#Seven and a Half Lessons About the Brain

[luxe-pauvre]

Everyone who's ever learned a skill, whether it's driving a car or tying a shoe, knows that things that require effort today become automatic tomorrow with enough practice. They're automatic because your brain has tuned and pruned itself to make different predictions that launch different actions. As a consequence, you experience your self and the world around you differently. That is a form of free will, or at least something we can arguably call free will. We can choose what we expose ourselves to. My point here is that you might not be able to change your behaviour in the heat of the moment, but there's a good chance you can change your predictions before the heat of the moment. With practice, you can make some automatic behaviours more likely than others and have more control over your future actions and experiences than you might think. I don’t know about you, but I find this message hopeful, even though, as you might suspect, the extra bit of control comes with some fine print. More control also means more responsibility. If your brain doesn’t merely react to the world but actively predicts the world and even sculpts its own wiring, then who bears responsibility when you behave badly? You do. Now, when I say responsibility, I'm not saying people are to blame for the tragedies in their lives or the hardships they experience as a result. We can't choose everything that we're exposed to. I'm also not saying that people with depression, anxiety, or other serious illnesses are to blame for their suffering. I'm saying something else: Sometimes we're responsible for things not because they're our fault, but because we're the only ones who can change them.

Lisa Feldman Barrett, Seven and a Half Lessons About the Brain

[goonforgeto]

❅・WHISPER OF THE HEART

SYNOPSIS — The three times he tries to tell you, and the one time he actually does.

WC — (2.3k)

CONTENT: SFW, angst (if you squint), hurt/comfort, family issues/neglect (gojo's family is lowkey awful), idk how to make these erm

a/n: hai ^.^ if you have seen this before, fret not! i moved accounts and im slowly reuploading everything m. list | next >

Tokyo, Japan 2005

Gojo's eyes stung from trying to keep a tear or two from rolling down his cheek. He tilted his head slightly, blinking fast as if that might stop them from falling and hoping you wouldn't notice.“They won’t let me in,” he muttered, stepping away from the towering gate of his family’s estate. His voice was light, almost casual if not for the way it cracked at the edges. “Dad’s pissed I missed my English lesson, so I guess I’m not sleeping here tonight.”

Your brows knit together. In the two years you’d known him, you never quite understood how his family worked, only that they were wealthy, controlling, and conditional in their affection. As long as he played the part they expected, they gave him everything. The moment he strayed, even slightly, they turned their backs, and just like every other time, he ended up on either your doorstep or Suguru’s.

His head hung low, but his arm still found its way around your shoulders, pulling you along as he walked away from the gate. You caught a glimpse of his mother in the upstairs window, standing in the supposed warmth of their grand home, watching her son disappear down the street. You opened your mouth to say something, but what was there to say? Instead, you swallowed it down. “Where are we going?”

“Payphone,” he sighed. “Mine’s dead. Gotta ask Suguru if I can crash at his place again.”

Again. This happened too often.

“Stay at mine,” you blurted before you could stop yourself. “It’s my fault you’re home late anyway.”

Gojo glanced at his watch, the golden arms pointing to 6:30. Seven hours ago, he had been standing in front of your teacher, voice sharp, unwavering, as he tore into them for lecturing you about the length of your uniform skirt. You had both landed in after-school detention, but if given the chance, you knew he’d do it all over again.

He shook his head. “Nah. Zenin’s an asshole.”

His dismissal was instant, but you didn’t miss the way his fingers curled just slightly around your shoulder, holding on.You both rounded the corner in silence, leaving behind the towering homes and pristine streets of the Gojos’ gated community. 

The cold late-November air bit at your skin, and you tugged your jacket higher, burying the lower half of your face into the fabric. Your mind was surprisingly empty; no lingering thoughts about his family, no plan for what came next. Just the rhythmic sound of your footsteps against the pavement.

Unbeknownst to you, the boy beside you was drowning in his thoughts. A million miles a minute, his brain ran wild, tripping over itself. Not about his father slamming the door in his face, not about the house staff refusing him entry, and not about how ridiculously messed up it was that having to sleep somewhere else didn’t even surprise him anymore.

His thoughts fixated on something far more immediate… his arm. His arm which was slung so casually around your shoulders, holding you close against the cold.

He hadn’t even realized it at first. The motion had been instinctual, natural, like muscle memory. But now, the weight of it pressed against him like a revelation.

He had his arm around you.

Sure, you were close. Friends, obviously. Best friends, maybe. But never in a million years did he think he’d be standing like this, side by side, your body tucked under his as if it was second nature. He couldn’t help but think you fit into him perfectly, as if you were meant to be there.

If he looked down, really looked, he’d notice everything he’d been unconsciously curious about since the day he met you. The way your hair caught the dim glow of the streetlights, the way your breath fogged up in the cold, the way your fingers curled into your sleeves for warmth.

And suddenly, his jacket felt way too hot. His grip flexed slightly on your shoulder, fingers twitching before he forced them to still.

This was stupid. Ridiculous. He was Gojo Satoru, for god’s sake. He had girls throwing themselves at him all the time. Not that he ever really cared. But standing here, his heart thudding a little too loud, a little too fast, over something as simple as having his arm around you?

He was so screwed.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” you ask, snapping him out of whatever strange, faraway thoughts had him so quiet. It wasn’t like Gojo to be this silent. If anything, you were more accustomed to telling him to shut up rather than coaxing words out of him, so it didn’t take long for you to notice something was on his mind.

His head jerks up slightly, caught off guard. “Uh…talk about what?”

You give him a look. He knows exactly what. And when realization flickers across his face, his expression shifts instantly.

“Ohh,” he drawls, lips curling into a smirk. “Are you worried about me? How endearing, I didn’t know you cared about me so much.”

And just like that, he’s back.

“Satoru,” you warn, pulling away from him.

He instantly regrets teasing when the warmth of your body leaves his side. Cold air rushes in between you, and even though it should be a relief, his body still feels uncomfortably warm. But he shoves his hands into his pockets and keeps his expression even, pretending it’s no big deal

“You know you can talk to me about anything,” you remind him, stepping forward to walk ahead.

He nods, though he doesn’t say anything.

The truth is he doesn’t want to talk about his family. He doesn’t want to talk about how easily they push him away, how conditional their love is, how the weight of their expectations feels like a noose around his neck. His family already has a say in every part of his life, in who he is, in who he’s allowed to be. Hell, he wouldn’t have even met Suguru if it weren’t for them. You were the only thing they hadn’t touched and he refuses to let them ruin you, too.

So silence settles between you. You’re waiting for him to speak, patient as always, but the words never come.

A few minutes pass, the payphone comes and goes behind you, and the scenery transitions from the suburbs into a less wealthy part of Tokyo.

It’s only when the glow of streetlights stretches further down the road that Gojo suddenly speaks again, voice lighter, teasing. “Say it again.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“My name,” he grins, this time not hiding the way he tilts his head slightly toward you, playful curiosity glinting in his blue eyes. “Say it again.”

You sigh, giving him a small shove with your shoulder. “Stop being weird. Why should I?”

“I like when you say my name.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s a really weird thing to like.”

He gasps dramatically, pressing a hand over his chest as if you’d just personally offended him. “Don’t make fun of my interests, you wound me!”

A small laugh escapes you despite yourself. “You’re so annoying.”

But you’re smiling, and you notice that Gojo, for some reason, can’t stop staring at you.

The teasing back-and-forth continues, playful insults exchanged between you until you both break into giggles. He plays up his grievous injury by clutching his heart, stumbling as if he’s been struck by your cruel words.

And then—

“Oh, Satoru.”

His head snaps up.

The way you say his name makes something in him trip over itself, and it almost manifests into his exterior world as he stumbles over his own foot.

His first thought is that you’re about to say something important. Something meaningful, something that might make his pulse pick up for reasons he doesn’t yet want to think about.

But then you tilt your head back down the street.

“We passed the payphone a few blocks ago.”

Gojo blinks, momentarily dumbfounded, before breaking into a grin. “Aww, you said my name.”

You groan. “Shut up.”

He hums, pretending to think. “So… do you wanna turn back?”

“Obviously.”

“Why?” he shrugs, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets. “I thought I was staying with you.”

You open your mouth, then pause. The easy confidence in his voice makes it sound like it was always going to be that way, like it was never even a question in his mind.

“…You sure?” you ask, hesitant now. “I was just kidding earlier. I mean Suguru’s place is closer, and my family might not be home—”

Gojo shrugs. “His parents are family friends. It might not be wise to go there. Plus I like your place better”

It’s simple. It’s honest.

It’s enough to make you roll your eyes and keep walking, but you don’t argue.

Gojo lets himself fall back in step with you, brushing against your side again, this time without wrapping his arm around you. His hands are cold, but the warmth from earlier still lingers.

It was much darker now than when you had left Gojo’s place. If not for the streetlights and the bright glow of the business signs overhead, the night might as well have been pitch black.

A block from your house, the neon light of a convenience store caught your attention. You tugged lightly on Gojp’s sleeve.

“Let’s grab something to eat.”

Gojo hummed in agreement, following you inside. The store was small, the aisles packed tight, and the fluorescent lights buzzed softly above. You made a beeline for the instant ramen section, scanning the shelves.

“What’s the move?” he asked, casually resting his chin on your shoulder from behind.

You stilled at his closeness, your face heating in response.

“Spicy miso,” you said, grabbing two cups. “Unless you wanna cry over beef-flavored sadness.”

He chuckled. “Oh, bold of you to assume I won’t cry anyway.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved the cups into his chest. He caught them easily, grinning as he walked toward the register. You followed, digging in your bag for your wallet, but before you could pull it out, Gojo stopped you with one hand and swiped his card with the other.

“Satoru,” you whined.

“You’re letting me stay the night. The least I can do is buy us dinner.”

