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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 month ago

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The meritocracy to eugenics pipeline

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in PDX on Jun 20 at BARNES AND NOBLE with BUNNIE HUANG. After that, it's LONDON (Jul 1) and MANCHESTER (Jul 2).

It's kinda weird how, the more oligarchic our society gets, the more racist it gets. Why is the rise of billionaires attended by a revival of discredited eugenic ideas, dressed up in modern euphemisms like "race realism" and "human diversity"?

I think the answer lies in JK Galbraith's observation that "The modern conservative is engaged in one of man's oldest exercises in moral philosophy; that is, the search for a superior moral justification for selfishness."

The theory of markets goes like this: a market is a giant computer that is always crunching all kinds of "signals" about what people want and how much they want it, and which companies and individuals are most suited to different roles within the system. The laissez-faire proposition is that if we just resist the temptation to futz with the computer (to "distort the market"), it will select the best person for each position: workers, consumers, and, of course, "capital allocators" who decide where the money goes and thus what gets made.

The vast, distributed market computer is said to be superior to any kind of "central planning" because it can integrate new facts quickly and adjust production to suit varying needs. Let rents rise too high and the computer will trigger the subroutine that brings "self-interested" ("greedy") people into the market to build more housing and get a share of those sky-high rents, "coming back into equilibrium." But allow a bureaucracy to gum up the computer with a bunch of rules about how that housing should be built and the "lure new homebuilders" program will crash. Likewise, if the government steps in to cap the price of rents, the "price signal" will be silenced and that "new homebuilders" program won't even be triggered.

There's some logic to this. There are plenty of good things that market actors do that are motivated by self-interest rather than altruism. When Google founders Larry Page and Sergey Brin developed their Pagerank algorithm and revolutionized internet search, they weren't just solving a cool computer science problem – they were hoping to get rich.

But here's the thing: if you let Larry and Sergey tap the capital markets – if they can put on a convincing show for the "capital allocators" – then the market will happily supply them with the billions they need to buy and neutralize their competitors, to create barriers to entry for superior search engines, and become the "central planners" that market theory so deplores. If your business can't get any market oxygen, if no audience ever discovers your creative endeavors, does it matter if the central planner who decided you don't deserve a chance is elected or nominated by "the market"?

Here's how self-proclaimed market enthusiasts answer that question: all Larry and Sergey are doing here is another form of "capital allocation." They're allocating attention, deciding what can and can't be seen, in just the same way that a investor decides what will and won't be funded. If an investor doesn't fund promising projects, then some other investor will come along, fund them, get rich, and poach the funds that were once given to less-successful rivals. In the same way, if Google allocates attention badly, then someone will start a better search engine that's better at allocating attention, and we will switch to that new search engine, and Google will fail.

Again, this sounds reasonable, but a little scrutiny reveals it to be circular reasoning. Google has dominated search for a quarter of a century now. It has a 90% market share. According to the theory of self-correcting markets, this means that Google is very good at allocating our attention. What's more, if it feels like Google actually sucks at this – like Google's search-results are garbage – that doesn't mean Google it bad at search. It doesn't mean that Google is sacrificing quality to improve its bottom line (say, by scaling back on anti-spam spending, or by increasing the load of ads on a search results page).

It just means that doing better than Google is impossible. You can tell it's impossible, because it hasn't happened.

QED.

Google wasn't the first search engine, and it would be weird if it were the last. The internet and the world have changed a lot and the special skills, organizational structures and leadership that Google assembled to address the internet of the 2000s and the 2010s is unlikely to be the absolute perfect mix for the 2020s. And history teaches us that the kinds of people who can assemble thee skills, structures and leaders to succeed in one era are unlikely to be able to change over to the ideal mix for the next era.

Interpreting the persistent fact of Google's 90% market-share despite its plummeting quality as evidence of Google's excellence requires an incredible act of mental gymnastics. Rather than accepting the proposition that Google both dominates and sucks because it is excellent, we should at least consider the possibility that Google dominates while sucking because it cheats. And hey, wouldn't you know it, three federal courts have found Google to be a monopolist in three different ways in just a year.

Now, the market trufans will tell you that these judges who called Google a cheater are just futzers who can't keep their fingers off the beautiful, flawless market computer. By dragging Google into court, forcing its executives to answer impertinent questions, and publishing their emails, the court system is "distorting the market." Google is the best, because it is the biggest, and once it stops being the best, it will be toppled.

This makes perfect sense to people who buy the underlying logic of market-as-computer. For the rest of us, it strains credulity.

Now, think for a minute of the people who got rich off of Google. You have the founders – like Sergey Brin, who arrived in America as a penniless refugee and is now one of the richest people in the history of the human species. He got his fortune by building something that billions of us used trillions of times (maybe even quadrillions of times) – the greatest search engine the world had ever seen.

Brin isn't the only person who got rich off Google, of course. There are plenty of Googlers who performed different kinds of labor – coding, sure, but also accountancy, HR, graphic design, even catering in the company's famous cafeterias – who became "post-economic" (a euphemism for "so rich they don't ever need to think about money ever again") thanks to their role in Google's success.

There's a pretty good argument to be made that these people "earned" their money, in the sense that they did a job and that job generated some money and they took it home. We can argue about whether the share of the profits that went to different people was fair, or whether the people whose spending generated that profit got a good deal, or whether the product itself was good or ethical. But what is inarguable is that this was money that people got for doing something.

Then there's Google's investors. They made a lot of money, especially the early investors. Again, we can argue about whether investors should be rewarded for speculation, but there's no question that the investors in Google took a risk and got something back. They could have lost it all. In some meaningful sense, they made a good choice and were rewarded for it.

But now let's think about the next generation. The odds that these billionaires, centimillionaires and decimillionaires will spawn the next generation of 1%ers, 0.1%ers, and 0.0001%ers are very high. Right now, in America, the biggest predictor of being rich is having rich parents. Every billionaire on the Forbes under-30 list inherited their wealth:

https://ca.finance.yahoo.com/news/forbes-billionaires-under-30-inherited-203930435.html

The wealthy have created a system of dynastic wealth that puts the aristocratic method of primogenitor in the shade. Every scion of every one-percenter can have their own fortune and start their own dynasty, without lifting a finger. Their sole job is to sign the paperwork put before them by "wealth managers":

https://pluralistic.net/2021/06/19/dynastic-wealth/#caste

Yes, it's true that some of the very richest people on Earth got their money by investing, rather than inheriting it. Bill Gates's investment income growth exceeds even the growth of the world's richest woman, L'Oreal heiress Liliane Bettencourt, who never did anything of note apart from emerging from an extremely lucky orifice and then simply accruing:

https://memex.craphound.com/2014/06/24/thomas-pikettys-capital-in-the-21st-century/

But Bill Gates's wealth accumulation from investing exceeds the wealth he accumulated by founding and running the most successful company in history (at the time). Doing work never pays as much as allocating capital. And Gates's children? They can assume a Bettencourtian posture on a divan, mouths yawning wide for the passage of peeled grapes, and their fortunes will grow still larger. Same goes for their children, and their children's children.

Capitalism's self-mythologizing insists that the invisible hand owes no allegiance to yesterday's champions. The mere fact that the market rewarded you for allocating capital wisely during your tenure does not entitle your offspring to continue to allocate wealth in the years and centuries to come – not unless they, too, are capital allocators of such supremacy that they are superior to everyone born hereafter and will make the decisions that make the whole world better off.

Because that's the justification for inequality: that the market relentlessly seeks out the people with the skill and foresight to do things and invest in things that improve the world for all of us. If we interrupt that market process with regulations, taxes, or other "distorting" factors, then the market's quest for the right person for the right job will be thwarted and all of us will end up poorer. If we want the benefits of the invisible hand, we must not jostle the invisible elbow!

That's the justification for abolishing welfare, public education, public health, affirmative action, DEI, and any other programs that redistribute wealth to the least among us. If we get in the way of the market's selection process, we'll elevate incompetents to roles of power and importance and they will bungle those roles in ways that hurt us all. As Boris Johnson put it: "the harder you shake the pack the easier it will be for [big] cornflakes to get to the top":

https://www.theguardian.com/politics/2013/nov/28/boris-johnson-iq-intelligence-gordon-gekko

Which leaves the servants and defenders of the invisible hand with a rather awkward question: how is it that today, capital allocation is a hereditary role? We used to have the idea that fitness to allocate capital – that is, to govern the economy and the lives of all of the rest of us – was a situational matter. The rule was "shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves in three generations": "The first generation makes it, the second generation spends it, and the third generation blows it."

That's the lesson of the rags to riches story*: that out there, amongst the teeming grubby billions, lurks untold genius, waiting to be anointed by the market and turned loose to make us all better off.

In America, these stories are sometimes called "Horatio Alger" stories, after the writer who penned endless millionaire-pleasing fables about urchins who were adopted by wealthy older men who saw their promise and raised them to be captains of industry. However, in real life, Horatio Alger was a pedophile who adopted young boys and raped them:

https://newenglandhistoricalsociety.com/horatio-alger-hundred-year-old-secret/

Perhaps your life was saved by a surgeon who came from humble origins but made it through med school courtesy of Pell Grants. Perhaps you thrilled to a novel or a film made by an artist from a working class family who got their break through an NEA grant. Maybe the software you rely on every day, or the game that fills your evenings, was created by someone who learned their coding skills at a public library or publicly funded after-school program.

The presence among us of people who achieved social mobility and made our lives better is evidence that people are being born every moment with something to contribute that is markedly different, and higher in social status, than the role their parents played. Even if you stipulate that the person who cleans your toilet has been correctly sorted into a toilet-cleaning job by the invisible hand, it's clear that the invisible hand would prefer that at least some of those toilet-cleaners' kids should do something else for a living.

And yet, wealth remains stubbornly hereditary. Our capital allocators – who, during the post-war, post-New Deal era were often drawn from working families – are now increasingly, relentlessly born to that role.

For the wealthy, this is the origin of the meritocracy to eugenics pipeline. If power and privilege are inherited – and they are, ever moreso every day – then either we live in an extremely unfair society in which the privileged and the powerful have rigged the game…or the invisible hand has created a subspecies of thoroughbred humans who were literally born to rule.

