out?”

“Only thirty seconds, but the GSU just blew up the front door.”

“Fucking fantastic.”

“Don’t worry, I can operate the limbs until you finish reforming. Then, you can control the suit.”

“You’re a terrible fighter Technus, that’s why all your copies got captured.” He ignored the other ghost’s offended protests. “My hands are back; I’ve got this.” More bluster than he would have liked at the moment, but they were out of time. He watched as agents surrounded them, weapons pointed, but body language hesitant. He smiled. “Technus, does this thing have a sword?” He watched as a long sharp machete popped up in the display. They didn’t know who they were dealing with...

He stepped over the dismembered arm of a GSU grunt, metallic boot clang muted by the splash of dark red cooling blood. Amateurs. He thought, squeezing the throat of the last agent until it made a satisfying crack. He dropped the limp body and surveyed the carnage. It hadn’t even been an enjoyable battle. “How long until the next group shows up?”

“Radio chatter suggests they’re bringing—maybe two minutes?” Technus corrected himself when he properly registered the question. He felt his core’s beat pick up at the thought of more GSU grunts to disembowel. They beg so sweetly when they realize— “Not to ruin your fun, but we’re supposed to be escaping.”

“We have to go through them don’t we?”

“This is why you got captured.”

“Shut up Technus.” The other ghost was right though. With a deep breath, he ignored his desire to hunt down some more GSU agents and make them squeal for the years of captivity and the War. Later. After. He promised himself, before looking at the ceiling. “What’s the fastest way out?”

“Not up.” He brought up a map of the facility and overlaid it with the proposed escape route. “That gets us out without fighting through too many more GSU grunts.” Skulker huffed, pausing a moment to consider straying off course to fight a few extra agents before reining himself in. He did shudder though, suppressing another wave of battle lust, when they zoomed past an unsuspecting group of agents.

A few minutes later, they’d floated through the last of the HQ’s walls, bee-lining it away from the facility. The blare of the Amity HQ’s alarm was sweet, like the honeyed taste of victory, as the outskirts of the city grew near. They hovered near the edge of the city, cores thrumming with excitement and satisfaction. “How did they find you anyway? Why not just convince the system the ID duplication was a bug?”

“I tried, but my attention was divided.”

“Doing what?” He asked. He brought up a gantlet and pointed it ahead of them, temporary portal crackling into existence. The welcoming green of the Zone called to him, it’s siren tones the lullaby he’d carved the last long years of capacity.

“I had to get information about the permanent openings for Plasmius. Weaknesses, facility maps, the works. That’s a lot of data you know?”

“Sure.” Skulker agreed, scanning the portal to check its stability and connection. The portal let out a day’s flight from his territory. It’d worked. They were nearly home. “That the trade for breaking you out of the facility in Boston?”

“Yup, and delivering it with you to the drop off.”

“I need to see him anyway, lots of catching up to do.” He was stalling. The Zone was right in front of him, just a hair’s breadth away from the cool tingle of real spectral energy from a Nova, and the humming thrum that echoed in every part of the air from it. He could feel his core tugging painfully, wistfully, for home. He just had to step forward. It was right there...and he was stalling.

“Stop being such a baby, it’s been eight years since I’ve been in the Zone and you don’t see me dawdling and wringing my hands.”

“Do you even have any friends you’re scared won’t be there?” Skulker forced himself through the portal. He heard the crackling zap of the temporary portal collapsing right after their passage. Interesting feature. Could be very useful. He noted.

“My ecto-cat definitely misses me.”

“Of course you have a cat...How long until this suit is permanently charged? I don’t want to be stuck listening to your chattering.”

“Oh, the suit is already charged, but it won’t run without an OS, which is me.”

“Technus, you deleted the OS!”

“Well! It wouldn’t accept you as a user and turn on because it sensed your energy. You’re lucky I was able to override it and still charge the suit! Would you rather have evaporated?”

No he wouldn’t… But the other ghost was already going on about the encrypted files he’d downloaded and how ‘glorious’ the algorithm that made it must have been, and they have petabytes of storage in this hard-drive, and—maybe death wouldn’t have been so bad?

…then you better pray for a miracle.

[lynne-monstr]

hi blog, it's friday. and ughhh it's been a week. I was at two different types of dentist, which culminated in making an appointment for a root canal in a few weeks. there are no words for how much I am not looking forward to this. being a person is exhausting. I remember when I was a teenager thinking that one of the primary perks of being a vampire or other immortal creature would be not having to go to the doctor anymore. and you know what, teenage me was right.

