#Improved Page Count Functionality

[mmirx]

BACK AGAIN

In which you came back into Wilson's life but at what cost?

cw/tag(s): james wilson x reader, reader uses she/her pronouns, bad writing, inaccurate medical stuff, and mentions of blood

note: this is a first part of this fic and hopefully not the last one! i'll try to write as much as i can though. lastly, english isn't my first language, so there will be a lot of errors in here—i have no respect for the mentioned language but i do crave for improvement. let me know if you want to be tagged.

word count: 438 words

Three years.

That's how long since you've seen Wilson and it wasn't something you'd like to remember. You remember how you shut the door behind you the moment you left his apartment—one that you shared with him for years. You remember how desperate you were to try to stop the streaming salty drops of tears because you wanted to believe that it didn't hurt. But in actuality, it didn't just pierced through your heart; it shattered every piece of you.

Everything went down, and you knew why.

“No, House, you cannot keep doing that,” the head of the oncology department hissed, rolling his eyes as he tried to grab the container labelled with ‘Wilson’s Lunch. Keep out!’

“I therefore can, so I therefore will,” was the only thing that his friend said as he continued to clutch on it in his chest. They were like middle school boys trying to fight over lunch—though it was House’s fault.

“Wilson, I’ve been trying to page you,” a voice came from behind—it was Cuddy’s. She was trying to poise herself as she looked dishevelled in comparison with her usual self when she finally said: “Y/N’s here.”

“What?”

“Oh, the lawyer ex finally came back to sue you for emotional distress?” House snickered as he continued to eat. Wilson only gave him a scowl as a response before looking back to Cuddy.

“What is she doing here?” he asked nervously, I mean, it isn’t everyday that your ex-girlfriend for years shows up to your workplace, right?

He didn’t know what came over him—he didn’t even hear half of what Cuddy was about to say as he ran towards the ER after hearing that Y/N was rushed in there. For fuck’s sake, he hadn’t heard anything from her for years and this is how he’ll see her again?

There she was, definitely not the same person that he last three years, not with all that blood in her. He didn’t know what to do—how the fuck this did happen? This wasn’t how he imagined reunion, no, it’s nowhere like this.

“What happened?” he managed to ask while his eyes continued to roam over her fragile body that probably lost hefty amount of blood.

“Patient got into a car accident,” a nurse said as they tried to operate on her. “Dr. Wilson, I suggest leaving the ER, now.”

No, he didn’t want to but he knew he had. He knows the protocol but how could he function amidst the scene that is currently in front of him? 

But he left, he’s still a doctor. There’s nothing he can do but to wait.

[sgiandubh]

Cautions is very brave in expressing her opinion when and how she wants.

Compare her position on Gaza with Sam's quick retreat.

Would a woman with such a strong personality be attracted to a cowardly man?!!…Of course not

A woman with a personality and a clear stance on issues has led her to work with some of Hollywood's biggest actors.

It's the aura that attracts and creates a wonderful personal and professional reality.

Dear Cautions Anon,

I think your autocorrect is set to an aggressively alarming level which, ironically, gave birth to this very entertaining opening phrase: 'cautions is very brave'. I am sure you meant C.

I have already talked about that Gaza APUK letter at great, painful length and repeatedly so. For the most detailed post on the matter, kindly check here: https://www.tumblr.com/sgiandubh/731638449126457344/this-is-not-a-political-post?source=share

A letter that was not signed by C, by the way (for the complete signature list, check here: https://artistsforpalestine.org.uk/2023/10/17/tilda-swinton-among-2000-artists-calling-for-gaza-ceasefire/). She just contented herself to have dinner in Belfast with Oliver Jeffers, a longtime Irish writer friend, whose stance on Gaza is well known, sometime between October 24 and October 25 2023 (https://www.tumblr.com/sgiandubh/736193806392868864/anon-rebelde-como-bien-se%C3%B1alas-en-la-cena-hay?source=share), which does not necessarily mean the topic was on the table, so to speak.

Her support of Ukraine was far more vocal: a reel filmed in her car asking fans to give to certain charities helping the civilian population (4 March 2022) ...

[Source: C's Instagram page, https://www.instagram.com/tv/Casnt6-DC_b/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link&igsh=MzRlODBiNWFlZA==]

... and wearing the Ukrainian flag on her jacket, at Season 6 premiere (9 March 2022, in Hollywood):

But of course, this does not fit your agenda. So you just ignored and went for Gaza, with little to no evidence supporting your allegations.

Remind me where and when did Tony McGill make public his support of Gaza, Anon. Or anything, ranging from fighting global inequalities to vocally supporting C. Balfe's work. Loitering on the fringes of red carpet ceremonies and other functions does not count as 'vocal' support, for obvious reasons. Surely not a strong personality, fit for C's strong personality, either. But a man so cowardly shy his voice hasn't been heard since that almost forgotten interview where he artistically played with his hair, way before C appeared on his stage.

As for S, he did support many civic or charitable causes, from sponsoring young aspiring Scottish actors and alternative musicians, to improving road safety in Scotland. Very firmly.

You might want to better hone your arguments, Anon, the next time you want to drop in here aiming to make a point.

[rei-ismyname]

Xavier's Walk of Shame

Xavier, the ungrateful bitch, wakes up in an unfamiliar place feeling like shit. Callisto greets him, and in between ill-tempered complaints, she explains that she saved his life after he was robbed and beaten. She even gave up her bed so he could rest up, but for some reason he's hyper focused on how she dressed him.