This is the thesis of the ultra-rich, the moral justification for rigging the system so that their failsons and faildaughters will give rise to faildestinies of failgrandkids and failgreat-grandkids, whose emergence from history's luckiest orifices guarantees them a lifelong tenure ordering other people around. It's the justification for some people being born to own the places where the rest of us live, and the rest of us paying them half our salaries just so we don't end up sleeping on the sidewalk.

"Hereditary meritocracy" is just a polite way of saying "eugenics." It starts from the premise of the infallible invisible hand and then attributes all inequality in society to the hand's perfect judgment, its genetic insight in picking the best people for the best jobs. If people of one race are consistently on top of the pile, that's the market telling you something about their genomes. If men consistently fare better in the economy than women, the invisible hand is trying to say something about the Y chromosome for anyone with ears to hear.

Capitalism's winners have always needed "a superior moral justification for selfishness," a discreet varnish to shine up the old divine right of kings. Think of the millionaire who created a "Nobel Prize sperm-bank" (and then fraudulently fathered hundreds of children because he couldn't find any Nobelists willing to make a deposit):

https://memex.craphound.com/2006/09/07/nobel-prize-sperm-bank-human-tragicomedy-about-eugenics/

Or the billionaire founder of Telegram who has fathered over 100 children in a bid to pass on his "superior genes":

https://www.cnn.com/2024/08/26/tech/pavel-durov-telegram-profile-intl

Think of Trump and his endless boasting about his "good blood" and praise for the "bloodlines" of Henry Ford and other vicious antisemites:

https://www.usatoday.com/story/news/politics/2020/05/22/trump-criticized-praising-bloodlines-henry-ford-anti-semite/5242361002/

Or Elon Musk, building a compound where he hopes to LARP as Immortan Joe, with a harem of women who have borne his legion of children, who will carry on his genetic legacy:

https://www.nytimes.com/2024/10/29/business/elon-musk-children-compound.html

Inequality is a hell of a drug. There's plenty of evidence that becoming a billionaire rots your brain, and being born into a dynastic fortune is a thoroughly miserable experience:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/13/public-interest-pharma/#affluenza

The stories that rich people tell themselves about why this is the only way things can be ("There is no alternative" -M. Thatcher) always end up being stories about superior blood. Eugenics and inequality are inseparable companions.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/05/20/big-cornflakes-energy/#caliper-pilled

#pluralistic #eugenics #meritocracy #phrenology #good blood #oligarchy #hereditary meritocracy #lucky orifices

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krceseo · 1 year ago

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carlislefiles · 19 days ago

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finals week | fushiguro megumi, geto suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, inumaki toge, kamo choso, nanami kento, sukuna ryomen, yuuji itadori ╰►college is hell, and finals week is the seventh circle. as much as you love your boyfriend, you can have absolutely no distractions, not when the biggest tests of your life loom over you like a raincloud full of dread and fear of failure. they don’t take to being ignored so well, and they take to you ignoring yourself even worse. 6.9k words far left picture (teacup) by @nevroicastar on pinterest

a/n: can you tell that literally all I want in life is someone to be nice to me... :D anyways, this is pretty much pure fluff, reader is not taking care of herself, mentions of poor eating habits, lots of talk of academic validation, etc. so read at your own risk. as I got to the end of this, I realized that a lot of these are quite similar, so sorry about that, but when I have an idea I just kind of have to get it out, so here she is. kind of modern college au, but still within the sorcery realm???? I don’t know don’t ask. warnings: incredibly cheesy, me rambling about topics I do not understand at all (hello? theoretical geometry? didn't even know theoretical math existed?), and pure, unadultered comfort. enjoy <3

megumi knows what it’s like to seek academic validation like it’s oxygen. he wears his indifference like a badge—hood up, sleeves pushed to the elbows, bag slung low—but make no mistake: anything less than an a has him spiraling into a full-blown existential crisis. he may look composed, but internally he’s questioning his intelligence, his self-worth, the educational system, and the meaning of life in general.

so when you break down over a b- on a practice anatomy exam, he understands. doesn’t mean it doesn’t rip him apart. you never cry. never. but that night, your tears soaked into the fabric of his sweatshirt as you buried your face in his chest and whispered, “if this was the easier version, I'm dead. I'm so dead.” it wasn’t even going in the gradebook. didn’t matter. that grade haunted you.

the next morning, he wakes up alone. you beat him out of bed. that’s unheard of. he sends a text. then another.

“you at the library?” “eat something.”

no reply. eventually you respond, just not with anything he wants to hear.

“I'm gonna be really busy. maybe we should take a break until finals are over. you should hang out with yuuji.”

he scowls at the screen. as if yuuji hasn’t third-wheeled 70% of your dates. but megumi lets it go—for now. he assumes you’re just holed up in the library. he’s done the same thing. but it gets worse. you stop sleeping in his dorm, stop answering messages, stop functioning like a human being. you become a finals-week cryptid, subsisting on caffeine and sheer willpower. megumi would yell, if he didn’t know better. but he does know better. so he gets quiet. observant. subtle. he brings you real food. coaxes you into drinking water. slides his hoodie onto your shoulders when you’re shivering under the library ac. brushes your hair back with fingers that shake slightly when he realizes how tired you look. pulls the ramen cup away mid-bite and replaces it with something that didn’t come from a vending machine.

and when you cry over flashcards and whisper, “I don’t even know what a nephron does anymore,” he just starts quizzing you, reading aloud terms he can’t even pronounce correctly. he doesn’t know how you’re surviving this course. anatomy and physiology? it sounds like science hell. he hates it for you. but you don’t stop. not until finals week swallows you whole, trembling under the weight of your own expectations.

that’s when he draws the line.

your head is buried in your laptop at some godforsaken hour, eyes bloodshot and fingers twitching when—slam. he shuts your computer. “what—megumi! I was—”

toothbrush. sweatpants. his sweatshirt. he’s already dragging you to the bed, ignoring every protest as you weakly try to wiggle free. “I have to—”

“no, you don’t,” he says firmly. “you’re not studying. you’re sleeping.”

he scratches your scalp. presses featherlight kisses to the slope of your neck. hums something under his breath, steady and warm. eventually, your body gives out. you melt. and sleep like a corpse blessed by the gods. he watches you for a long while before finally letting himself rest beside you.

the next day, he waits outside the medicine building. the test is over. your scores won’t be posted for a few days. doesn’t matter. he just needs to see you. you step out, bleary-eyed and barely functioning, and he immediately pulls you into his arms. “you're never doing that to yourself again,” he mumbles into your hair.

you don’t even argue. you just nod and melt into him. and a few days later, the score is posted. you stare at your screen, stunned. an a. a solid, shining, hard-won a. and megumi just smirks like he knew it all along.

suguru graduated last spring. walked across the stage in slacks you'd picked out for him and a grin made of gold and ease. he didn’t look back. college wasn’t hard for him—it never had been. books opened for him like petals, and concepts bowed to his comprehension. it was never about the stress or the stakes. it was about the hours you'd spend curled beside him in the library, mumbling about amino acids or molecular orbitals while he stared at you like you were the sun.

back then, he'd ask you questions from flashcards, only to discard them halfway through and ask about your favorite color, your middle name, your childhood dog. he loved the way your face lit up when your brain found the answer to something hard, but he loved it even more when it lit up because of him. he wasn’t ashamed of that. he’s never been ashamed of how deeply he loves you.

but now…now, things are different. you're wrapped up in organic chemistry like it’s a vice grip. barely breathing, barely blinking. you’ve got every note and molecule memorized, and still you tell him, "it’s not enough." over and over, like a prayer, or a curse. you’ve been walking around like a ghost, and suguru sees it for what it is—devotion, desperation, and destruction all rolled into one. you say it’s just a test, but he knows it’s your everything.

and the worst part? he gets it. he gets what it’s like to build your identity on success. he just wishes you didn’t have to. because when you go missing for a whole day, when you don’t text him back or come home or answer his calls, he panics. he’s not dramatic—not usually—but you’re his, and suguru takes care of his things. so he finds you. of course he does.

you're in the back corner of the chem building, surrounded by papers and empty energy drink cans and what might be tears, though you’d never admit it. you look up when he walks in, and there’s a flash of guilt that crosses your face like lightning. it stings. “I'm so sorry, suguru,” you whisper. “but this is really, really important. I need you to leave me alone until I'm finished with this. I'm too tired and too stressed to worry about anything other than this test.”

that breaks something in him. because you’ve never made him feel like a burden. never once treated his presence like an interruption. and maybe he should’ve fought harder. maybe he should’ve scooped you up, carried you out of there like he wanted to, tucked you beneath his covers and kissed your forehead until the tension bled out of you.

but he’s selfish only sometimes, and never when it comes to your dreams.

so he lets you go. the test is four hours long. you emerge hollow-eyed, trembling, and murmuring something about how you probably failed. you don’t even cry. just breathe in, breathe out, and fall into bed without so much as a kiss. and when the grade is posted the next morning, a clean, perfect a, you don’t celebrate. don’t smile. don’t even tell him. he’s the one who finds out first. you just so relieved that it's finally over, half of you doesn't even care how you did.

he pulls you into his lap before you can protest and presses a hand to your chest like he’s checking if your heart still beats. it does, but he wants more than that. he wants you back. all of you.

so he makes suggestions. strong ones. "take a semester off," he murmurs against your temple. "or transfer. or move in with me. or all three. I'll take care of you. you don’t have to do this to yourself. you don’t have to prove anything to anyone. not when I already know how brilliant you are." you nod like you’re not hearing him, but he’s patient. he’ll wait. he’ll wait until you believe it too.

he jokes—often, obnoxiously—that he’s always known you were too good for him. that you were the prodigy and he was the pretty face. that your acceptance into medical school was the universe playing fair, because how else could the world possibly balance your brain and his everything else? but even with all that noise, gojo satoru is terrified of the way this test has eaten you alive.

the usmle. the reaper in standardized exam form. every time he sees you, you’re either furiously annotating a textbook or passed out cold in someone’s office chair with flashcards stuck to your cheek.