You opened your mouth to protest but hesitated when you realized his hands were still on yours. The warmth of his touch lingered a little too long. Before he could notice the scarlet creeping up your neck, you turned away.

“Whatever. I need some air,” you muttered, stepping outside.

Moments later, Gojo followed with two steaming cups of ramen in hand, the convenience store door chiming as he walked through. He settled beside you on the curb, letting the cold night air cool the broth. You both take your first bite.

Gojo nudged his foot against yours. “Y’know, you didn’t have to offer me a place to stay.”

“I know.” You took a careful sip of your broth. “But I did.”

He stared down at his ramen, idly swirling the noodles with his chopsticks. The streetlights cast a soft glow over his face, rounding out the sharp edges, making the sharp angles of his jawline softer, less untouchable.

You’d always heard girls at school talk about how perfect he was: his looks, his charm, the effortless way he carried himself. But you had never really seen it before. Not like this. Not until now, in the quiet glow of the streetlamp, with the world stripped of its noise.

You were not going to catch feelings for Gojo Satoru. You looked away, shoving the thought aside and focusing back on your food, until something caught your eye.

Tiny white flecks drifted down from the sky, vanishing the moment they met the pavement.

“Satoru, look!” you said, turning back to him, excitement bubbling in your voice. “It’s snowing.”

Gojo lifted his gaze, watching the flurries dance under the streetlights. And then, when he looked back down at you, something in him shifted.

The snow dusted your lashes, melting with every blink, your cheeks were tinged pink (not just from the cold but from being flustered earlier, but this he did not know). And, oh, how he wished he could just tell you how beautiful you were. “Pretty,” he said, quietly. “The snow, I mean.”

You reached up, brushing a few flakes from his hair, laughing softly. “It matches your hair.”

And suddenly, he wanted to say it.

In fact, this was the part where he was supposed to say it.

That you made him feel like home, even when he didn’t have one. That you were the only person who had ever wanted to get to know him. Not his last name, not his status, just him. That he didn’t know when it started, but somewhere along the way, his heart had stopped being his own. That standing next to you, sharing cheap convenience store ramen, in fact doing anything with you, felt more like belonging than anything he’d ever known.

His lips parted.

He whispered your name.

“Mhm?” You looked up at him mid-bite, noodles hanging from your lips.

I love you. I’m in love with you.

But the words get caught in his throat.

He let out a breath, setting his cup down beside him. “You, uh… got something in your teeth.”

You blinked. “Huh? Seriously?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Right there.”

You ran your tongue over your teeth before flashing him a grin. “Got it?”

He stared for a moment longer than necessary, something unreadable in his eyes. Then he glanced away. “Yeah. You got it.”

You smiled, leaning your head against his shoulder. “Thanks, Satoru. You’re a good friend.”

He exhaled softly, resting his head atop yours.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Friend. You too.”

And for now, that was enough.

i’ll do my best to get the next 3 chapters reuploaded as soon as possible, but i am a student and pretty busy.

pls do not copy, repost, or claim my work as your own :) if you have any issues with what i wrote or noticed any mistakes, let me know privately. thank you for reading <3

[erwinsvow]

you have a phantom neighbor. 

you’ve lived in this apartment complex for four months and you’ve met every other person on the floor already, if not the entire building.

the sweet old lady with the long last name across from you (and the phantom), who told you just call me mrs. p when you knocked on her door to introduce yourself. the married couple three doors down—they’re looking to move out soon, find somewhere bigger since they’re trying to have a baby. you had nodded and smile politely, a little uncomfortable with the openness, but hey, maybe that’s just what people here are like. 

there’s others that you haven’t seen as much, so they don’t come to mind as quickly. you have a strict routine, you always have. out the door by seven-fifteen, at school at by seven-thirty, and you come back around four usually. even then, you have a routine you stick to after work. cleaning up, getting started on dinner, an episode of love island while you eat. you try to go on a walk afterwards, especially in the summer when it’s still warm and sunny around seven or seven-thirty.

and in all that time, you have never seen your next door neighbor.

it doesn’t make sense—how can that possibly be? you know he exists. there’s a label that says 309 — j. abbot in the building directory, right above yours, 311. you’ve seen packages left at his door before. one time the mailman accidentally slipped his electric bill into your slot—and you had left it on the floor by his door, and the next day it wasn’t there anymore

so j. abbot did exist, just maybe on a different operating schedule than yours. you don’t know why you even care so much—it’s not really that important. in other cities people go years without meeting their neighbors, and sometimes they’re better off. the last thing you need is for other people on the floor to learn that you’re nosy, or something terrible like that. 

you think maybe you’re just curious. the better answer is that all the cheesy romance novels you read have passed through your skull and infiltrated like a virus, giving your self-diagnosed brain rot a whole new meaning. 

you’re not nosy, you decide, but you still ask mrs. p about him one day, when you’re helping the older woman get her groceries up the stairs. they’re servicing the elevators, and she tells you how they must have started after she’d already left that morning. to thank you for hauling in the reusable bags filled with something inordinately heavy, she invites you in for tea. 

you’ve never really been a girl who drinks tea, but you accept her invitation with a smile. she makes a pot of earl grey and you two chat about things that come up—what you’re doing this weekend (nothing, if you can help it), how your students are (wonderful, but june can’t get here soon enough), and then you sneak it in.

“do you know the man who lives next to me? in 309? mister abbot?” 

“oh! that’s doctor abbot, honey,” she says, and you feel yourself flush, as if you’re embarrassed for getting his title wrong when he isn’t even there. you’ve never even seen the man. “he’s very nice. a widower, you know, so sad.” she whispers the last part as if it’s some sort of secret she shouldn’t be sharing. 

“oh. that’s very sad. is he young?” 

nosy, nosy nosy, a voice in the back of your head sings to reminds you. 

“everyone’s young when you get to be my age,” she says with a smile, piling on more cookies to your plate while you try to resist. 

you leave about an hour and a half later, after mrs. p has gotten a chance to fill you in on everything she deemed necessary for you to know. now that it’s warm, there’s a farmer’s market in the early afternoon she thinks has the best produce—get there early before they run out, though. a couple upstairs is getting divorced, and she’s keeping the apartment—he cheated. can you believe it? well, you haven’t seen the man, but trust me, you wouldn’t believe it. him? 

and right before you were about to excuse yourself to go finish lesson plans and treat yourself to a eight dollar latte, she fills you in on 309, dr. abbot, the very nice, allegedly young, widower. 

“well he served, just like my husband did. always stops by on veteran’s day for tea. i think he works nights at the hospital.”

but then she changes the topic again, and you don’t want to keep pushing just to satiate your own stupid curiosity. by all accounts, though, he does seem really nice. maybe you’re just not old enough to know many nice men, but stopping to have tea with his elderly neighbor on veteran’s day doesn’t seem like something just any man would do. you bid mrs. p goodbye and buy your latte and finish your work.

your schedule seems a little thrown off today—courtesy of all the cookies you ate with tea. you’re not hungry at all come six pm, so you keep reading whatever romance book is rotting your brain today, and then at six-thirty, with the notable absence of clanging pots and pans and your overstimulating kitchen hood, you hear it for the first time.

the door next to you close. there’s the sound of jangling keys. and as quickly as your tip-toes can take you to your peephole, you miss him almost entirely, just seeing his back—broad and covered with a black scrub top—and the back of his head—salt and pepper. 

you wanted to see what he looked like and deduce for yourself just how young he really is, since mrs. p told you to basically not trust her judgment. you’re a little dejected but you’ll take what you can get—before today he was a complete phantom. now he’s a blend, somewhere between phantom and person, with a very nice personality and gray hair.

you suppose that’ll have to be enough for today.

[thesoftuglywrites]

Satoru Gojo doesn't sleep.

Well, that's a lie. He sleeps, he just doesn't sleep well.

The man averages about two to three hours a night, when the average adult human should be getting about seven to eight consecutive hours of sleep. One could either blame it on the constant stream of input of cursed energy or information from his Six Eyes technique, or the monotonous flow of reverse cursed energy to try and keep his brain at optimum performance, or the busy schedule that's imposed on him due to his special grade status, being "The Strongest" and all that malarkey.

That is, until he started to share his bed and his home with you.

You remember how you pleaded with Satoru to try and get some rest after a day of lessons, the exorcism of a special grade curse that roamed the grounds of an abandoned primary school, and the paperwork that came with it. It seemed that had become his everyday schedule. Early mornings to mid afternoons, lessons. Afternoons to late evenings, missions. Evenings to the dead of night, paperwork. He barely had any time to take care of himself.

Even through the blindfold that he was wearing, you could see the bags were starting to bruise past his eyes and transcend to his cheekbones.

He was dog tired and in desperate need of rest.

You approached him as he was hunched over his office desk, typing up a report on the mission that had transpired that day. You noted that the plate of food that you had set out for him was picked clean, so you were at least grateful that he had taken the time to get something in his stomach.

You attempted to place a hand on his back, but were stopped with mere nanometers to spare by the invisible barrier that covered his body.

“You know you don’t have to use your Infinity with me around, right?” you gently chided.

He let out a soft sigh and the barrier lifted, allowing you to touch him. “I’m sorry. I’ve just…I’ve got a lot on my mind,” he groaned, letting his head fall forward and land on the keyboard. Consecutive ‘F’’s started to fill the screen where he had left off typing.

“‘Toru, it’s almost midnight. You’ve been at this report for the past four hours, and then some.” Your hand slid up his neck to get to his hair, oscillating between scratching and massaging his scalp as you threaded your fingers through his silver white locks. “You should get some rest. You, of all people, certainly need it the most.”

“Mmm… feels good, babe,” he moaned, his voice slightly muffled by the keyboard. He sits up straight, lifting his head off the desk. “As much as I want to, though, I can’t. I gotta get this report ready for Yaga so he can spare me a meeting with the higher-ups.” His nose upturned at the mention of the sickly, old, conservative bastards that sat behind paper screens.