I'm trying to think of a silver lining i can say next but the truth is, I think I'm just going to be a big ball of stress until all these appointments are over. I guess I can say that, as far as medical issues go, these are easily solvable things and for that I'm grateful.

I'm going to go for a run and do a little cooking later and try not to think about the rest of it. maybe I'll even work on some fic.

I hope everyone has a good weekend!

[ungalobrando]

Why you should quit purging not tomorrow, not now, but yesterday.

CW - Some hard truths about living with this kind of ED/addiction. Forcing yourself to throw up, medical issues and dental problems included.

I never see anyone talking about this ED very openly, so I figured it's time to change that. From the viewpoint of someone who's trying their best to recover, but sucks at it.

My resolution for 2023 is to stop purging entirely, and this most was mostly made for myself, but feel free to use it for your own recovery if it helps you.

° It's highly addictive. I mean it, you'll be addicted to it before you know it. At the beginning you might say how? It's gross, and painful, and you hate it, but take it from me. I'm almost 5 years into it, trying to get myself to stop, and I struggle after every meal, even if it wasn't high in calories or whatsoever. There's always that thought in the back of my head, telling me that I simply could purge and I'd feel better. It's a struggle to force myself to stay near my family or friends after eating, or at least go for a walk until the urge passes.

° You will not lose weight. Your body is smart. If what you ate doesn't actually make you sick because it's bad or poisonous, your stomach will try to hold onto your food if possible. You will have to bring up great effort to expel it, it will be painful, you could bleed, you could get horribly dizzy, you will most likely cry, and even then? You usually only bring up only half of what you ate. Maximum. Regularly forcing yourself to throw up after meals slows down your metabolism. Your body desperately clings to everything it can get, like it's afraid to lose nutrients because of your habit. There's a good chance you will GAIN weight. And your cheeks become puffy from it.

° It ruins your throat and stomach. I developed Barrett Syndrome and GERD. I get stomach cramps and heartburn after almost every meal. There aren't many things that I can eat without experiencing pain for hours afterwards. Liquids hardly stay down which makes drinking water pure torture. If I have soup before bed, there's a good chance I could suffocate on it in my sleep because my esophagus simply doesn't close properly. I don't dare to leave the house without my hot bottle and my heartburn meds. It's NOT a fun life, AND it makes me want to purge EVEN MORE to cope with the pain.

° It ruins your teeth. The risks to your stomach and esophagus aren't enough to turn you off? What about your teeth, then? Do you like cavities? Do you like chipped teeth? Do you like painful, exposed roots? Inflamed roots without cavities? Inflames gums and sores? Root canals? Getting your teeth pulled? High dentist bills? Potential cancer? Your stomach acid isn't supposed to come out of your mouth unless it's an emergency for your body. Eating a few too many calories is NOT an emergency. After you purged, you should rinse your mouth with plenty of water, wait for half an hour, and then brush your teeth and use mouthwash if you can. Brushing your teeth immediately rubs in the stomach acids.

° It ruins your hands and nails. Well, it depends if you use your hands or prefer to shove objects down your throat. I usually want it fast, and I don't care about consequences in the moment, so my hands have to suffer. My knuckles are often sore from how hard I'm biting them, two of my fingernails are short and brittle, and the skin between those two fingers is extremely dry, no matter what I do. I often get inflamed nail beds. Oh, and even if you don't use your fingers, you can watch the object you use suffer from the consequences, too. Until one day, it falls apart in your hands.

° People smell it. No matter how much you wash your hands, no matter how well you rinse your mouth, food and stomach acid have a distinct smell and the people around you WILL smell it. The scent of vomit clings to your clothes and hair. It lingers in the air, and the next person who comes into the bathroom will KNOW. Do you want to carry the delicious smell of throw up with you? Do you want everyone to know that you shove your fingers down your throat? Your ED probably says YES, but ask yourself, do you really, REALLY want to be the person who always smells like vomit?

° You deserve better. A bit of a cheesy way to end this, but... would you want to KNOW, every time your best friend goes to the bathroom after eating? Would you want to know that your child throws up your lovingly prepared meals because they feel unworthy of them? Would you want to hear your parent throwing up every day and wondering when you'll have to start doing that, too? Do you want to count calories in the elder's home? Or ask your nurse how many calories are in your hospital food? Don't you think your life has so much more to offer than this?

[mysadentaltx]

The Truth Behind 5 Myths About Root Canal Treatment

A root canal is a procedure to rescue a severely decayed or infected tooth. The several myths about root canal treatment create anxiety and fear among the people who may need the treatment. Check here a few myths and their truth to help you overcome irrational fear and seek treatment.