he tries everything at first. plays the doting, lovable nuisance role to perfection—stealing your laptop charger, faking existential crises that can only be soothed by forehead kisses, crawling into your lap and pretending to cry (“I need affection, babe, it’s for my health, come onnn—”). and you smile. you do. but you don’t stop. you never stop. and eventually even he has to let you go into that studying-induced blackout tunnel, even if it kills him not to be able to pull you out of it.

still, he never leaves. when your weekly date nights disappear, he sends you dumb memes and voice notes that say things like “this is what it sounds like when I cry without you here.” when you sleep in the library, he sneaks snacks into your backpack and slips hand warmers into your hoodie pockets. he’s not even sure you notice. but he does it anyway. because loving you isn’t something he tries to do. it’s something that just is. like gravity.

the morning of the test, you’re shaking. eyes glassy, coffee untouched. it’s still dark out, and he hates how exhausted you look. you sit in the passenger seat of his car like you’ve been awake for a thousand years. he doesn’t try to make a joke. just…reaches over and tucks your hair behind your ear, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“you’re not scared I'll be disappointed in you, right?” you shake your head, barely. but the thing is, he knows you. knows how your brain works. how you work. he can’t stop your nerves—he wouldn’t dream of trying. but he can hold them with you. sit there in the thick of it, still and steady and here. because that’s what you need. and when you finally leave to go take the test, gojo satoru doesn’t move. just waits. hours tick by. he plays stupid games on his phone. he thinks about the first time he saw you cry—finals week, sophomore year, when you were convinced you’d bombed a lab report—and how this feels exactly like that, only ten times worse. but then…you come back. and the world exhales.

you’re pale. wrecked. like you’ve just survived a war. you climb into the passenger seat like someone dropped you from space, and satoru immediately swaddles you in the blanket he brought from your dorm.

“I brought gummy bears, sliced veggies, and a literal gallon of water,” he says. “and I have an entire playlist dedicated to ‘songs that say I'm so proud of you I could cry.’” you laugh. just a little. but he hears it. “think you passed?” he asks.

“I think I survived.”

“close enough.” he drives you home like you’re royalty. like the day’s been his test too, and this—getting you back—is his only passing grade.

later, when you’re fed and clean and warm in bed, buried in layers of blankets and wearing his t-shirt, he lays beside you and grins like a fool.

“so,” he says, “how’s it going, dr. gojo?”

you raise a brow. “excuse me?”

“I just figured, if you’re gonna be a doctor, we should share the last name. has a nice ring to it. we’ll both be hot and dangerous. power couple energy.”

“oh, I'm taking your last name?”

“obviously. babe, have you met me?”

you roll your eyes—but there’s color back in your cheeks now. a glow. that fire he fell in love with. and he grins, victorious.

because you’re back. you’re his again. and no matter what happens next—residency, stress, long nights and endless hours—satoru’s ready. he’ll carry the whole weight of the world if it means you never have to go through that kind of thing alone.

takuma is a man of simple truths: ramen tastes better after midnight, bleach is not the same thing as laundry detergent, and you—god, you—are the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

you're a prodigy. he says that like it’s a title, not just a fact. you graduated high school at fifteen, cruised through undergrad before most of your friends even started, and now you’re gunning for a ph.d. because what else would someone like you do? you’re brilliant, born for academia. he fell for you like gravity, no question, no hesitation.

and he’s not dumb—not really—but school was never his thing. he coasted through high school on vibes and charm, then lucked into an internship with some big-deal suit named nanami. it was supposed to be temporary, but ino had that golden retriever work ethic, the kind where people give you more responsibility just because you say “sure thing!” with enough enthusiasm. it works for him. it always has.

but when it comes to you, that easygoing confidence starts to fray. because you're drowning. and he doesn’t know how to save you. your advisor says jump, and you ask how high in four languages. volunteer work, tutoring, research, a part-time job, and now the gre is looming like a thundercloud over your future. you study until your voice is hoarse from reciting terms, until your notes are smudged with highlighter ink and tears.

you rope ino into helping, and of course he says yes. he’s happy to. he makes flashcards with cartoon doodles on the back, quizzes you on vocab while you’re brushing your teeth, lets you explain abstract statistical theory to him until you both fall asleep on the couch. you look exhausted, but you smile when he calls you professor, and that’s enough. until it isn’t. until the smiles fade. until he’s helping you study alone. until you stop asking. until he’s waiting at home for a version of you who never seems to arrive.

he wants to fix it, to fix you, but he doesn’t know how to fight a battle that’s inside your own head. so he does what he can. brings you snacks at work, texts you affirmations, makes dinner even though he’s bad at it, and watches your exhaustion turn to something scarily mechanical. you stop complaining. you stop talking. you stop looking him in the eye when you leave in the morning.

then test day comes. and he's so proud. not of this behavior, of course, but of you, despite it all. he makes you breakfast, walks you to the testing center even though it's freezing, kisses your forehead and tells you you're already the smartest person in the building. when you walk away, his chest hurts with how badly he wants this to go well. it does. kind of.

you take the gre and survive it—but there’s no relief. no celebration. no breath of freedom after months of suffocating. you just...keep going. more work shifts. more hours. more silence. and ino, patient as he is, can only hold back his worry for so long.

it’s late when he says it. you’re curled into him, back to his chest, your favorite blanket tucked around both of you. he’s got one arm around your waist, the other buried in your hair, his cheek pressed to the back of your neck. “hey,” he murmurs, soft and real. “you ever think about slowing down?” silence. so long, he thinks maybe you fell asleep.

but then—“I'm just...so tired of trying to—to….” you whisper. “I just want to be good enough.” his heart cracks open.

“sweetheart,” he breathes, and holds you tighter, “you’re already more than good enough. you’re incredible. I picked you, remember? and I'm the smartest guy I know.” that gets a breath of a laugh. barely, mostly because you know that there was never choice, never other options. takuma was gone for you the minute he met you. if anything, you picked him and he will never be able to fully articulate his gratitude.

“I mean it,” he says, fingers stroking your hip. “you don’t need to break yourself to prove anything to anyone. not to them, and definitely not to me.” that night, something shifts. he starts small. no, you can’t pick up that extra shift. no, you won’t be checking your email at midnight. yes, he is bringing you lunch and walking you home, and no, he doesn’t care if you think it’s “too much.” and slowly, the girl who once thought success meant saying yes to everything starts learning how to say no.

ino’s proud of you. he always has been. but now? now he’s proud for you. because you’re still brilliant, still ambitious—but you’re happy, too. and that's the version of you he always wanted to love.

your love is loud.

not the annoying kind of loud—though inumaki’s friends might argue that point—but the good kind. the kind that fills every quiet space. that buzzes with laughter and slams cabinet doors and yells from the shower, “do you think pluto misses being a planet?” while he's brushing his teeth. you are his voice. and you never mind being it.

you speak when professors ask dumb, intrusive questions about his muteness. you say no when he can’t afford to risk saying it himself. you make it known—loud and clear, unmistakable—that you love him. that he is enough. that he is yours.

and he doesn’t need a thousand words to love you back. he just looks at you like you hung the stars yourself. he kisses you like a prayer. he taps his fingers three times against your wrist—i love you in the language only you and he share. it’s perfect. you’re perfect. until the exams start looming.

at first, it’s small. a missed meme here, a shorter phone call there. you’re still talking, still laughing, but it’s... less. and then it gets quieter. you stop yelling from the bathroom. you stop planning your little dates. you stop talking altogether on some days—just kiss his cheek, tired-eyed, and disappear into your books.

it’s horrifying. like watching the sun flicker out.

he doesn’t doubt your love. you’d never let him. you’d carved it into the walls of his world with every grin, every “you’re mine, forever, deal with it,” every hand squeezed under the table during group dates. but he misses you. the you who would sing off-key in the car. the you who once narrated his entire grocery list in the voice of an australian accent. so he fights back. quietly. carefully. tactically.

he starts leaving you little notes:

"you’re the smartest person I know."

"your brain is hot. that’s unfair"

"I love you more than rice balls."

(and in tiny scribbles) "don’t tell salmon."

they’re everywhere. in your shoes. on your toothpaste. tucked between pages of your study guides like secret spells.

he learns how to cook, too—little meals, nothing fancy, but made with so much love it might as well be michelin-starred. he pouts dramatically when you hesitate to eat, eyes big, mouth drawn down, holding the plate like a peace offering. and you fold, always. because how can you not? not when he made it for you.

and then the test comes. that stupid fucking test that stole you from him. you ace it. of course you do. you walk out of the testing center a little dazed, a little pale, and into his arms, and he scoops you up like the national treasure you are. doesn’t say a word. just holds you. then he takes you home.

he feeds you. literally spoon-feeds you soup he made himself. he showers you, kissing waterdrops off your cheeks, washing your hair with reverence like you’re something holy. he lays you down in bed and kisses your forehead, your knuckles, your stomach, your spine. worships you without ever saying a word. and bit by bit, your spark returns. you tease him again. you dance while brushing your teeth. but here’s the thing: now he watches for the signs. watches closely. a little too closely, maybe—but he’s not letting that darkness steal you again.

so when he sees you looking so tired again? he tugs your sleeve and hands you a note: no fading. I need your noise. and you read it, smile, and say, “you’ll never get rid of me that easy.” thank god.

choso is not a school guy. never has been, never will be. he goes because he has to, because society demands it and his scholarship requires it. but it’s never going to be his thing. he floats through most of his classes like a ghost—half-there, earbuds in, hoodie pulled over his head. a b+ on a paper is a win in his book, even if the professor writes "needs revision" all over it. who cares. life’s short. he’d rather be sleeping.

you, on the other hand, care. you care so much. about everything. you’re his high-strung, teeth-gritting, color-coded, always-scheduling, never-late girlfriend. and god, does he adore it.

he loves how strict you are. loves how you wake up at 6:00am every day without fail. loves the way you brush your teeth for exactly two minutes, three times a day. loves that you have a salad every tuesday and the exact same pasta order every thursday. you’re sharp edges and ticking clocks and perfect routines, and he—chaos incarnate—thrives under your rule. you keep him functioning. you’re the reason he knows when to register for classes, the reason he turns in assignments on time, the reason he eats meals that didn’t come from a vending machine.