“The higher-ups can eat shit for all I care. Right now, I’m concerned about you, ‘Toru.” You crouched down beside him and pulled his blindfold off, allowing you to look him in his eyes. “You keep going like this, and you’re gonna end up burning yourself out, my love. I won’t stand by and let that happen, not if I can help it, at least.” You reached up and gently held his cheek as you leaned forward to press a kiss to his forehead. “Please come to bed.”

A moment of silence passed as Satoru drank in your concerns as well as your physical affections. He was a weak man when it came to your touch, being rendered to putty sometimes, with the euphoria that your body offered him. You were really the only person that he allowed freely to touch him, as no one else was really allowed the privilege.

You could have almost sworn that he started to purr underneath your fingers.

“Okay, I’ll go to sleep… if.”

You raised an eyebrow. “If?”

“If you come to bed with me. I don’t like the idea of you going back to your apartment so late at night, especially if I’m not there with you.”

You gave him a half-hearted smile with a breathy chuckled that followed. “Sure, ‘Toru. I’ll come to bed with you.”

You grabbed his hand and pulled him to a standing position, letting him stand to his full height. He nearly stumbled after you as you guided him to his bedroom.

Satoru, when presented with the large California King sized bed, damn near face planted into the covers.

He was more exhausted than he initially thought he was.

Satoru turned onto his side, and even in total darkness, you could still see the glow of his blue eyes as they searched for you. He made grabby-hands at you as he stretched out his arms towards you, trying to get you into bed with him.

You clambered up beside him, quickly being swept up into his embrace as he pulled you into his chest, his warm exhaled breath tickling your exposed skin.

“Can… can I try something?” You hesitantly asked, unsure if he was going to take you seriously or not.

He pulled away, giving you a mischievous look with a small smirk starting to quirk up at the edge of his mouth.

“It’s not like that, you perv. I wanna try something different tonight. I think you’ll actually come to like it.”

He decided to humor you. He opened his arms and you maneuvered your way out of his embrace. You pulled back the covers and laid flat on your back with your head on his pillows.

“Come here,” you beckoned, patting the space beside you.

Satoru wasted little to no time, eagerly climbing up next to you, laying his head on your chest where he could hear your steady heartbeat. He nuzzled his nose into the crook of your neck, his breaths now lightly cascading over your collarbones. He wrapped you up into his arms, pulling you nearly inhumanly close to his front, almost as if he wanted to merge bodies with you.

“Shh… go to sleep, ‘Toru. I’ll be here when you wake up,” you softly cooed, your hand finding his scalp once again as you weaved your fingers through his hair, lightly scratching the skin there.

“Mmm…promise?” He sounded drunk.

“I promise. Get some rest.” You leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to the crown of his hair.

It didn’t take long for his respiration to even out, letting out soft puffs of air, and his grip to loosen only the smallest fraction. He began to lean a little bit more heavily into you as he wasn’t conscious to be mindful of his weight on top of you, but you didn’t mind.

You laid there, staring at the ceiling as you continued to stroke his hair, listening only to the steady rate of Satoru’s breathing and the soft hum of traffic outside of his high rise apartment.

You honestly can’t remember the last time that Satoru just took some time to breathe. Even on the rare occasion when he had downtime, his brain was still on high alert, no thanks to his Cursed Techniques and his high-ranked status in the Jujutsu world. He worried for his students and his co-workers safety, he fought the higher-ups on… basically everything, but his main concern, above all, was you.

You, the little non-sorcerer that managed to capture his attention by being at the right place at the right time. You, who knew nothing of the Jujutsu world, treated him like an actual human being instead of the weapon that he was always deemed. You have shown him genuine love and care, to the best of your ability, at least, trying to be a foundation for him to lean on even in his darkest moments.

It was an unorthodox relationship between the two of you, but you somehow made it work.

As time passed, Satoru remained in the same position with him tucked away at your side and his head on your chest. In his slumber, his hand started to drift up and grab hold of your shirt, fisting into his grip as he held onto you tightly, somehow afraid that you were going to slip away into the night and get away from him.

Eventually, you started to succumb to your own drowsiness, your eyes growing unbearably heavy as you laid there, the comfortable bed and the heat from Satoru’s body starting to lull you into a deeper sense of tranquility. You pressed another kiss to the top of his head and closed your eyes, waiting for sleep to come for you.

The two of you remained undisturbed for the rest of the night, finding solace in each other’s embrace.

[44-moved-44]

"(FUCK YOU YOU AQUAMARINE ANGRY LITTLE SHIT!)"

Atop the tall podium, rinsed in an iridescent, golden hue, a celestial rim washing down each corner; trimmed by a dusty silver, shivering with a pearly shine.

"[WHAT DID I DO, HUH? EXACTLY WHAT? DID I STAND WRONG? DID MY EYESIGHT MAKE YOU JEALOUS? AM I OFFENDING YOU WITH MY ABILITY TO SHUT UP?]"

The audience, cornered in the nooks of their seats, twitched and bowed at the rancorous uproar.

"(WELL IIIIIII'M SORRY, I HAD TO CARRY US ALLLLLL THE WAY HERE, YOU GODDAMN CUCK!)"

"Guys…" A well-heighted man, head the shape and hue of a noble planet. "You both won, you don't have to–"

"[WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'CARRY', YOU TURKEY-BRAINED BODY ODOUR-FRAGRANTED PURPLE MASS OF DEPRESSED RODENTS?]" Mind tightly roared from the crease of his lips, whipping his brand new sun trophy onto the podium; a hard, metallic clatter snapping into the flooring. "[IF IT WEREN'T FOR ME, WE WOULDN'T EVEN HAVE INFORMATION OUT THERE ABOUT OUR RIGHTS TO THIS SEAT!]"

"(ARE YOU KIDDING? EVERY CHONNY JASH FAN LOVES ME! I'VE GOT FUCKING APOLOGISTS! YOU'VE GOT PEOPLE WHO FRAME YOU AS THE NARRATIVE'S VILLAIN 'COS YOU SUCK THAT BAD!)"

"[YEAH, AND WHO WAS THE ONE WHO SET UP YOUR KEYBOARDS? AND TRANSLATED SHEET MUSIC INTO SOMETHING YOUR SORRY ASS COULD UNDERSTAND? AND–]"

"(SHUT–)"

"[AND FIGURED OUT HOW TO SET UP YOUR STUPID FUCKING AIR-CONDITIONER, BECAUSE–]"

"(I PAY FOR YOUR PAINKILLER PRESCRIPTION!)"

"['(OHHHHH, I CAN'T FOCUS IN THE HEAT! BUT I WEAR BAGGY HOODIES AND TWO-LAYERED PYJAMAS AND)–']"

"(AT LEAST I DON'T EAT MY GOLDFISHES!)"

"[AT LEAST I DON'T PLAY FNAF SONGS ON THE PIANO AT FOUR IN THE GODDAMN MORNING!]"

"(I WROTE THE BEST SONGS FOR OUR ALBUM! WITHOUT ME, OUR STORY OF HOW WE SUFFERED (MOSTLY BECAUSE OF YOU) WOULD'VE NEVER BEEN KNOWN!)"

"[NAME ONE PERSON WHO USES GOOD DAY AS AUDIO!]"

Words torn from mouth and crashing into each timorous ear surrounding the two, pronounced in a very ired, Australian tongue.

Arms furiously stretched and swung and feet stamped to enunciate visible outrage.

"Yeesh, Moon… I always thought our relationship was bad, but it seems like sun and moons across the universe can get so much worse…" Sun shivered, a quick tug on his coarse yet metallic collar, punctuated by a swift glance to his lunar counterpart. "Over where we're from, we have to deal with living in a giant animatronic mall and occasionally the works of cross-dimensional madness. But over there, it seems to me they really need to learn a lesson about getting along!"

"I could take them in a fight with a small dresser tied to my dominant hand." Moon stared, unblinking, body as stiff as a long rock.

The other contestants watched as the words were rocked and tossed in a staggering hatred.

At one point, Heart's wings had enlarged to mimic that of a threatened bird inflating its stance to appear larger; Mind's chest hummed with the overwork of his fans.

Suns and moons from all sorts of solar systems stationed across the multiverse watched in horror.

Two of them were those guys from Nimona, but I don't know dick about shit about Nimona so you gotta use your imagination for that one.

"Right right, you two have your trophy, just…" The celestial staff member disarmingly motioned their hands, gazing down at the two halves. "What are you going to do with your prize money?"

"(Oh, I'm probably gonna use it on an invasive wildflower and a seven hundred AUD life-sized Lopunny plush.)"

"[To pay off my severe prescription zolmitriptan debt that I'm four months behind on because I spent half my yearly salary on a car that I ended up crashing because of a migraine.]"

Happy tiny niche fandom winning against FNaF and Nimona for all who celebrate

Reblogs > Likes

[shepandem]

It’s been a while since I gave a proper update, sorry about that! I’ve been adapting to my new host home, and that has been a longer and more difficult process than I had expected, but I’m finally in a place now where things are smoothing out and calming down, and I and my caregivers are getting into a good rhythm with each other.

I want to share the hard parts as well as the good parts, in case it helps someone else who is about to transition to a new living situation. As fun and exciting as it is, it’s still a big change for everyone, and change is hard!

I’ve been moved in for about seven and a half weeks now. During that first month, I was having multiple self-aggressive meltdowns per week. I have a new round scar on my forearm where I bit through the skin. I also “eloped” twice.

I was overwhelmed by all the tiny changes in my day to day routine, and by how different things were than I was expecting. My caregivers, who are both still young, in their mid-twenties, have never had a host home client before me. They didn’t realise how much work was going to be involved, and, despite my and my team’s best efforts to prepare them, they didn’t understand the extent of my care needs, especially socially and emotionally.