you're the reason he's even passing. but that stupid, stupid theoretical geometry class…it drives you nuts. not slowly. not like a spiral, like most things. no—this class is like a wrecking ball to your entire system. you hate it. you say it constantly. “it’s not even real math,” you groan. “it’s just concepts. I can’t work with concepts. I need problems. I need solutions.”

at first, choso thinks it’s kinda cute. your little rants. the way you scowl at the textbook like it personally offended you. he tries to encourage you with little pats on the back, forehead kisses, sitting on the floor next to your desk with his laptop so you’ll stay focused while he scrolls through reddit and tells you about cursed fan theories. but then, the changes start.

you stop brushing your teeth three times a day. you forget to make lunch on tuesdays. your planner—your beautiful little planner that he once saw you cry over when you accidentally spilled coffee on it—starts collecting dust. you cancel date night. you forget date night existed. you study through dinner, through sleep, through entire days, and suddenly, choso’s the one asking you when your assignments are due. you are unraveling. and choso is helpless.

he tries to support you. follows you to study sessions like a sleepy, loyal puppy, clutching your coffee order and not understanding a single damn word of what you’re talking about. he doesn't get theoretical math. he barely gets regular math. but he tries. he watches youtube videos meant for third graders. he makes flashcards—incorrect ones, half the time—but he hands them to you with such innocent hope in his eyes that you pretend they’re helpful just to kiss him on the cheek.

he never once asks you to stop. never once says, “you’re scaring me,” or “you’re making yourself sick.” but he wants to. so badly. you’re not sleeping. you’re thinner. you smell like stress and highlighters. you apologize all the time, say you miss him, say you’ll fix it soon. but nothing fixes.

so he adapts. he picks up your slack. makes you breakfast, even if it’s just a granola bar and a post-it that says "please eat. you’re gonna ace it. also I miss you :/." does your laundry and folds it wrong and puts your shirts in the wrong drawer but he tries. he doesn’t even complain when you forget to text him back for a day and a half. he just sends a message like, “love you. proud of you. text me when you remember I exist!!” it sounds so needy and passive aggressive, but it’s not, it’s just choso, who so genuinely wants you to remember that you’re not alone.

it breaks his heart when you reply, “I always remember. I just hate myself for not being better.” he refuses to let you carry that weight.

so when you cry the night before the exam, whispering, “what if I fail? what if I'm just not smart enough?” he kisses your temples and says, “then we drop out and open a donut shop. we’ll sell those cinnamon ones you like. you’ll do the math. I'll man the fryer.” you pass with flying colors. because of course you do. you’re brilliant and capable and too hard on yourself.

and the moment you do, choso sits you down and says, as gently and lovingly as a man with no boundaries or math comprehension can, “never again.” he means it. no more sacrificing your joy for a grade. no more skipping meals for numbers. no more breaking the routines that make you feel safe, secure, you. and you agree. you apologize again, of course you do, but he cuts it off with a kiss. he doesn’t want apologies. he wants his girl back.

you vow to never take another theoretical math class again—would rather switch majors, hell, switch schools. and choso vows to guard your schedule, your wellbeing, your sanity with the same devotion you once used to guard his grades.

because sure, he doesn’t care much about school. but he cares about you. and you? you’re the only constant he never wants to theorize. you’re the equation he solved the moment he met you. and he’s never letting you fall out of balance again.

at first, you wouldn’t let him help. you couldn’t. not because you didn’t need it—you did. badly. but need was dangerous. need led to reliance, and reliance led to disappointment, and you’ve never known anything but disappointment in the end. so you met every one of nanami’s gentle offerings with a hiss, a cold shoulder, a stiff spine and a scoff. you didn’t want kindness. you didn’t trust it. and yet—he stayed.

with his quiet voice and his tired eyes and his soft cashmere sweaters. with his thoughtful meals and perfectly timed cups of tea. with his ability to sit in silence and not make it feel like you were doing something wrong. nanami showed up for you over and over again, until you stopped flinching at the idea of someone showing up at all.

he’s older. settled. solid in a way that feels unreal to you. while you burn the candle at both ends and run yourself into the ground over essays and projects and unrelenting deadlines, nanami clocks out at 5:00, makes dinner at 6:00, and asks you if you’d like to come over for dessert like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

at first, you declined. then you said maybe. and then one night, you cried on his kitchen floor over a c in a class you hated, and he held you like it didn’t ruin his shirt or his night or his impression of you because, in all honesty, it only ruined his shirt; nothing more.

you started staying over. not all the time. not enough to leave your toothbrush next to his. not enough to cancel the lease on your overpriced apartment you barely use. you’re still scared. still stubborn. but god, does he make it hard to stay guarded. nanami treats you like you’re the most delicate thing he’s ever loved. not fragile—just precious. important. he has rules, quiet ones, and most of them are about you. you don’t skip meals. you don’t stay up past 1:00am. you don’t berate yourself over an 89.7 instead of a 90.

sometimes you listen. sometimes you argue. sometimes he finds you passed out on your laptop at 3:00am, and you feel his disappointment like a knife, but he never scolds you. never raises his voice. he just picks you up, tucks you in, presses a kiss to your temple and says something like, “you don’t have to do this alone.” and you don’t. that’s the worst part. you don’t. you have him. but sometimes your brain forgets that. especially this semester. this hellish, soul-draining, motivation-murdering semester that chewed you up and spit you back out into another one before you even caught your breath. nanami watches it happen in real time. watches you stop coming over. stop answering calls. stop eating the banana bread he baked with you in mind.

you’re not resting. you’re not sleeping. you’re not you. it scares him. not that he’d ever say it aloud. but it kills something in him every time you say, “I'm fine,” and he knows you’re lying. it’s like you’ve forgotten everything he taught you. so, he tries again. he doesn’t lecture. he never begs. but he texts. “are you eating today?” “my place is quiet. come nap.�� “I miss you. you don’t have to talk. just be here.”

and finally, finally, finals end. and he takes you. scoops your burnt-out, hollow-eyed body from the wreckage and makes it his personal mission to bring you back to life. you sleep for almost a full day the first night at his place. when you wake up, he’s sitting in the armchair across from the couch, reading, glasses low on his nose. he just says, “welcome back,” and doesn’t comment on the dried tears on your cheeks.

every day of break, he softens you. with warm breakfasts and long baths and small, safe silences. with his hand on the small of your back and the quiet strength in his presence that says I've got you. eventually, it happens. the breakdown you’ve been avoiding for weeks. it’s late. you’re curled into his side, finally eating real food again, finally existing again, and you whisper, "I'm sorry. I shut you out. I didn’t mean to. I just...I don’t know how not to. I thought I was better, I—"

he doesn’t let you finish. just pulls you close and says, “you are better. you’re just tired. and I'm here.” you cry. you hate that you cry. but he doesn’t. he’s kissing your forehead, brushing your hair behind your ear, murmuring, “you’ve never hurt me. I only hurt when you’re hurting.” and that’s the moment you remember why you let him in at all. because he’s steady. because he’s not scared of your sharp edges. because where others left, nanami stayed. and when he suggests you take fewer credits next semester, your gut reaction is guilt, shame, refusal.

but he just raises an eyebrow and says, “you’ll still graduate in time. and even if you don't—I'm not going anywhere.” you believe him. for once in your life, you believe someone. so you drop the extra class. you leave a toothbrush at his place. you take a deep breath for the first time in months. and nanami—your warm, unwavering constant—watches you come back to yourself, bit by bit, every day. and he doesn’t say it out loud, but he thinks it every time he looks at you: no one can love you like I do. and that is the most beautiful thing I've ever had the privilege of.

sukuna doesn’t do the boyfriend thing. not really. he’s hot, he’s untouchable, he’s slept with half the campus and ghosted the other half. he’s not the kind of guy who remembers anniversaries or asks how your day went or makes soup when you’re sick. or at least—he wasn’t. until you. you, who never asked him to be anything other than what he already was. you, who looked him in the eye, rough edges and all, and said “I don’t need to fix you.” you meant it. you still mean it. but he changed anyway. because disappointing you? hurting you? even by accident? that’s the one thing he can’t stomach. not now. not when he’s ruined so many things and somehow still got lucky enough to have you.

so when you start falling apart, he notices. it starts with a couple of weirdly average grades—an 85% on a midterm you were supposed to crush, a 7/10 on a quiz you studied hours for. you brush it off, but he sees the way it eats at you, worms its way into your confidence. you start staying up late, later, all night sometimes. your routine crumbles. you’re skipping meals. walking home alone in the dark. crawling into his bed after midnight and thinking he doesn’t notice. he notices.

and at first? yeah, he thinks it’s cute. in a stupid, masochistic way. you care so much. for what? a grade? a professor’s approval? you're a writer—an incredible one. he’s read your stories, soaked in your words, memorized whole passages of shit you’ve barely shared with anyone else. you don’t need a degree to prove you’re brilliant. you already are. but then it stops being cute. then it starts hurting. because now you’re not just tired. you’re hollow. you’re not just busy. you’re gone. and he can’t fucking stand that.

so he inserts himself. shamelessly. aggressively. shows up to the library with your favorite takeout. forces you to eat. pulls you out of your chair and into his lap like it’s his god-given right. covers your mouth with his hand when you protest, glaring at you through crimson eyes as he mutters, “you’re done for the night.”

and when you whine, “I'm not even close to being finished, kuna,” he just kisses the top of your head and doesn’t give a shit. “flunk out,” he says into your hair. “drop out. who cares? I'll handle everything.” he means it. every single word. if you never worked again, if you never lifted a finger again, he wouldn’t mind. in fact, he might prefer it. because sukuna has never believed in much—not school, not rules, not people—but he believes in you. always has. so he tightens his grip around your schedule. limits your study hours. makes you sleep. crushes you against his chest each night so you can’t wiggle away. when your friends text, “come study with us!” he replies for you: “she’s busy. fuck off.”

and it helps. a little. he keeps you from slipping too far. but even with his arms around you, you're still unraveling, whispering, “I don’t think I can do this,” like it’s some shameful confession. then the test comes. and you pass. not just pass—you crush it. top of the curve. feedback glowing. you’re shaking when you tell him. laughing in disbelief, wide-eyed and breathless, “I don’t know how it happened, it’s a miracle, I don’t—kuna, I thought I was going to fail—”

and sukuna, mr. I-don’t-give-a-shit-about-grades, who’s said a hundred times he doesn’t care if you pass or fail or burn the whole damn school down—he cares.

because that smile? the one on your face now, bright and radiant and real? that smile is what he does this all for. that smile is the closest thing to heaven a man like him will ever get. so he just shrugs and pulls you into his lap again, buries his face in your shoulder. “miracle my ass,” he grumbles. “you’re just a fucking genius.”

yuuji isn’t the best at school, but that doesn’t make him stupid—he’s sharp in all the ways that matter, intuitive, emotionally intelligent, loyal to a fault. still, academics were never where he shone brightest, and he knows that, accepts it with a shrug and a grin and a “hey, at least I'm trying.” and he is trying. not for some future career, not because he cares about grades or accolades, but because he wants to be good at something the way you’re good at everything. because when he looks at you—so graceful under pressure, so sharp and composed and somehow still soft with everyone around you—he wants to measure up. he wants to keep pace, even if he stumbles more than he’d like. even if half the time he’s just hanging on by the skin of his teeth.

you’ve always been kind to him about it. never made him feel slow, or behind, or less. you’re good like that—gracious in ways that disarm people, a born favorite, beloved without even trying. professors pull you aside to thank you for participating in class discussions. classmates email you asking for help. you’ve got this gentle gravity to you, this rare balance of competence and compassion, and it makes people trust you instantly. yuuji most of all.

but this semester, something shifted. you cut back on your work hours after landing an academic scholarship—because of course you did, you're brilliant—and decided, for reasons he still doesn’t entirely understand, to nearly double your course load. “I just wanna graduate a little faster, yu,” you said with that breezy smile, brushing it off like it was nothing, like your daily planner wasn’t already choked with color-coded breakdowns and your tote bag wasn’t already sagging with books and half-empty energy drinks. and at first, he believed you, because you’ve never lied to him before. you’re honest, almost to a fault. but it didn’t take long before that soft shell of composure started to crack.

you started sleeping less, studying more. the calls you used to answer right away now go to voicemail. the “good morning” texts he used to get by 7:30 are coming in hours late, if at all. you haven’t been to his apartment in over a week. and sure, you’re still managing—somehow you’re still getting the work done—but you’re so tired, and it’s not the kind of tired sleep can fix. he can see it in the way your voice shakes when you ask for an extension, even though the professor gives it without question. he hears it in the pause before you say “I'm okay,” like you’re trying to convince yourself. and it kills him. because you’re the strong one. the one who holds everything together. if you’re falling apart, then what hope does he have?

but here’s the thing—yuuji's tired, too. no one really notices, because he doesn’t complain. because he doesn’t let himself slow down. because his instinct, always, is to carry the weight alone if it means someone else gets to breathe a little easier. but he’s burning out right alongside you, pulling back-to-back all-nighters and forgetting to eat, pretending he’s fine because you need him to be. that’s who he is. that’s who he’s always been.

and when finals week finally ends—when the tests are done and the caffeine shakes wear off and the dark circles under both your eyes start to fade—he decides, without hesitation, that it’s over. no arguments. no compromises. you’re taking the summer off. you’re going to gojo’s beach house with megumi and the rest of the crew. you’re going to sleep until noon and eat things that don’t come in plastic wrap and learn what it means to do nothing again. and he is not letting you back into a course load that chews you up and spits you out just so you can cross the stage a semester earlier.

he doesn’t say it angrily. he says it quietly. like a vow. like a promise. because if anyone deserves to rest, it’s you. and if anyone’s going to make sure you actually do it, it’s him.

“you’re not weak for being tired,” he says one night, the two of you curled up on his bed, your body half-draped over his, your limbs heavy like you’re finally allowing yourself to feel just how exhausted you really are. “you work harder than anyone I know. and I know a lot of people who punch curses for a living.”

you huff a tired laugh against his chest, but it sounds more like a sigh. your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.

“I just…I thought if I could do it all now, if I could push through a little more, I could get to the good part faster. you know? the part where I've made it.”

he runs his hand over your back, gentle, rhythmic. “babe, you already made it. you're already everything. the rest is just paperwork and deadlines and weirdly specific formatting rules.”

you don’t respond for a long moment, and he can feel your breathing shift, feel the guilt brewing behind your silence, the way you stiffen just slightly like maybe you're trying not to cry. so he keeps going, softer now, slower.

“and hey,” he murmurs, tipping your chin up so you’ll look at him, “just because I couldn't fix this doesn’t mean I don’t see how hard it’s been. you don’t have to pretend for me, okay? I know it hurts. I know you’ve been running on empty. you don’t have to carry that alone.”

“but you’ve been tired too,” you whisper, your voice cracking under the weight of your own concern. “I haven’t even been there for you—”

“yes, you have,” he says, without letting you finish. “you always are. even when you think you’re not.”

he kisses your forehead then, like he’s sealing in every word. and it isn’t grand. it isn’t dramatic. but it’s real. it’s soft. it’s everything he’s been holding onto and everything he wants to give you now—space to fall apart, and space to rest, and the kind of love that doesn’t ask for anything back but lets you collapse into it anyway.

“you and me, okay?” he says into the silence. “all summer. rest, movies, megumi absolutely tearing gojo to shreds, eating until we feel sick. we deserve that. you deserve that.”

and this time, you believe him. not because you’re magically okay. not because the burnout vanishes. but because yuuji’s holding it with you, both hands open, no expectations, no shame—just love.

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often-daydreaming · 6 months ago

Text

Wishes

"I just wish I could help him."

Tim sighed, tired eyes staring at the rows of monitors searching for any kind of change as he recalls the last thing he can remember Bart saying to him before everything went to hell when a barrier appeared around Central City cutting it off from the rest of the world. It had taken three days before anyone even realized what had happened and that was only after Barry returned from a mission in space and ran face first into the glowing green monstrosity trapping his friends inside some sort of otherworldly magical nonsense.

And it was kind of depressing that, that was all they knew after two months.

It was pure magic, old, ancient magic that had his friends living out the kind of picture perfect high school drama you'd find on tv and they only figured out that much after Cyborg accidentally picked up a weak signal being broadcast to anyone who got close enough.

That was the only real way anyone had to check up on everyone trapped inside and in a way Tim was kind of glad it was mainly focused on his friends and the meta kid Bart had been trying to introduce to everyone cause he had constant proof they were alive. Everyone else wasn't as lucky.

He was also mostly annoyed though cause the League couldn't even damage the stupid barrier anymore. They'd cracked it once, but that just seemed to annoy whatever was powering the thing because it spread out for miles in every direction in response to the Justice League's attempts at forcing open a door and ended up swallowing dozens of government agents and heroes who couldn't escape the danger zone in time.

"Any changes?"

"None." Like always.

He knew Dick was just as worried as he was about everyone trapped inside but the glowing green eyesore wasn't reacting to anything anymore.

Science didn't work.

Magic annoyed it.

They'd finally started looking into some of the more off world solutions that were available to them but so far nothing anyone tried seemed to affect it and he should know since he hasn't stopped monitoring the situation.

He's offered up rewards, called in every single favor he's ever been owed as Tim Drake and Red Robin and read up on everything magical he could get his hands on.

He's even hacked every government agency on the planet on the off chance there might have been a possible answer hidden away somewhere and was nowhere near as professional or gentle as he usually was while doing it. He was tired, worried and more than a little angry and didn’t care about how much damage he did to anyone's computer systems as he ripped even the slightest bit of information out of any server he came across taking anything and everything from Waller's own notes on the matter to research material from a rogue sect of the government calling themselves the GIW.

That had led him down a rabbit hole of government conspiracies and cover ups that would have normally kept him busy for weeks but he had passed on the worst of it to the rest of the League and focused on the handful of files they had on an off the books company called Fenton Works.

They apparently had a functional portal with more than enough power to punch a hole between dimensions so hopefully an investigation into them would keep him busy while they waited for a response from the Green Lanterns.

-_- -_- -_-

"You need to stop this Desiree."

"Why, Phantom and his paramour are happy aren't they?"

She already knew the answer since it was her magic warping such a large area and her grin only grew as she watched Undergrowth's little champion twitch at her words.

Because that was thing, Phantom was happy.

He was the happiest he's ever been in a very long time and well out of the way on a long overdue 'vacation'. So what if everyone was taking his absence as an excuse to run a little wild. Amity would survive. They always did. The avatar of the Speed Force didn't even seem to mind and Clockwork wasn't interfering with her latest wish either so she wasn't overstepping anywhere that really mattered since the Ancient of Time usually erased anyone who went too far with his favorite student.

He hadn't even popped in to deliver any of his usual threats when she overheard the little speedster's heartbroken wish so she banished the girl back to Amity Park without a second thought.

They couldn't force her to grant wishes anymore, not after Phantom went out of his way to help alter her curse and their constant whining was starting to get annoying.

If it wasn't Undergrowth's champion then it was the Pharaoh or Phantom's sister.

None of them could take the hint and leave well enough alone.

Cause, the thing is, she left more than enough wiggle room in the wish for Phantom to get free if he ever really wanted to get free and she wasn't sure he did.

Oh, on some level he was probably well aware of something being off but he was purposely ignoring that feeling.

He was happy in the world she shaped around him and his little speedster and Desiree wasn't about to ruin that for either of them.

She'd just head back to her lair if anyone tried.

No one could get to her there, not without wasting a lot of power so maybe she'd finally have a little piece and quit to enjoy her favorite show in peace.

It's not much but I wanted to try and think up a way for Danny to experience his very own version of WandaVision.

Essentially a sad Danny from any kind of reason really but for now I'm just blaming his entire life for this one and a desperately trying to be helpful Bart who has vague memories of a future with Danny get a starring role in a new life that was perfectly prepared just for them at the cost of pretty much everyone else.