I have a lot of trauma from growing up with a mom who likely has undiagnosed BPD. She bottles her feelings until she explodes, and when she does, she goes into rages that are loud, emotionally hurtful, and occasionally physically violent. I learned early on how to tiptoe around to avoid her anger, and to expect it to be taken out on me if I trod wrong.

I brought these lessons with me into my new home, and was afraid of communicating my wants and needs, for fear of triggering anger or threats of abandonment. The first time I ran away, my caregivers came home from work tired and frustrated. One of them went straight up to their room, and the door slammed loudly. I immediately jumped up, grabbed my shoes, and ran out the door.

I called my ABA therapist, with whom I’m close, and told her what had happened, and that I was running away. My traumatized lizard brain was in complete control. She talked me down and eventually convinced me to go back to the house, because running away wasn’t safe. She spoke to my caregivers, and it turned out that the door was slammed by the wind, and that they weren’t even mad about anything.

The three of us have been having a lot of meetings with my team, and weekly check-ins with caregiver E’s mom, who is also a host home provider, and has been helping us work together to navigate the bumps.

They are still learning how to be what I need, and I’m still learning how to replace my trauma-based interpersonal responses with healthy, open, trust-based communication, but things are getting much better. Last night we had our first group meeting where no one had any challenges or concerns to bring up. This past week has been easy and fun, and I haven’t had a meltdown in nine days. Everything is starting to look much more like I envisaged in the beginning, and I’m so excited to see it continue to grow from here!

[bondsmagii]

I still remember reading and re-reading your book reviews because half the time they were better than the material you were critiquing

god I LOVE writing book reviews so much. I do this in my bullet journal now because I'm a bujo bitch but for you I'm gonna rant about a book I just finished yesterday called And Finally by Henry Marsh. it's a memoir about a neurosurgeon's transition from being a surgeon all his life to being diagnosed with prostate cancer in his seventies, and sort of reflections about what it's like to go from one side of the doctor's desk to the other. and the bits about this are good! but unfortunately it's like 20% of the book and the rest is just disjointed nonsense.

I don't mean nonsense as in incorrect or ridiculous or whatever, it's all solid information about how the brain works (as far as we know), all the things we don't know, various theories and philosophies, etc. but it's just nothing to do with the subject at hand, like bruh I wanted to read about what was on the summary on the back? about transitioning from prime of life and a powerful career like neurosurgery where you have people's entire self under your scalpel to helplessly facing your own mortality? I don't want like high school biology lessons about how the brain functions and -- at one point, no exaggeration -- seven pages, a whole chapter of this short-ish book, a blow-by-blow account of the fairy story he's telling his granddaughters each evening. that is just not what I signed up for sir.

also I did mention this in my review of the other book of his I read (Do No Harm) but he has some REALLY sketch views that make me recoil like a cat smelling something bad. like this.

in that book he was talking about how he had less sympathy for addicts because their poor choices mean they're more deserving of bad health (because they don't value their body like somebody without addiction problems does I guess?) so right away I was like I'm going to fight this old man but I don't know if his age has made him even dumber but in this book there were some really weird implications. like he was always lamenting that the chemical castration he underwent as part of his cancer treatment was making him weaker and stupider? the implication being of course he now has less testosterone and highter estrogen and something something less testosterone makes you weak and stupid? or how he was so self-conscious about being a patient because he knew he was a second-class citizen within the great royal citadel of the hospital like bruh NOBODY is saying that aside from you and you're showing your ass more than that hospital gown is!!

he has some very interesting points and Do No Harm was overall good but I'd give this one a miss tbh. he's genuinely the kind of doctor I fear getting because he is so fucking judgy. like my humble opinion re: doctors of any discipline is if you think anything your patient has done results in them DESERVING the illness you are treating them for you should quit your job and maybe never interact with society again.

[sincerelyamee]

[How I imagine Gojo teaching 5-year-old Megumi about his Ten Shadows technique aka recipe for disaster]

Most sorcerers with flashy innate techniques typically awake their powers around five or six years old - right around the same magnificent age they discover crayons are wonderfully effective for decorating more than just coloring books (RIP white walls everywhere).

Innate techniques in particular have a mind of their own, essentially “calling” to their user like an overly eager pet begging for treats and attention. One day, baby sorcerers just wake up, and bam - suddenly shadows are tugging at their skin or flames are sparking from their fingers, no warning or parental consent form required.

Little Megumi has been feeling the very first stirrings of his Ten Shadows for weeks now. Random surges of cursed energy that are definitely not just from sneaking extra pudding cups. Mysterious but insistent tugging sensations from the shadows, like ghostly hands trying to initiate a game of tag.

So, it’s time he gets some pointers on it, right? At least, that’s what Gojo decided.

On one peaceful morning, Gojo whisks out a whiteboard and markers from… somewhere. With such theatrical showmanship, one would think he was auditioning for Broadway itself. Yet the children serve as the ultimate tough crowd, responding only with raised eyebrows and curious glances.

Still, Gojo strikes a scholarly pose.

“Alright, my star pupil - Today’s lesson is on your badass upcoming technique!” Gojo announces, gesturing for Megumi to sit front and center.

As Megumi hesitantly takes his place, Nanako leans over to Mimiko. “How come he just happens to have a random whiteboard ready? Where does that even come from?” She whispers. Mimiko just shakes her head, too busy stuffing her mouth with chips.

“To start, your very first summons will be these adorable Divine Dogs!” Gojo proclaims enthusiastically. “Though at first, they’re more like Divine Pups…”

His marker zig-zags wildly as he tries sketching two majestic wolves. Emphasis on tries. The end results look something akin to a pair of mutant chickens wearing tutus. That elicits poorly contained giggles from the girls. Megumi simply stares, somehow experiencing all seven stages of grief simultaneously.

“Those are some weird chickens, nii-chan.” Tsumiki blurts out with all the sophistication of a future art critic.

“They look like they survived a nuclear blast,” Nanako adds.

Why does she even know what a nuclear blast is? Kids these days. Gojo makes a mental note to berate Geto later for letting the devil’s spawns watch too much TV. But since he’s Gojo, he forgets about it immediately. For now, he blinks down at his drawings, then back at the giggling, unimpressed kids.

“Clearly you heathens lack the artistic vision to appreciate my creative genius.” Gojo huffs before erasing his previous attempts in stunned outrage.

But Gojo Satoru isn’t one to give up easily, or ever.

Like a runaway freight train, Gojo charges full steam ahead. His Louvre-worthy artistic visions expand stranger the longer the ridiculous lesson continues. With each stroke of the marker, Gojo’s illustrations venture further into worlds unknown by man or beast. Eldritch creatures populate the poor whiteboard as head scratching and sideways glances spread among the children.

Megumi watches in dismay as the hours tick painfully on, the squeaking hamster powering his brain throwing itself from the rusty wheel. The last of his sanity packs its bags and flees into the abyss rather than witnessing more of Gojo’s artistic assaults against nature. At the rate this is going, he half expects his first summon to be a potato with Gojo’s face haphazardly drawn on it.

A glaring oversight dawns on the boy - for all Gojo’s useless prattling and monstrous drawings, explaining the actual summoning process appears a mere afterthought, if the man is even capable of actual thoughts at all. When asked, he simply waves off the question with a dodgy uh-huh. Just as effective as inquiring an orange tabby on quantum physics.

“It’s not that hard.” Gojo shrugs dismissively. “You’ll figure it out.”

Megumi rubs his temples, contemplating if it’s too late to grab Tsumiki and flee this madhouse, perhaps taking the twins as well. No one deserves such ruthless torture. Gojo may be well on his way to becoming another villain overlord with questionable artistic skills, but this? This right here marks Fushiguro Megumi’s very own villain origin story.

Staring blankly ahead in post-traumatic shock, Megumi knows one truth with the certainty of death itself - never, ever again will he make the fatal error of taking a lesson from Gojo. No, he must figure out this Ten Shadows technique solo going forward. Though now Megumi ponders whether deliberately summoning all those nightmarish abominations is something best avoided altogether.

read the whole thing here on Ao3: A Family of Villains - A wacky villain origin story/Kinda a slice-of-life fic exploring the logistics of 18-year-old sashisu being the greatest villains in the jujutsu world while on the run and raising 4 kids. Mostly fluff and humor of course.

[luxe-pauvre]

But if you are stressed over and over and over again, without much opportunity to recover, the effects can be more grave. If you constantly struggle in a simmering sea of stress, and your body budget accrues an ever-deepening deficit, that's called chronic stress, and it does more than just make you miserable in the moment. Over time, anything that contributes to chronic stress can gradually eat away at your brain and cause illness in your body. This includes physical abuse, verbal aggression, social rejection, severe neglect, and the countless other creative ways that we social animals torment one another. It's important to understand that the human brain doesn't seem to distinguish between different sources of chronic stress. If your body budget is already depleted by the circumstances of life - like physical illness, financial hardship, hormone surges, or simply not sleeping or exercising enough - your brain becomes more vulnerable to stress of all kinds. This includes the biological effects of words designed to threaten, bully, or torment you or people you care about. When your body budget is continually burdened, momentary stressors pile up, even the kind that you'd normally bounce back from quickly. It's like children jumping on a bed. The bed might withstand ten kids bouncing at the same time, but the eleventh one snaps the bed frame.

Lisa Feldman Barrett, Seven and a Half Lessons About the Brain

[ranbowkng]

A Cup of Sugar Will Rot Your Teeth, But You're Still Sweeter My Dear

Domestic GaryJohn, Gary knows jack fuck about cooking, John just wants to bake chocolate chip cookies so his husband can get a taste of food that isn't the rotting flesh of a sinner

"Looks like the recipe calls for one cup of butter, three quarters cup of white sugar, three quarters cup of brown sugar, one teaspoon of vanilla extract, two eggs, two and a quarter cups of flour, one teaspoon of baking soda, one teaspoon of salt, and two cups of chocolate chips," John said, looking at the back of the bag of chocolate chips. When she was married to Molly, this was what she'd do with him every Thursday evening so they had something to eat while they drank wine and watched trashy TV.

Meanwhile on this particular Friday afternoon, Gary had been running around with plastic Halloween cups and silver spoons falling out of his arms as he looked at John perplexed, "I fail to see how all these cups and spoons will result in your mortal pastries!" The Halloween cups tumbled to the floor, clattering loudly on the linoleum. Gary sank to his knees, picking up the cups dejectedly just to drop the spoons.

John chuckled, "It's a form of measurement, here let me show you." John helped pick up the Halloween cups, putting them back in the cabinet. He had to admit, he wasn't sure he'd have any fun at all, and would feel like he's just trying to replace Molly. But Gary's confusion and his eagerness to try human food made it worth the while. He picked up his measuring cups, "This big orange one is a cup, the sizes below are half cup, third cup, and quarter cup."

"Where's the three quarters cup? Your recipe called for one of those," Gary asked, leaning on John's shoulder to look at the different spoons and cups.

"We don't have one, we just use the one quarter three times," John explained, "Then there's teaspoons and tablespoons, and the liquid measuring cups."

"Forget it, too many steps," Gary stood grabbing a container of baking powder, "What's this? Do we need it?"

"Oh no, we don't, we need baking soda not-" Gary didn't listen to the rest of what John had to say before opening the can and pouring powder directly in his mouth.

"Oh, we're out," Gary hummed, turning the empty jar upside down. John's jaw was on the floor as he watched him hum and throw away the jar, "This is terrible, you humans should just try eating cow brains and pig intestines like the rest of us."

"You're not supposed to eat it raw like that," John said, watching the demon chew on powder. Gary was about to lift the package of salt to his lips before John pushed him back down to the counter, "No! No. Let's just stick to the recipe shall we? I'll measure everything out and you pour it into the bowl and stir it with this."

John handed him a large baking spoon. Gary blushed profusely at the sight of the utensil.

"Oh my, priest," He looked at it like it was scandalous, "I didn't know humans could get so...flavorful."

"What?" John tilted his head and raised an eyebrow before he realized what Gary thought he was holding, "No! No! It's- it looks nothing like that! It- it's a spoon!"

"Is that a new toy from circle seven?" Gary asked.

"No! It's a cooking utensil," John said, holding it out to him still.

"But it looks like-"

"I know what it looks like!" John felt like his face was going to melt, "ah! Here! Let me show you!"

John decided that the best way to teach Gary was to guide his hands. He stood behind him, standing slightly shorter as he held the cultist's hands, helping him move the spoon in a slow circle through nothing.

"John? What are you-"

"Cooking lessons," John said calmly, breathing in the fabric on Gary's shoulder, "Most people move in circular motions like this. I prefer to flip and stir, Lisa used to use a method called 'kill it and cremate it,' but we won't use that until after we add the butter."

"At what point do we add the rabbit's blood?" Gary asked, still moving the spoon in a circle.

"The what?" John said, stopping.

"I find it pairs well with ox liver," Gary said, "no recipe is complete without it."

"Then perhaps we should leave this recipe incomplete," John said, wiping his hands on his shirt, "Now, I'll start mixing things in, and you just mix them until they look like one powder."

John washed his hands in the sink, Gary following suit (he felt that it was best to follow the leader in this case.) John started with the dry ingredients, flour first, ending on white sugar. The entire time Gary kept moving his arms in circles, somehow not being worn out by the repetitive task at hand.

"ah! Hold on!" John stopped Gary's stirring, sticking his hand in the flower bag. He took a large pinch and tossed a sprinkle at the top of the bowl, the bottom, side to side, and then brushing the rest on Gary's nose. Gary didn't quite understand as he blinked, blushing at the unexpected contact.

"Was that a vital step in the recipe?" Gary asked, too nervous to move in case his actions were what the sanctity of the cookies relied on.

"No, it's just something silly, I blessed the cookies," he giggled. Gary backed up a step, worried the powder might start to burn him alive, "Well not literally. I added extra sugar in the motion of a blessing before rubbing it on your nose. You know, to be funny."

"Won't your ridiculous jokes throw off the delicate balance of the pastries ingredients?" Gary asked, sugar still on his nose.

"No not at all, you just have to be careful not to use more than a pinch," John said.

"...Must it always be done with white sugar?" Gary asked.

"Nope, I usually use both types of sugar," John moved the brown sugar back towards the demon, "Wanna give it a try?"

Gary cautiously took a pinch of brown sugar before tossing flecks of it into the shape of a star in the bowl then smearing the rest over John's nose, "There, now the cookies have been officially...cursed."

John chuckled, neither wiping the sugar off their nose, "Yeah! Now you're getting it!"

Gary blushed before awkwardly matching John's chuckle, "Yes, I think I understand...this is quite... humorous!"

John let out his last chuckle before gently taking Gary's face in his hands, "And now, we eat the meal of the Lord." He licked the sugar off of Gary's nose before giggling like a child.

Gary was stunned by the action, not quite understanding the joke. But when in Rome, do as the Romans would. He held John's face on his hands, blushing profusely, "Uhm, by the wrath of the UNSPEAKABLE." The fork in Gary's tongue molded perfectly as it traced along the bridge of John's nose licking up the brown sugar. Immediately Gary wanted to throw it up, "Agh! Aw! Too sweet! Is all human food like this? I think I've had enough."

"Well obviously not silly, you're not supposed to eat sugar by itself, it's meant to be used in recipes," John explained.

"Then why did we just eat it off of each other's faces?" Gary asked.

"Well, there's no harm in a little fun," John shrugged, cracking an egg into the bowl full of powder and chocolate chips.

"I thought you said that a little can go a long way," Gary's head was spinning faster than the spoon he was using to stir.

"Yeah well..." It's a losing battle. If John tried to explain everything to the creature who ran purely on objective then he'd never get anywhere with this, "Humans are renowned for being contradictory."

Gary nodded, slowing his motions slightly, "So I've noticed."

"Now for the fun part," John said, taking out two sticks of butter.

"Your eyes did that thing again," Gary pointed at John's face.

"Hmm?" John looked up at him tilting his head to the side.

"You said something and then you looked at the sky, almost like you were trying to look at your brain," Gary said, "Can humans not look back at their brains?"

"Oh no, we refer to that as rolling our eyes dear," John poured the vanilla extract into the bowl, tapping the rim to indicate that Gary needed to keep stirring, "When a human is being sarcastic or is annoyed, we tend to do this action. It's kind of like how you'll spit acid and growl when you're annoyed. Also stop spitting acid in my slippers, I know it's you."

Gary raised his hands in surrender, "I understand, so when we were discussing whether or not we should raise children and you rolled your eyes when I claimed they should belong to the order, that was you being frustrated?"

"You're getting it," John nodded. He unwrapped a stick of butter, "The reason I was so annoyed by the butter is because it can't be stirred with a spoon."

"What?" Gary looked back and forth at the bowl and the butter, "What did I even use this for then?"

"It makes sense to me, that's all that matters," John stopped most arguments before they started with this sentiment. Gary understood that there were some things about the human mind that were just too subjective for him to understand.

"Then how are we to mix this lard stick in?" Gary asked.

"It's not lard, and we use our hands," John said, "This is the 'kill and cremate' part I was talking about earlier."

Gary's mouth twisted into a grin, "I think I like this part."

"I'll do it," John said, "Your nails are longer so it'd leave a big mess on your hands."

"I can do it! Please!" Gary begged, letting the spoon clatter into the bowl, "I love beating things into submission!"

"We've gotta work on your phrasing," John said unamused.

"What? I do!" Gary said.

"Regardless," John said, throwing the stick into the bowl and unwrapping the other, "This part takes the longest. All of this powder has to be mixed in with the butter. Then it will become a dough."

John reached past Gary, kneeding the butter and folding it into a big clump. He pushed powder into it before folding and squishing it flat, repeating this process a hundred times. Gary watched in awe.

"Your hands...they work so diligently. So... beautifully," Gary said, a small blush on his cheeks.

"Oh, uhm, thanks" John said, continuing his work, "I uh, I learned from the best."

John awkwardly continued to knead the dough for what felt like an eternity. Meanwhile Gary was enjoying the gentle yet firm motions John had used on the dough. It was a sight for eyes that have existed for centuries.

"Do we add the rabbit's blood now?" Gary asked when the powder has finally been converted into a soft brown dough with chocolate chips poking out.

"No no, there is no rabbit's blood in this recipe," John said.

"We could improvise," Gary suggested.

"We will do no such thing," John said, "Put that vial back in the fridge." Gary spat at the floor before growling, "Wipe that up or I won't let you have and cookies." Gary growled again before wiping up the spit.

John kneaded the dough for another minute before pulling out two trays, "And now, for the fun part."

"Eating?" Gary asked.

"No, you can't eat them yet," John said.

"I assure you I can," Gary said.

"You take chunks of dough and roll them into balls, then," John demonstrated as he spoke, "You spread them out evenly. You can help with this part."

"Do we then eat the balls?" Gary asked.

"Wait and see," John said.

The two rolled exactly 98 cookies, having to reuse the trays multiple times to fit everything. Each time the timer dinged Gary was fully prepared to eat the cookies tray and all, but John just sat him down and handled it himself, making his boyfriend continue to roll cookies alone.

"This waiting process is tedious," Gary huffed, sitting on the couch when the dough ran out, "Why must I wait for you to peel them?"

"Just trust me," John had been preparing a plate for the both of them, pouring two glasses of the nicest wine he had, which ended up being pretty cheap considering he used the last of his fancy wine on dinner with Lisa and Garcia.

"Here you are," He handed Gary the glass, moving the grab the cookies, "Now you might want to eat these slowly, we don't know what they'll do to your metabolism."

"For all this work they better taste better than angel feathers," Gary grumbled, swirling his glass around.