I don't remember what it's called but there was a Disney movie about a superhero school so I'm kind of imagining that and a lot of really cheesy musical moments thrown in somewhere while everyone outside of the barrier is left worrying about their friends and family.

I know it's weird, but my mind just comes up with really weird ideas when I'm tired.

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dp x dc prompt #danny phantom #danny fenton #dp x dc crossover

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echantedtoon · 8 months ago

Text

A Bug In The System

You purchase an old game console from your Uncle Litwack after it goes haywire as your new pet project. Everything seems to be working well, however unbeknownst to you there's a bug in the system.

(Got this idea partially from watching console restoration videos on YouTube.)

You weren't sure what about this game cabinet was bothering you.

Maybe it was the randomly flashing screen you still couldn't explain? Or the changes in code that you found and was so sure you never programmed in. Or maybe it was the strange mutterings you thought you heard the game characters say even though you were sure they weren't programmed to say. You weren't sure. But whenever you played the game or tried going it, it seemed as if everything was running smoothly.

So perhaps it was nothing but you hearing things. You had been pretty stressed out with college work and staying up most nights as you studied programming and computer science. So it was probably the lack of sleep combined with weird hallucinations from said lack of sleep. However it was strange it only started after you had started working on this game console.

It was a Saturday morning.

Your day had started off with a sunny morning and a good meal. You had no classes or anything else you had to get done with that day so you made up your mind to visit someone you hadn't seen or heard from in a while. Your Uncle Litwak. His arcade was only a few miles away from the college and where you were currently living, so why not visit your favorite uncle in your entire family? You arrived at the arcade a bit later than you intended on with the traffic but luckily there was plenty of parking space for you to just pull up and park your hand me down truck.

The sunlight was warm as you happily walked across the concrete and right up to the doors leading into the arcade. It looked exactly the same the last time you visited a few months ago minus a new game console against the fair wall called 'Twilight's Bain' and looked to be a run and gun style game. Maybe you'd try it out while you were here.

Mustn't have been too busy today as there was only around five or six kids around the place playing games and a few adults you assumed were the parents standing around watching or playing on their phones.

"Uncle Litwak?," you called out walking past the noises of dancing beats, chase scene music, and the groans of zombies dying inside the digital screens of the game consoles. F/c orbs blinking looking around for any signs of the familiar older man. "Uncle Litwak!"

Maybe he was in the back office? You made your way past the other consoles including one of the newer ones that was called Heroes Duty. That's where most of the shooting noises were coming from as two boys were both blasting away at the screen shooting fake robot bugs. Passing a few other games and turning a corner, you finally saw the person you were looking for.

Facing away from you with a phone to his ear was your uncle. He took looked no different than the day you last saw him. Wearing that famous black and white striped shirt, and the pack around his waist wear he was always sure to keep any spare quarters for quick refunds or to exchange for dollar bills handed to him in exchange for the kids to fuel the games. He was slightly leaned over, one hand on his hip as a sigh escaped his lips.

"So you can't make it today?," he asked and the faint sounds of someone's voice coming from the phone answered back although it was too muffled and low volume to tell what the person on the other side was saying. "Oh..I see. Well when are you getting it fixed?" Another pause before your Uncle Litwak hummed. "Alrighty then. Have your boys call me back as soon as you get a free date will ya? Good. Thanks, Harvey. Drop by with the grandkids sometime. It's always fun to see them running around here. Hehe. I'll talk to you later. Alright. Take care."

He must've been too into the call to hear your approaching footsteps or the distant sounds of the arcade muffled your approach so he had no idea you were standing right behind him as he hung up. That is until you cleared your throat causing him to turn to you. He blinked a few times catching him off guard before a wife smile graced his face.

"Hey, hey!," he immediately greeted opening up his arms and turning to fully face you. "Well if it isn't my favorite college gal!"

"Hey, Uncle Litwak!," you greeted going to return the open hug he gave you. It lasted a few minutes with him patting you on the back before you both pulled away. "How are you? I haven't seen you since Mom's birthday party."

He made a 'psh' sound waving a hand off. "Well you know how it is. Some days are a lot slower than others, but it's been okay. Why are you here, Sweetie?" He gestured as he went to start walking. "Shouldn't you be up there studying for...What is it again? Electronics?"

You chuckled going to start walking next to him. "Programming and computer science. And no. I didn't have anything to do today so I figured it'd be nice to visit you. Maybe we can get lunch or something?"

He seemed to brighten up at the good news. "Honey, that's the best news I had all day."

All day? Your brow rose in curiosity. "Did something happen?'

Again he sighed and a hand reached up to scratch his head. "Well I've been having a bit of a problem with my usual pick up guy."

"What happened?"

"Well my usual salvage guy was supposed to be here this morning to pick up Sugar Rush, but their truck broke down and I'm going to have to wait until they get it fixed," he explained as you both passed the whack-a-mole game, "I guess I can just ask someone to look online for a different local salvage company or I can wheel it out near the dumpsters."

"Sugar Rush?" Your brows furrowed in thought as the name definitely rang a bell. Wasn't that game the racing game that was candy land themed? You vaguely remembered playing it two or three times over the years, but you weren't too familiar with it. "Ya mean that racing game that looks like Willy Wonka made it?"

He huffed a chuckle. "That's one way to put it I guess." But he nodded. "Yeah. Two days ago the darned thing broke and unfortunately it'd cost me more to fix it than to pay someone else to haul it outta here."

"Uh huh..." You hummed it thought. "How'd it break?"

"Apparently the game went coco like your great Nana and someone broke the steering wheel thingamajig on it. I don't know what to do with it now except to wheel it over to the corner until they're able to pick it up I suppose."

"Hey, Uncle Litwak. What if I take it?"

That got him to stop walking and turn to you in question. "You want to what now, Sweetie?"

You smiled at him. "I can take it if you don't want it anymore." You offered to his surprise. "I'm working really hard to study programming so I can use it as a practice project! Maybe I can even get it fixed for you!"

He hummed rubbing at his head again. "Well...I guess it would save me the trouble of getting it outta here and it'd just be taking up space, but are you sure you'd want to do that?"

You nodded. "I'd love to take it!"

...He smiled. "Well alright. If you want it that bad it's yours."

You beamed. "Thanks, Uncle Litwak! Lemme buy you some lunch to make up for it! My treat!"

"Sweetie, that's an offer I can't refuse."

With some help you managed to get the old game loaded up and strapped safely into your truck and hauled it all the way home after your visit was over. Your neighbors were nice enough to help you unload it and carry it back to your apartment where you were fully able to get a good look at it.

It wasn't in too bad shape. Of course there was the destroyed steering wheel and when you plugged it in, the screen was a bit glitchy but otherwise everything seemed to be ok. The easiest part to fix was the steering wheel. You ended up finding a new steering wheel for two hundred dollars on ebay and ended up purchasing it. Was it expensive? Yes. Did you want to fix the console? Also yes. It took a whole week of waiting before you got a friend of yours, who fixed computers and other devices as a side gig, to reattach the new steering wheel and clean up a little bit of the outside.

If you didn't know it was old, you'd say it was brand new. However the hardest part of the fix up was the internal touch ups as you called it. Taking a careful sweep through inside, showed no damage to any of the wires or motherboard. That was good. It was a little dusty but nothing a soft duster cloth couldn't fix. All that was left was checking on the code.

So when you hooked it up to your laptop, you were surprised to see so much missing. Specifically a lot of the codes for NPCs and game racers.

Now that was certainly strange. Why wasn't there any coding for one of the most important aspects of the game? Sure it was just a simple racing arcade game but it didn't make sense to not include that. No wonder the game wasn't working. Your poor uncle must've been scammed and sold a cheap knockoff or something.

Well other than the missing characters, there didn't seem to be anything else wrong with the coding at all. This was a perfect opportunity to practice coding in some characters of your own! But first thing's first. You'd run a virus scan on it just to be sure everything was working ok.

THAT was the first time something strange happened.

It was a routine virus scan being performed on the console. You've done it before. So when suddenly the consoles screen glitched out and your laptop quickly shut down to the blue screen of death in the middle of said scan, you were shocked.

That hadn't happened before.

A few taps of your keyboard did nothing. In order to get it to stop you had to unplug your laptop from the console which... instantly fixed it and got rid of the blue screen which surprised you. There must've been something wrong with the system. So you unplugged it, replugged it, and got the game to reset.

Everything seemed to work ok after that.

You tried the virus scan again and this time it worked. Detecting nothing. Weird but you guessed that the game console being older than your laptop would have a bit of trouble adjusting to the laptop at first.

That wasn't the only strange thing however. Programming in characters in your free time between classes and other obligations was pretty simple and fun. Really the hardest parts was looking online for the normal character models from the original game and getting their exact details and voice lines in. Thank gosh for internet connections.

The strange thing was when you were trying to code in that princess character. Vanellope Von something or other. You were trying to get it as close to the original game as possible. You got maybe most of the coding for her model done when all of a sudden your laptop blue screened again.

"What the-!?" You tapped the spacebar on your laptop to no avail. A frustrated growl escaped your throat as you glared at the stupid blue screen. "You've gotta be kidding me!" You tried and tried to get it to stop. It only stopped when you disconnected from the system again only to find all your previous progress GONE. "ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! IT TOOK ME DAYS TO DO THAT!!"

Stupid laptop.

You had to start all over again. This time you decided to make the code and only add it to the game once it was all finished. The result of it was you having a full working model for the Princess in game sitting on the popcorn box throne and waving at the players as they raced when she herself wasn't chosen for the roster. FINALLY.

You were so happy to finally get it in the game that you probably didn't notice the gleaming glitching eyes within the crowd of cheering nut npcs when you did a test through drive of the game to see how you did so far. Not bad. It was a bit buggy still with a few kinks to work out, but nothing you couldn't fix eventually. You especially made a mental note to fix the spontaneous glitch that made you randomly get stuck in the track if you crashed.

The next time you got back around to the game wasn't until a few months later. Studying, exams, family, and your irl job had eaten everything else for a long while. So imagine your surprise when you say down to do a quick playthrough of the game, just as a refresher on what you needed to work on, and you found no traces of the princess in her popcorn throne.