John lifted a cookie and pressed it against Gary's lips. Gary bit off a large chunk, chewing slowly. As he chewed, Gary's face melted into pure joy.

"I take it you like it?" John said.

"This was worth every second of labor!" The cultist said, scarfing down the rest, "I didn't know human food could be so...good!"

"Mm, I'm glad," John said. He slowly moved an arm over Gary's shoulder coaxing him to lean into him, "Then we'll make them every week."

"Please!" Gary took another, eating it in one bite.

John picked up a cookie and took a bite, looking down at his demonic boyfriend and smiling. Perhaps this tradition was worth the revival after all.

[panthera-tigris-venenata]

Some books I read lately:

I don't read as much as I used to, so enjoy this selection

Babel

Such a good book. Such an experience.

I've seen people voice an opinion that they couldn't relate to the protagonist, but I can't agree. My school is trying to kill me (figuratively) too.

Still, it was weird seeing myself the most as the story's antagonist. Made me think.

Likewise, it was weird reading book that had the quote of "the act of translation is an act of violence" in translation, but I think I did the right choice. The text is a bit dense and I wouldn't have enjoyed it nearly as much in english.

The book itself is dark academia, but not as in "vaguely gothic surrounding & really hot academic rival," but as in "your school made you who you are today and destroyed you in the process; it's using you for your language and your heritage and it won't stop taking and you should be grateful, everything is so much better now, isn't it?"

Every Exquisite Thing

A modern day take on Dorian Gray. I've been thinking about getting this book for quite some time, and I'm so glad I did.

It's about teenage girls in the age of social media, which makes it about a thousand percent more reletable than Dorian "I own ten editions of the same book in different colours so it matches my outfit and judge people for expressing basic human emotions, oh woe is me" Gray.

...yeah I wanna punch him <3

Anyway. The book has great Aesthetic and themes.

Acting school and "one must siffer for beauty" and fur coats and parent-child relationship and a thing that fits my extremely specific definition of hate sex. (Yeah, they're lesbians. It's Dorian Gray retelling)

Mexican Gothic

A great horror story from the first half of last century. (So, obviously, great Aesthetic)

The thing that gets the main heroine in trouble is familiar love and there's nothing she could have done differently.

She's also like, "My future partner must be of the highest standards", and then she sees the wet cat personified youngest son of the family her cousin married into (he's actually very sweet, tried to help her), and goes: "... actually nevermind, I want that one"

(...yeah, nothing bonds two people together as a bit of arson)

The Villain-thing is simultaneously a cult and fungi.

Fungi scares me normally, so this works.

The Thousand Floor series

Yeah it's not my first time reading this, but I adore this series.

It's set in future, which is mostly used for extra bling, and one boy has an illegal home-made Quantum computer in his brain. He uses this solely to flirt with girls better.

There's murder and excelent relationships drama.

Relationships drama as in "I accidentally killed one of my best friends in drug-induced mania cos I thought she was having an affair with my dad but she was actually my step-sister and now I'm blackmailing three people over this and fuck, one of them is kinda hot".

(once again, fits my extremely specific definition of hate sex)

There's also a con artist<3

Carmilla

Bought this at seven in the evening from a cheap books bookstore, but, c'mon. Lesbian vampires.

Mona's guide to defensive baking

This was such a cute read, it feels like a really inovative fairytale. Another book from the author, Nettle and Bone, feels the same.

It's about kids and there's magic and corrupt goverment and the animal sidekick is a sourdough starter <3

House of Hunger

More lesbian vampires, yay!

And probably my favourite read in very long time. I didn't plan to buy it, but I read a random excerp at the bookstore and the book gripped me in such a way I bought it. And read it in two days.

There's not a lot of explicit worldbuilding, but there IS worldbuilding: in the way the air tastes, in how the clothes feel against her skin. (I mean, she gets history lessons but she finds them insanely boring, so we really do not get the worldbuilding beyond bare bones on need to know basis for her)

And the relationships!! The shadow of family, the friendships, the obsession!!

...and as for the love interest/villain, imagine Ianthe Tridentaria and you're free to go. I love her. Both of them.

DNF/Hate reads <3

For when I need to persuade myself that chemistry cannot deal me THAT much psychic damage <3

Crave

By god. Please. It's Twilight but on Alaska and the author ain't mormon so MC is allowed to be horny on main.

We all know this.

So PLEASE, stop mysteriously repeating "Careful, something might bite you here"

The book refuses to tell the heroine there's supernatural shit for 150 pages even though we all know it. From the summary. And the marketing.

...also, there's were-dragons. I don't know what's going on either.

But yeah this was great for reading the most ridiculous passages to my roommate and laughing over it. Very bonding.

Crave 2

No I cannot be bothered to learn the title.

In the first two chapters, girlie has no idea wtf happened (x months long coma & amnesia), like four different people refuse to tell her, and she manages to remind us no less than five times that yes, Jaxon Vega is still hot.

Yes, that spelling is a crime too.

... I'd like to know what does the author have against Prague. That's kinda unrelated but still.

Fourth Wing

Yeah fine it's better written that Crave (the bar is in hell), but this book made me read "I cling to leaf-tipped limbs of the tree" in english version. (The word you're looking for is BRANCH.)

The translator used "branch", which, massive kudos to her, improved readability by like seventy percent by that alone.

Still, the characters talk like therapy (derogatory) and insist on telling worldbuilding in THE most ridiculous ways.

I'd give redeeming points for dragons but I didn't get to them before "leaf-tipped limbs of the tree", so, hard luck ✨

School for Good and Evil

...yeah that's mostly my fault for reading out of intended age group, but.

SIR, that's your STUDENT. STOP. Please.

That said, there's like. A lot of innuendos for a middle grade book.

Rhapsody

If I had a nickel for every YA book that has "an ancient bat-winged fae king" as the love interest, I'd probably be fucking rich.

Also, the MC is a siren and the book is "dark romance". She did NOT claw anyone to death nor drown anyone and I feel like I should be financially compensated for that.

[numbuh]

i have decided i will give you guys a wip draft of a chapter. a taste. because 52 pickup knd recruitment origin story is important to his lore. so why not

It all began when he was seven.

Back when he first started ‘borrowing’ his mom’s special hair scissors to (very, very carefully) cut his the way he likes it, back before the accident, back before he even met his sector. He was facing injustice from adults. They hated his pranks with a passion, so much so that a recruiter for the KND approached him in the school hallway.

He can no longer recall the operative's codename anymore, but the boy must've been no more than eleven years old. That was much older than he was. Much taller, too. It was a little intimidating. "Hello, I'm from the Kids Next Door,” the boy greeted, tipping his hat a bit.

Benny looked up from his downtrodden pose. "Um, hi." He had heard of the KND in passing, but hadn’t really formed an opinion on them.

The other boy looked over in the direction of the principal's office with half-lidded eyes and hands in his pockets. "I see these adults don't have a sense of humor."

"Or fun," Benny grumbled.

"You got that right." The older kid straightened up and glanced back at him. "Y'know... we protect kids like you."

Benny lifts his head up higher, a newfound glimmer of hope in his eyes. "So, I'm not going to get expelled?"

"Er... We can work on that. Do you have any interest in fighting adult tyranny?" He balled his hands into fists, making swinging motions. "Kicking the crud out of supervillains, drinking all the soda you want? Eating as much ice cream and candy as you can get your hands on?" He paused, a tad smug. "How does ‘tactical prank specialist’ sound?"

It sounded like a dream come true. That, and anything to get away from school or boredom sounded like a good idea. Perhaps he could even make friends. "Really?!"

The disbelief in Benny’s voice was more than clear, getting a grin out of the other boy. "Operative's honor!" he replied with a salute. “So, how about it? We could always use another agent.” He reaches his hand out. "Let's shake on it."

Benny hesitated for a moment. He glanced at the older child again, a look of uncertainty. While he could no longer perfectly remember his face, his smile was welcoming. Bright. Despite being a Kid Next Door, his teeth were sparkling white and relatively spotless. It was like he jumped right out of a toothpaste commercial. This was prior to Knightbrace’s rise in villainy, so it had to have been his own doing if not the demand of his parents. Benny secretly wished that his teeth looked like that. Though, as soon as he remembered the part about candy, he no longer cared about cavities or yellowing teeth. The bullies and adults could yell all they wanted, this was what being a kid was all about. And, he could prank adults without getting in trouble? The idea was completely absurd. Rushing his hand forward, grin widening as he did so, he shook the preteen’s. The two then walked down the hall, chatting as they went along.

"So, what did you do anyway? I was late to school."

"Oh, I put a whoopie cushion on the principal's chair. Classic prank! He hit the talk button right before he sat down. It let out the loudest fart I've ever heard! Blasted right through the speakers! You should've heard it! Then, I... "

The memory fades out, leaving Numbuh 52 Pickup laying in bed, hands clasped, staring idly at the ceiling. If the principal had tried to expel him or place him in Permanent Detention, there was no doubt the KND would’ve tried to interfere. However, he didn’t. He still felt he had to punish Benny; to teach him a lesson that he wouldn’t forget. He tries to recall more, squeezing his eyes shut as if it would make his brain work better.

Back then, the principal of Gallagher Elementary was a man by the name of Mr. Moulde. He was pale, portly with salt and pepper hair and what appeared to be a permanent scowl. Students used to gossip about how they had never seen him smile other than when he’d torment children. His office smelled of old erasers and pencil shavings, and it was always too warm or too cold depending on the season. Benny was in the second grade at the time and the room had already become way too familiar to him. Once Sauerbraten took over and complained, it pretty much got remodeled. Where the money to do so came from, Benny didn't want to think about.

“May I be alone with your son for a moment?” Moulde had asked.

“Oh, of course!"

The door closed, though Benny wished he could’ve clung onto those last few seconds when his parents were in the room with him. The man hovered over his desk, eyes piercing through him as if he was criminal scum. “I will be honest with you, Mr. Bodsberry. You are an awful, awful little boy.”

He should’ve been proud of what he did.

Any kid would’ve, right? Then why was he shrinking in his seat, chest aching, head hanging low like a dog who just got caught stealing a treat? A cat whose claws sunk in too deep? As his thoughts started to unravel further, Moulde got up.

“You know, Benny, I've been the principal of Gallagher Elementary for a long time. I've thought about moving on soon. But that stunt you pulled was the worst I've seen in all my years.”

“Worse than the time the gym was flooded with lemonade?”

“Yes. I have never felt so humiliated.”

All this over a whoopie cushion? Benny gripped the chair's edges. In that moment, he realized how small he was in comparison to it. In fact, he felt he was being treated like an older kid. Maybe some fourth grader who should've known a little better, not a seven year old. But, here he was.

“After all the things you've done, I have half a mind to expel you. Though, that’d be giving you the easy way out, wouldn’t it? It's a good thing this isn’t just about you.” No doubt the man was talking about the chairs right outside his office. “You don't want to disappoint them, right?”

Benny shook his head rapidly. “No, sir.” He wasn’t going to beg. No way he would’ve, despite the urge eating at him. He cracked an insincere smile instead. “Is the other half of your mind thinking you'll let me go with a month or two of detention? Or chores? I can do chores!”

The man feigned laughter and his lips formed into a grin. “No.” He sat back at his desk, hands clasped on its surface. “Before I get to that, I have a suggestion. Once I’m gone from this dump, you’ll have no clue who will be replacing me. I’d wise up now if I were you. Someone might say just the right words and you’ll see yourself in Permanent Detention or working in some mine somewhere. That’s not my problem, and it certainly won’t be in a year or so from now. About your punishment… how does another year of Ms. Cramson’s class sound?”

If only he could go back in time and punch the man square in the face without facing any more repercussions. Feeling his anger get the better of him and the events that occurred after slipping away, Numbuh 52 Pickup decides to unclasp his own hands and sit upright on his bed. He doesn’t understand how memories work, that’s for certain. If he is already having trouble remembering things that happened years ago, what are the chances of him forgetting a bazillion more once he…

“Benny! It’s time for lunch,” his mother calls. “I made your favorite— dino nuggets!”

Benny grins and rushes down the stairs.

—

Numbuh 68F was as calm as they came. And, boy, was he boring. Sure, he was a nice guy, but… he always had to slack off and he was prone to getting air sick, which he lied about frequently, so their two-by-four ships could never move too fast. There’s a reason why Sector ETA is called that. Higher ranking operatives yelled at 68F from time to time, but he was always nonplussed. When the old leader finally turned thirteen, Numbuh 52 Pickup was secretly glad to see him go. He barely got to know him. Barely remember how he looked, either. There were a lot of boys who looked like him. It was no longer important.

Numbuh 102 approached, looking shyer than he remembered in the years that followed. She had only recently started growing her hair out and was also wearing a skirt, which she later decided she did not like. “Hello.”

“Oh,” Benny hummed. “Numbuh 102?”

She stood upright, annoyed. “You’re supposed to let me say my name, Numbuh 52 Pickup.”

Benny chuckled. “Sorry. I recognized you.”

She certainly recognized him. It was just her luck that she’d be stuck with him out of a kajillion operatives. She cleared her throat. “I, Numbuh 102, have been appointed your new sector leader. If you wish to know me on a more personal level, my name is Sasha.”

The other three stared at each other and nodded.

“My name is Benny.” Numbuh 52 Pickup gestured to his friends behind him.

“I’m Numbuh 909, or Chloe.”

“I’m Francis. I mean, Numbuh 38.”

Numbuh 102 nodded once, herself. “Very well then.”

Benny will likely never tell her, but he thinks Numbuh 102 is a way better leader than Numbuh 68F. She's fun! She reacts, she laughs. He never did any of that stuff. [END OF WIP]

[aladaylessecondblog]

3:01:15 (Raphael x Tav)

TW: noncon, drugging

The visits continued. Four times (or was it five?) on her knees, times spent compliant and pliable. Fifteen minutes shaved off the debt that way, and seven via Haarlep's enjoyment of her body when they used it.

She continued to prefer it this way. No need to look Raphael in the eye--although he did continue to talk, the wretched fiend. Praise for her tongue work or her eagerness to serve--praise, she thought angrily, that made her sound like some sort of pet he was commending for doing a trick.

But it is a trick, isn't it?

She'd always been good at pleasing with her tongue. Halsin, Gortash, even Bane when he'd possessed Gortash's body, they all had good things to say about her oral service.

But none of that praise had ever made her feel so small and worthless. As if that service were the only redeeming thing about her.

He had stolen all enjoyment she used to find in the pleasing art of submission.

The only mercy was that he left quickly. A cutting remark or two might follow his pleasure, but Raphael was not a man who hung around too long once he was satisfied. And she was glad of it.

It was easier to bear. And when she faltered, felt herself close to bursting into tears and becoming a worthless lump of nothing, she prayed. A few times to Silvanus, but mostly to Ilmater.

I do this for my son's safety, she prayed, I could slay any spawn or foul thing that Cazador sends, but could I do it before Cald had been hurt? I don't think so. And so I persist. Please, grant me the strength to endure. If I get no help, I know not what will be left of me by the time I've paid off the debt. I may not be able to help Shadowheart and Lae'zel and all the rest. I may not be able to save everyone from the elder brain. Please, Ilmater, help me.

Tav always seemed to feel a little better after these prayers.

It was the only time she felt she could shut her eyes, and not open them to find Raphael was there. He had a nasty habit of appearing out of thin air, walking from behind a tree or something of that sort, no doubt attempting to hammer in the lesson he'd started with Haarlep. That she and all that she was belonged to him until that debt of time was paid. That he would come to collect at any time that pleased him.

Luckily...it was extremely simple to deal with him. All she had to do was slip behind a mask when Raphael made his visits. Not act entirely happy, not resigned--to act afraid, but not too much so. To act as though she were perhaps a doe, and he a hound that had closed its teeth about her back leg. And when he made clear what he wanted, to comply, with eagerness. The innocent maiden, the wounded prey, the wanton harlot, all by turns.

A mask, and she could shunt this all off to the side. She wasn't this Tav being assaulted, she was that Tav, merely pleasing a devilish visitor. That was all.

She just had to become someone else, someone who wasn't feeling this pain.

In the meantime, there were enough things to do to distract herself that she need not think at all on the ill luck of that horrible fiend having her over a barrel. If she did not think of it, it did not exist. It was as simple as that.

(She just had to keep believing it.)

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

The winter snow was melting and color returning to the swamp when Tav made the discovery that the "unknown person" who remembered her was definitely not Wyll.

The famous Blade of Frontiers came unexpectedly to her door half-delirious from fever--some infection or the other he'd gotten neglecting a wound. At least, she assumed so, judging from the nasty looking cut at his left shoulder and the shiver despite being well wrapped up. He'd looked dead at her, said, "My lady, I'm sorry to...I saw the sign of Ilmater and knew I was safe" then promptly collapsed.

She dragged him inside, cleaned his wound, and spent several minutes with a healing spell over it. Then cast a sleeping spell...and waited.

"Is this the Wyll from your story?" Cald asked. He looked down at the shivering man as he lay sleeping, and then back up at Tav. "He doesn't have horns like you said."

"He doesn't get those until later," she replied. "I'll do my best to help him here. Remember, when he wakes up--it's okay to act like you know him. Or OF him, rather. He's the Blade of Frontiers, very famous, it's only natural that you might have heard of him before."

"So he's safe?"

"So long as we don't see any devils."

Cald was quiet after that, and when she mentioned it was best to let Wyll sleep quietly now they knew he was already, the boy offered also to keep an eye on him...in raven form, if necessary.

He just wanted to see someone new.

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

Tav was preparing a soup for her, Cald, and Wyll to eat when he awakened when she heard the slight shifting of air and the deliberate step of Raphael behind her.

"We really must stop meeting this way," he teased.

"How else would we meet? You are the one intent on surprising me with every visit."

"It would not be half so enjoyable without that element of surprise."

"You'll have to pardon me for not screaming. I have a guest in the house," she replied quietly, finishing up the chopping of a carrot and tossing it into the soup. She set the fire beneath it and enchanted a spoon to stir at it continuously, then turned around to face Raphael.

Doe or whore?

The answer was handed to Tav when Raphael stepped forward and pressed an eager kiss to her lips. She tensed only briefly and forced herself to retreat behind the mask, glad that at the same time she could shut her eyes.

She returned the kiss as eagerly as he seemed to want, and aside from brief partings to breathe, it went on for far too long. She could feel him below, already hard--

Tav opened her eyes when he stepped back, and realized that he'd once more chosen to bring her to the boudoir.

"I would have taken you in your bed," he whispered in her ear, "But as you said...you have a guest, and it wouldn't do to disturb them, now would it?"

"Outside would have done just as well, master."

(He shivered just slightly, the egotistical bastard, and Tav knew she was hitting on the bullseye of his desire.)

"I am so glad you've learned to behave, little mouse," he went on, "It pains me to have to harm you in any way, you know."

"And now?" she asked, lowering her gaze in a way she hoped he took as respectful.

"And now you have become everything you should have been from the start. Such a pity that we could not have this bliss those first three hours."

"At least it is here now."

There was a pause.

"What would you have of me this time?"

"Something to reward your good behavior perhaps?"

Tav couldn't stop the look of fear that crossed her face, and it only deepened when she realized that Raphael had noticed it.

"Oh, no need to worry, my dear...this isn't going to be what happened the first time I brought you here. That was...merely to ensure that you understood right away which of us it was that held the power here. I can give and take at my leisure...and today...today, I am inclined to give."

That sweet venom stayed in his voice, though.

"Will Haarlep be joining us?"

"In a sense."

The question forming on her lips was soon answered. He moved to one of the bedtables and retrieved a small but full potion bottle.