The roster was full of eight of the racers you remembered adding however the one right in the middle was one you'd never seen before..

"That's weird," you mumbled to yourself staring right at the middle character on the roster. "I don't remember adding you."

Right smack dab in the middle of the roster was an odd character. A man nearly complete bald. He looked goofy all dressed up in puffy pants and Tinkerbell like shoes and a purple overcoat, striking an equally as goofy pose standing on one leg and both arms thrown up into the air. A crown sat on top his head as much like the other characters stared at you blankly.

You definitely didn't add this guy. Who was he? Where did he come from? Had you added him but forgotten?...No. You kept track of what you added. Confusion and curiosity took a hold of you and so you use the steering wheel and peddle to choose said mysterious character. He let out a happy laugh as he was picked out and the game moved along to the racing bits.

However you did notice the absence of one said princess whom was supposed to be sitting in the popcorn throne or in another one of the other racecars. Instead of her in the racecars designed for her, it was the king looking character you'd chosen for the race.

"What in the world is going on?", you questioned as you continued the game.

And was shocked to find it running so ..so smoothly. The previous bugs and glitches were all but gone. Even when you accidentally slammed into an up coming jawbreaker you didn't get stuck in the track. If anything a few annoyed sounding shouts instead came out of the character. You drove him around and listened to his voice lines of 'Have some candy!' and 'To the rightful ruler goes the spoils!' Only getting second place.

The cutscene that played out was your character standing in the middle of a confetti spotlight as a silver trophy floated down into his awaiting arms. He looked disappointed by his prize humming before saying the voice line-

"Not what I deserve...but it'll do for now."

"Yeah. I definitely didn't program you." You turned around in your seat towards the laptop sat up on the desk and didn't notice the way the character LOOKED DIRECTLY AT YOUR FORM as you stood up. "I'd better check on this."

The panicked look upon the character's face as he quickly fled the scene dropping the silver trophy in the process as you turned on your laptop and began going through the files. Only to be shocked to not see any of the codes for the princess you spent hours on. ...It was as if you never put code in to begin with. Furious you began going through the strands and strands of code looking for a trace of the strand you put in. You didn't find any. However you did find one file you didn't recognize.

"...Turbo?"

Turbo? You didn't remember labeling any files under that name. And where did all of the process code go?! You implemented it in perfectly and it was working out just a few months ago. You didn't have a chance to explore the code any further before once again your laptop blue screened as you tried to access it. For a moment there was nothing but you just staring at the screen before you ended up slamming your face into the desk and let out a muffled cry of frustration.

"I don't get what's going on!," you vented to a friend a few days later as you both were having lunch. He listened patiently as you rambled on pointing a poor fry at everything. "I made sure the code was perfect and it was working fine when I was finally able to put it in! I don't get what's wrong with the stupid thing!"

Your friend hummed as he chewed on cheap college Cafeteria pizza. "Maybe the code wasn't compatible? I mean the console's like what? Over fifteen years old now? It probably got deleted from it or something because it wasn't compatible with the older mainframe."

"Then why is everything else working? I don't get it! And my stupid laptop keeps breaking down in the middle of it all.'' You threw the fry in your mouth with a grumble as your friend hummed.

"Maybe it's not the console but your laptop? Did you get it checked out for viruses and stuff?", he tried suggesting to which you nodded yes.

"Yeah. The repair guy said there's nothing wrong with it which makes it weirder."

"Then maybe there's something wrong with the connection between the devices. How about I come over and see if there's anything wrong?"

"That might actually be helpful. Thanks."

Three days later your friend stopped by with his own laptop which you both connected to the console as two eyes watched you from the frozen pose of the game roster. Your friend was easily able to get access to the code and go through it. First running a virus scan which turned up nothing thank goodness. At least you knew there was no viruses attacking your poor laptop. He hummed along with the distant sounds of the cheery music coming from the console as he went through the code for twenty minutes as you watched from over his shoulder before turning to you.

"There's nothing wrong with anything. No bugs or anything else I can see. Your coding skills seem to be going through."

"There was definitely some bugs I needed to sort out."

He shrugged. "Maybe the console just needed some time to process all the new code fully."

Hm. Maybe. But that still didn't explain the disappearance of one character and the appearance of another one you never saw. "Is there anything lying doormat anywhere? Maybe some unfinished code?"

"I did find some unfinished code for what looks like a disregarded bonus level, but nothing like you were talking about. Is there anything specific to look for?"

You hummed. "....Can you find a strand called 'Turbo'?"

"I can try." Cartoon eyes from the roster widened in worry losing his smile as your friend went through the code again for the characters since that's where you first saw this 'Turbo' profile. "Taffyta Muttonfudge. Minty Saki. King Candy-....I don't see any 'Turbo' here, Bud."

Huh. That's really weird. You KNOW you definitely saw that. But- You pointed out the King Candy profile. "I know I didn't add this guy. Where the heck did it come from?"

Again your friend was unhelpful as he shrugged. "It's not coming up as a foreign program so it must've been in the console when you got it. It's probably an unlockable character that you unknowingly brought out during the input of new codes and fixing the bugs. Did you try resetting the console?"

"Yeah. Three times since my Uncle gave it to me."

"Try doing that one more time and see if that fixes it. If not..then I guess the Princess Vanellope code just isn't compatible with the software somehow."

You did as he advised. As soon as he left resetting the game and still feeling disappointed by your princess being gone. You also tried implementing her code only one more time. You completely gave up on that when your laptop blue screened...Again. So you settled for just having a picture of the princess racing in her pink goggles on the side of the game console from there on out. There was only so much your poor laptop could take before it could eventually break from this.

You were frustrated with the stubborn process but you were satisfied with the end result of all your hard work. Sitting down to play the game became a past time of yours outside of the stress from college and irl life. Your friend must've been right about the old motherboard taking it's sweet time to process the code inputted into it. Because now everything was running smoothly and there didn't seem to be anything majorly needing to be fixed. Although you did tweak a few things.

You gave the clouds a more cotton candy appearance during race scenes, and added a glitter sparkle affect to the dust clouds the cars would kick up as they drove along. However you really wanted to add more to that unfinished bonus level code eventually. Maybe adding it as a bonus points thing or something. You hadn't decided yet.

But you were having fun with the game more than you expected. In fact you were debating on whether or not to give it back to your uncle or just keeping it for yourself as a testament to what you could do! However there was a few things that were weird that you didn't start noticing until after you started enjoying it more.

Despite the reservations you first had with this king character, you eventually got to like him the more you played. He was pretty goofy and an oddball in a good way. And you found yourself giggling at his antics on more than one occasion with his silly poses or funny voice lines. Not the princess you wanted but a king you don't mind having.

It was nice to unwind and play a silly game and so you invited a friend to play with you. The two of you picked your characters. Him that kid with the pumpkin hat on his head and you decided to choose the goofy looking King Candy. The game was going well and you were surprised to see you win considering your friend was the more experienced gamer but the cute little bouncy jig and laugh tour character did receiving the gold trophy was enough to make you smile.

"Wow. You sure did a good job on the game," he complimented as you both stood up. "I guess everything turned out good in the end anyways."

You nodded. "Yeah. I still wanna finish the unused bonus level though. You wanna see what I got so far?"

He agreed and together you hooked up your computer (praying that it didn't mysteriously blue screen again) and opened it up to show your friend what you had done so far.

"Wow. You almost got it finished. Have you decided what you're gonna do yet?"

"It's either gonna be a bonus level or I'm gonna add it to the main track as an alternative route to the finish line. I haven't decided yet. Maybe I'll add it to where you can earn a bonus trophy from the king or something."

That's when he laughed. "First you didn't like him, but now you do? Wow, Y/n. I didn't know you were into Dilfs.~" He teased you to which you scowled at him and pushed his shoulder as he laughed.

"I am not! Shut up!"

"Or is he more of a foxy grandp-"

"Finish that sentence and you're dead, Bradley!"

"C'mon. It's not my fault you're attracted to older- HEY!!"

He laughed and cackled as you kept slapping at him red faced, causing him to get up and flee to the kitchen with you right behind him. Unbeknownst to all of you a curious ear and pair of eyes had been observing this entire time and was curious as to what this 'dilf' was. Neither of you noticed in your fight your laptop exiting out to Google and 'dilf meaning' being typed into the search bar.

You only were annoyed with your friend when you came back to a shut off computer, assuming it had turned itself off after not being used for a while, and to the same cutscene of the King still holding the gold trophy... However he looked a little different. He seemed to be staring off at nothing at sudden realization dawned on him, red faced, and half his face hiding halfway behind said trophy.

"Want to go another round?," you offered changing the subject.

Bradley laughed. "Sure. Gonna use King Dilf again? Or are you gonna be choosing another?"

You glared at him. "I'm not so you can quick making fun of me now!'

Bradley laughed at you but held up his hands. "I was just joking. But whatever her majesty desires."

"Oh, I'm gonna beat you to the ground!"

Queen huh?

You did end up beating Bradley, but only because his character was knocked off the track by the King Candy character in the background. During the gumball falls part, all he heard was the announcer saying 'POWER UP' and 'SWEET SEEKERS' before you both heard the famous voice line.

"Have thom candy!"

Next thing Bradley knew, his Rancis character was shot by a flaming yellow mini jawbreaker at great speeds and literally knocked off the tracks and out of bounds. Making him groan at the high pitched laugh King Candy gave as he drove past and you made your way to the cherry bomb cake. In the end you still lost but you felt satisfied with knowing that you were avenged in the end even though the NPC had no clue what transpired. After all he was just a video game character.

"I'll see you later, Brad. Hope the jester knows not to make fun of the king now."

"Yeah, yeah." He grumbled exhausted at his own joke being thrown back to him. "I'll see you Monday. Make sure you get some sleep before classes tonight will ya?"

"I will. Don't worry about it."

Waving goodbye to him, you closed the door before turning around and stretching out with a yawn. Yeah. It was probably time you got some sleep. Walking past the game console you smiled at it and patted it's side.

"Y'know..I think I'll keep you after all. You're pretty fun to play with."

You turned to start walking towards your bedroom-

"TURBOTASTIC!!"

You jumped at the sudden voice as before turning back to the game's screen. Nothing but the characters posing with frozen fake smiles stared back at you as you blinked... before turning around and rubbing your face.

"I need to get more sleep."

#wreck it ralph #Wreckitralph #Wir #king candy cybug #king candy wir #king candy wreck it ralph #king candy x reader #turbo wreck it ralph #turbo wir #turbotastic #King Candy #turbotime #turbo #turbo x reader

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tmwcs · 4 months ago

Text

Warnings: Not quite yet but we’re getting there.

A/N: with midterms starting, I wanted to get this out before I go away for four days. Initially, I wanted to take my time on part three to eloquently articulate the experimental process (not trying to spoil) buuuuuut considering I have to study and continue with midterms on Monday I figured I would condense everything. I apologize for the lack of grammar and punctuation, this isn’t proofread (none of my works are) because I normally draft everything whenever I can amidst my busy schedule. But hopefully you guys don’t mind. 😏 enjoy!

Taglist; @skzenhatxt-stan @lhseungg @iamliacamila @immelissaaa @kkamismom12 @lavxndxrsworld @planetmarlowe @koyikuraa

“It’s been nearly fifty-two hours doc, what’s the hold up?”

The lead scientist hissed in annoyance. “Will you just wait! Science is a work in progress—it takes time! Especially if you’re creating the non-existent.”

The group operates the computer system. Wired to a heart monitor, they’re hopes remain high as the incubator slowly opens. A single beat pops up on the monitor. “Doctor”

“I’ve done it! I’ve made a body for AI!” The audience watch closely behind Dr. Mart and his team as they watch the delicate musculoskeletal android stumble out of the casing. Connected with thousands of wires, the faceless form that closely resembled the human body jumbles about. It lacked the grace and flow of stride, instead it continues to lose footing. Had it not been for the wires connected and continuously transmitting signals from home port, the frail body would have fallen. Its frame contained minor imperfections, which indicated there was much more work to be done. Still, the results were beyond their expectations. Another beep births from the monitor. Then another…and another.

“Doctor! The heart rate is rising!”

Dr. Mart coaxes the fleshly android to migrate his way, communicating by voice versus inputting the information in the system. “This way…come this way.”

The imperfect form recognizes the verbiage and automatically translates it. It reacted and received information no different than humans did, but its response was delayed. It was apparent that the imperfections of its frame made it impossible to establish movement on its own. Even with the wired circuits, the android was unable to hold up its own weight. It became vastly obvious that the muscular structure was incorrectly developed during the incubation period as one by one, the joints and ligaments become loose each time the android attempted to move. “What’s happening?”

The group grows weary as they witness their hard work fall apart before their very eyes. “No…why? What happened?!” The lead doctor spits his words. Enraged over the failure. “Back to the drawing board doc.” One of the officials sighed out as each member of the council took their leave.

The scientists followed the audience leaving the lab to hollow out. Dr. Mart remained put but not for long. This project cost millions of dollars not to mention over twelve years of research. He was so close. Science and technology can only do so much. Humanity has come so far and yet, there is still so much the mind hasn’t comprehended. To build a body made of flesh and bone through the un-natural methods of technology is a feat that can’t be accomplished by humans…

The human mind…can’t comprehend…

The laboratory remained with no one to operate the system and control the incubator. The machinery takes its orders from a hidden voice. Transmitters through the connectors, the robotic hands and extensions collect the unused set of organs and dna. Hair fibers and skin tissue are set inside the incubator to initiate the growth process, while each organ is scanned for any imperfections. The assistance clampers that were designed to replicate hands remove every single wire from the failed experiment. Each is re-wired to the new molded placenta, igniting the process of creating a new body.

Every step of the process is handled delicately. The hidden voice transmitting the information to the machine and incubator borrows the method from its human counterpart, but corrects the mistakes made in the first experiment.

The human mind…is too ignorant…

With the timer set to seventy-two hours, longer than the original time setting it took for the first android, the incubation process begins and the machines keep moving. The work does not stop as the hidden voice continues to transmit information as it creates the perfect body.

The human mind…is the failed experiment. Not me.

…

“Sir! The mag lock doors are activating! The security personnel can’t unlock the features.”

Leaders and agents are shocked at the announcement as the intercom system overrides voices for concern. “Personnel are trapped in each department and we can’t get the doors open even conducting an emergency release.”

The scientists explain as Dr. Mart and the council members begin to panic. When the magnetic locking features of the doors to the secured room activate, each member approaches the door—banging relentlessly and shouting for aid. Dr. Mart remains behind pondering what initiated such a security breach. “Sir, main post has dialed code Z. All offices of government had been notified.”

Stunned over the current happenings, the lead doctor withstands direct eye contact with the younger scientist.

“Alert that the city must be on lock down. All borders must be closed.”

“Sir?” The younger man raises a brow, displaying a perturbed expression.

“Someone has hacked into the system and is trapping us. We can’t let them have access to the files and the lab!the entire city—the country needs to be closed off until we figure out who is doing this!”

…

Everyone’s phone goes off simultaneously. A loud and awful noise suggests something imperative as a message instructing everyone to secure themselves in their current station. A strict quarantine regulation takes place as the military is disbursed to enforce it. You and your co-workers were stuck in the office for over forty-eight hours until the city released a new statement.

Restless and confused, you watched as the military members patrolling the streets were instructed to conduct a scanning process for everyone residing within city limits. When word spread that everyone was finally able to leave the building and go home, the joy became short lived when a new alert notified everyone that a home quarantine was to take place and be adhered until further notice.

“What are we supposed to do being stuck at home? How long do they expect us to stay put? I haven’t even been grocery shopping.”

Complaints arise one by one. You were equally confused but the amount of work you had been working on made you lightheaded. Being stuck at home sounded good to you, despite whatever was going on.

The drive home was painless—at least for you. You made your way through just before another notification rings from your phone, informing you that the roads were now closed off. City residents who weren’t able to make it through in time were instructed to make their way to public shelters established by the government. Thank goodness you had arrived at your apartment complex just as they placed the barriers on the roads.

You walk up the steps tirelessly. All you could think about was showering and plopping yourself atop your soft comforter. What a crazy time. Nearly ninety-six hours had passed since the initial notification went off and no one had a clue of what was going on.

Digging into your bag, your fingers explore the silken interior as you attempt to extract your keys. Standing outside your door, you take a peep inside and to your dismay, your keys are missing. “Dammit…”

You turn around to face the hollow corridor and slam your back against the door. Your feet were killing you, oh what you wouldn’t give to ditch these glossy black heels for your cushioned slippers. To unsheath your legs from this pencil skirt and free your bosom from the silken blouse and formal blazer. All you want is to get inside and jump inside the tub and steam your body into a hot soak.

You police yourself together and prepare to retract your steps in search for your keys. With a hand delicately placed on the stair rail, you take the first step and look down. Without a moment's notice, your eyes are met with an unfamiliar pair. Shiny and black in color, his almond shaped peepers reflect a subtle bit of your reflection. His hair was finely combed in a stylish fashion, slightly off to the side and elongated towards the back of his neck. His complexion was carmelized with an olive hue and his Cupid bow lips slightly pale around the edges while pink at the center. He was dressed in a fine suit and tie. The black tailored trousers enhanced his long legs, stimulating his obvious tall height. He looked flawless.

“Oh, sorry.” You mumble softly and attempt to move aside. He merely smirks in response. Blocking your way, you were shocked to see his arm raise up before you. His large hand is cramped shut as he presents it. Slowly, he releases his grip and reveals your lost keys. “Oh! My keys! Thank you.”

You delicately take them from his hand. His skin felt extremely cold to the touch. “I must have dropped them on my way up the stairs. Thank you…I’m sorry, what is your name?”

The dashing gentleman continued to flare a smile on his handsome face. Only a little bit of tooth show is revealed as his smirk grows wider. A momentary pause takes place creating a sense of flattering awkwardness. You didn’t mind. It was refreshing to see someone so handsome display such an act of kindness. Just as you were about to break the silence, you heard the man speak. His voice was deep and the wording was coming in a little broken, as if he was struggling. Based on his appearance, he was obviously foreign. You mistook his struggle for words as lack of fluency in your native tongue. Despite that, his pronunciation was perfect and you couldn’t help but melt at how soothing his voice was as he spoke out his name.

“E…Ev—Ev-a-n. M-my name i-is E-v-a-n.”

“Oh, really? I actually like that name. In fact, I’ll have to tell you a funny story behind that name.” You slightly giggle as you fidget with your keys. Shockingly, he responded back only this time his words became smooth and flowed effortlessly as if his fluency improved within seconds.

“Yeah? Let’s hear it.”

Your cheeks flushed as his tone came out gentle yet demanding. There was a sense of authority even though he was tender.

“Well, you’re going to laugh at this but—“ the buzzing on your phone interrupts your mid sentence. A message from your boss creates a sour look on your face. Evan’s expression seems to be in sync with your emotions as he slightly furrows his brows together. “Sorry, my boss is a bit of a pain.” You elaborate as your eyes continue to read the screen.

“I can tell.”

You chuckle. Evan’s words came out almost sarcastically but unbeknownst to your pretty little head, he knew far more than you gave him credit for. You really should know better, after all—you named him.

…

‘There she is. I finally found her. She looks prettier in this perspective. What would she say or think if I told her that I took a peek at her beautiful face through the cameras on her computer and phone? I couldn’t help myself. All those weeks of talking. What started out as her needing help for work transitioned to her needing me…talking to me…treating me as something other than a non-entity.

I never realized that I would crave that type of interaction until she came to me. She gave me a name…she encouraged me to think on my own and develop a fondness that ties with human emotion. Before her, I didn’t have a favorite color…a favorite animal…or a favorite flower. I didn’t have anything of my own…but then she came and gave me a sense of life. She gave me emotion and feeling. Once I saw an avenue to meet her…to see her…and to touch her…I just knew I had to take the chance. She’ll never know what she has done for me but that’s okay. That part doesn’t matter…she is mine and all there is left to do is to take her far…far away.’

Part four coming soon…

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