"It occurs to me that I do not take your pleasure into account as often as I should," Raphael said as he handed Tav the bottle. "So many times, little mouse, that I indulge myself by having you on your knees. And as you have corrected your ill behavior, so I shall do with my own."

"What is this?"

"Does it matter?" he asked as she uncorked the bottle. "But I will indulge you. That, my dear Tav, is what will ensure you enjoy tonight."

Tav was suspicious, but he clearly meant her to drink it--so she took a gulp from the bottle, and realized rather quickly his reference to Haarlep.

It was semen. And from the pleasurable burn that shot through her body and had her knees nearly buckling beneath her--

Need. Desperate, overwhelming, all-consuming need.

It was with a struggle that Tav recorked the bottle and set it on the bed table. She was suddenly too warm, and as she approached the bed she shuffled to get her clothes off.

"Poor little mouse...that hit you like a boulder during an avalanche. You shouldn't have drunk so much of it. But don't be selfish, come and undress me."

Tav obeyed automatically, breathing hard as she did so. It was torturous to ignore the warmth and the dampness between her legs, but she knew he wouldn't want to wait TOO long, which was the only mercy she could see in this situation.

The second he was bare, Raphael shifted to his cambion form.

"As I said...I want to be sure you enjoy yourself. Now..."

"Please--" It was half knowing he wanted to hear it, and half crying out for relief.

It was so easy to relax, to simply let his commands direct her body, one of which sent her onto the bed and had her opening her legs for him. So easy to ignore that smug look on his face, to keen at the stroke up her thigh, to moan into the kiss he pressed to her lips, to let his tongue plunder her mouth.

Tav who hates him does not exist right now, was the last coherent thought she had before that cock thrust forward and filled her world with ecstasy.

"That's it," she heard Raphael whispering in her ear, "Poor little mouse, so desperate for me, so needy..."

Then he started moving, and all reason left her brain. His hips pistoned a steady beat against her own, his hands groping eagerly at her breasts, his nails leaving scratches and tiny smears of blood over them.

It would have been too much as it was, but then she found herself ordered to reach down and stroke herself.

All it took was a few caressing touches over her clit--

"Oh--" She stiffened as climax rushed up to drown her, and Raphael's thrusts turned painful for a few moments. Her inner walls clenched down on him and yet he kept moving.

"Please--too much--"

Her words wouldn't work, at least not in a way that made sense. It was as if her mouth didn't want to cooperate.

His movements slowed, and he leaned down a bit, whispering, "Keep pleasing yourself, my dear, it's such a beautiful sight."

Her body obeyed automatically--though she felt a few tremors in her abdomen, protesting at the extra stimulation. The pain of overstimulation passed, though, and she felt pleasure rising once again. She barely registered Raphael's attention elsewhere, and didn't understand what he was doing.

Until she felt the edge of an open bottle pressed to her lips.

"Drink, little mouse. And drink deeply."

The shadow of the word no appeared for only a second in Tav's mind before she obeyed, gulping at Haarlep's semen as it poured from the bottle. She didn't know if she finished at all...it didn't really matter, in the end.

Delirium rose.

She writhed beneath him, every stroke now a symphony of lusts, every touch of his cock or hand now overwhelmingly satisfying. Her mouth was moving, but whether she was speaking or not, Tav couldn't be sure. There was only the lusty throb between her legs--and Raphael.

The bottle was suddenly gone.

Again he was thrusting. Her voice rose in moan after after, voicing the pleasure he was giving her, reaching up to touch him--

--she blinked, and she was on her knees, then again and he had pulled her up. His voice was an insidious whisper in her ear.

"Such a treasure I have here..." His dark chuckle sounded off, and once more she felt a savage thrust. "I wonder what you're thinking right now..."

"Not..." There was a pause as she climaxed again, less intensely than before, and for one brief handful of seconds her head cleared up. "...this isn't going to get you...the Crown..."

For that moment she was afraid.

But all Raphael did was chuckle. One arm was slipped about her side, holding at her throat, while the other slid down to cover her abdomen.

"Oh, my dear, sweet, obedient little mouse..."

Another thrust, and a groan in her ear. He gave a shudder, and she felt the sudden heat of his seed as it pulsed into her.

"...by the time you've paid your debt, you'll be begging to give me the Crown."

How long it went on, she wasn't sure. He fucked her a few more times, and she lost count of how many times she finished somewhere after eleven or twelve. But when it was finally over--when she lay tired beside him, her head resting on his chest and her breathing only just becoming more normal again, he spoke.

"Two hours, twelve minutes, and eight seconds."

[realityhop]

"What we call mental illnesses, then, may be rational body-budgeting for the short term that’s out of sync with the immediate environment, the needs of other people, or your own best interests down the road. Rational behavior, therefore, means making a good body-budgeting investment in a given situation."

— Lisa Feldman Barrett, Seven and a Half Lessons About the Brain (2020)

[deldeldel90]

3, 5, and 6? (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

3: all time favorite pairing: Isolee (Isolde x leelathae) ofc!! <33 

5: favorite platonic pairing: Lance & Blaine as of the current!!! aahstsjshsh can't stop posting about them,, they are so perfect and they just make my Brain EXPLODE. rant incoming but 

Blaine and Lance just have That Something to them, that contrast, that shared past, that angst and that comfort and just—can you imagine having an ally in the constant competition for your father’s love (for your own safety), having a baby brother to protect and care for, and you've never. Can you imagine being ripped from your mother's arms, and the air of your kingdom is so much colder than the womb, and then suddenly—a year later, you're one, you're one and your father has only held you once, one is such a lonely number—you’re joined by this cooing ray of sunshine? You're warm for the first time in your life. He wears blue, you wear red. You feel so much bigger than him, so much older. He's so loud, so talkative, so hyperactive—at first, you don't understand it. You're a brother, but, more importantly, you're his brother. “Every king needs a knight,” your father whispered to you when you were seven and he was six. He was five, before. You agree, but you can't ever see Lance being the one protecting you—it’s too dangerous out there, you've seen the gladiator battles Father has you go to. In your mind, he's still six when you turn eight. He's still six when you turn sixteen and are deemed old enough to pose shirtless in those tabloid magazines. He is not an enemy, not when he's distracting you from piano lessons or sneaking you away for an extra cookie. Can you imagine? 

Can you imagine being born into a family without love? You don't get why Mom doesn't let you hug her, or why Dad has you stuck in a room with people too big, talking in those condescending voices as they point to letters. You want to run, and you do—you run, you fence. You're really good at fencing. You want the people you love to smile. You never know why they don't—you’re happy, your grin always hurts, so wide it dimples your cheeks. Mom smiled at you during dinner, once! Blaine’s smiled at you, in that half-sacronic tired way, more times you can count. (You're not good at counting.) You wear blue, he wears red. Brothers, you think, as you follow him into Academy, wearing your uniform looser than his. He's the student body president, you copy off the answers of last night’s homework from your buddy and Blaine sniffs, but, hey, he tells you about how Mr. Dovecote is particularly partial to students who bring him those fancy chocolates from the Gingerbread Man’s Catchin’ candy shop in the local town. You read this picture book, once—Andre said it was a graphic novel—about these two skeleton brothers with red and blue. You think they're just like him and you. You like hanging with your friends more than your studies, you don't like to read that boring Shakesphere stuff, you learned to do keg stands at sixteen years old. His nose wrinkles in disdain when you told him that, but he never told Dad about it. You admire him and tease him at the same time. He's your brother, you'll follow him into the end of the earth but that doesn't mean you won't laugh your ass off the second he trips on a pebble. You are second-born, raised by Blaine’s watchful eye and the people around you’s guiding hands, and you're raised to believe yourself capable. Your brother is wary around your father and that means you can't kick your feet under the table, you can't be a second late. Over the years, you learn why he's so scared. Sometimes, you don't know why he protected you for so long. But you know. You know, even with your dumb all-muscle brain. Can you imagine? 

6: favorite headcanon: oohhh I have so many headcanons 😭😭 okay but My Favorite would be that Isolde was definitely in a band. you can't tell me she wasn't, and she was DEFINITELY a guitar player. 

[leebrontide]

Secondhand Origin Stories, Chapter 7

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

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

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

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

You can follow along by following #SHOSweekly

Chapter 7

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She should practice on me,” Jamie argued. 

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

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

“You’ll snap in half.”

“I will not!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jamie sounded curious. “A deaf altered?”

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

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

More like a conspiracy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At the end hung a limp, lifeless metal hand. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you gave him that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aw, crap,” Capricorn muttered. 

“Yeah,” Dr. Tillman snapped at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

OK, one more time. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whose idea had it been? Mom, no. 

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

Un. Helpful.

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

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

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

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

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

The visit was awful.

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

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

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

MAN1IwantyoutocomeinagainnextweeksoIcanhaveanotherlookatWOMAN1I’mcallinginaprescriptionformorphineforMrNMAN1pincheddiskWOMAN2pleaserollupyoursleeve

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait, no. 

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

“I don’t want a birthday dinner.”

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

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

But what could she do?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, Mom. I’ve got this.”

* * *

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

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

Towards Yael. Away. Towards. Away.

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

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

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

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

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

“Did he ask you about me?”

“He did not.”

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

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

But what would a good sibling do?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or was he thinking of Jenna?

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

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

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

“Do you think he’ll come back?”

“I doubt it.” 

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

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

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

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

“Do you like him?”

“He’s my brother. I love him.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Papa still said he loved him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Priorities. “Issac.”

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

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

“Ah.” He went silent. 

“He’s my brother,” Yael blurted out. 

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

“He really was trying to help--”

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

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

“Now, that’s Bureau business.”

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

“And you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh. Well, good.”

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

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

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

Nodiah said a polite goodbye, and hung up. 

Yael let xyr head thunk against the wall. 

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What if it goes wrong?”

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

Yael was cautious. “How likely is that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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