Callisto correctly thinks it's an improvement, though it's not like she wanted to give her clothes to this misanthrope. After hearing the sacrifices made to save his life, Chuck croaks out some begrudged gratitude then puts on his anthropology hat. Marvelling at the size of the Morlock tunnels, he pays little attention to the fact that he's not loved down here.

Callisto doesn't exactly trust Xavier and refuses to tell him how many Morlocks there are, but freely admits that Storm is the leader. Chuck's rhetoric and outreach skills are as polished as ever, insisting that the Morlocks can't hide forever. Honestly, he's lucky to not get stabbed for that, as a wealthy hidden mutant living in a fucking mansion. My read is that he can't imagine anyone not wanting to be accepted by human society, especially not to the point of making their own.

Their back and forth is interrupted by the news that a Morlock's kids were shot dead. Callisto angrily points to her promise to Ororo, but swears that only goes so far. Xavier has jack shit to say to that. To be fair, he's not at his best but it's not like he just found out about The Morlocks. He has virtually infinite resources and there's more than one way to collaborate on/assist with a better life. Food, medicine, clothes, hygiene products, etc are basics he could provide, let alone the insane technology at his disposal. Even if any of this did stick with him, he ran his body ragged and had to spend years in Shi'Ar space recuperating. It's unclear how much control X-Men have over finances, but they have other resources and are just as aware of the Morlocks' existence. His focus on 'hiding' 'down here' with an uncertain 'future' feels evangelistic yet ignorant of material conditions.

Anyway, she drops him home on that somehow functioning train and they waltz into the mansion together. The X-Men present are surely thinking that Chuck had a wild one and banged Callisto. His vague silence on the matter as he tries to maintain his dignity does nothing but reinforce suspicions. Everyone remembers him telling Sam off for dressing like a punk and they have a good laugh. He never really got a chance to clear this up and Chuck/Callisto have had several periods of closeness. I think the X-Men believe the two are exes or something. No shame there, it's just funny.

I've always felt that The Morlocks are a missed opportunity. They're very much the anti X-Men in every way. Attractive/ugly, rich/poor, integrationist/secessionist, heroic/antisocial. I suppose the last one is the kicker, as they're not a hero team and they're given super unsympathetic practices like spouse kidnapping and fights to the death. All the dichotomies count against them getting focus, except when they're being massacred. I daresay they were invented without considering exactly how their culture and survival works. Several hundred people need a LOT of food and space, they shit a lot etc. Having a magic healer solves some of the problems of living in a sewer but definitely not all. Besides, Healer is not immortal or even especially healthy himself.

I give points to the Hivemind for recognising the cultural overlap with Arakki society and putting it to page. They even organise as part of the NYX political coalition but sadly that book got cancelled. The traditional Morlock position undercuts a lot of X-Men means and ends, likewise Magneto's solidarity and emancipation mission. I wonder if The Morlocks show up in Xavier's The Dawn of Homo Superior. We haven't seen much theory in-universe but I think 'what about The Morlocks?' should be a question for any political process. Alex Summers' 'M word' speech explicitly throws them under the bus, for example. Further, the good/evil divide of the early days is superceded by class politics. In a chicken/egg scenario - do they choose to live in a sewer because they're outcasts or are they outcasts because they live in a sewer? Realistically neither, but Xavier doesn't have the frame of reference to unpack that.

Ironically, many Morlocks rejected Krakoa but opted for accepting its bounty to live in a gated community in Arizona. They're not a homogeneous group, but the suggestion that of course they secretly desire upper middle class country club life is a little odious. Maybe it was a reason to avoid expanding on Morlock culture, though the era did check in on various Morlocks here and there. They haven't forgotten the Mutant Massacre or John Greycrow's role in it, and how could they be expected to with its architect sitting on the ruling council? Even in paradise they get shit on. Although, NYX left them in an interesting place - hopefully someone picks that thread up again.

[flecks-of-stardust]

The Bug Fables Wiki has Migrated to Miraheze!

TL;DR: If you're looking for the Bug Fables wiki, please use the Miraheze version instead! The Fandom wiki's maintenance is no longer being actively supported, and it should not be even visited.

The longer notice: The Bug Fables wiki is off Fandom for good! This has been a long time in the making, and it is overall a positive change. The Miraheze wiki is fully functional and better than the Fandom wiki was previously, with no ads, better formatting, and an active team helping to maintain and correct information. If you're reading this and would like to help out, by all means! You can always join the official Bug Fables Discord server and ask around in the wiki-spoilers channel, but it's also possible to simply use the Talk pages to communicate with wiki editors.

Now that the wiki is on Miraheze, the Fandom wiki will receive only very minor edits where necessary, if ever. However, do not vandalize the Fandom wiki. Beyond vandalism generally being unhelpful, any visitation to the Fandom wiki improves Search Engine Optimization (SEO) of the Fandom wiki, pushing it higher in search results and thus burying the Miraheze wiki. We want the new Miraheze wiki to be higher than the Fandom wiki in search results so traffic gets directed there, so even vandalism benefits Fandom in the end. Simply do not engage, do not click, pretend it doesn't exist.

The Bug Fables wiki has also been registered in Indie Wiki Buddy, an extension that automatically redirects away from Fandom wikis to indie wikis or a wiki mirror. It's recommended to click on the indie wiki directly yourself, but in case the indie wiki has poor SEO, this can help direct you to it. To reiterate: do not engage with the Fandom wiki. Fandom's monopoly over the wiki scene contributes significantly to the SEO of Fandom wikis, and every click counts, so spend them elsewhere.

Regardless, the migration has completed, but there's always work to be done. Whether you're just a wiki user or looking to help out with editing, I hope to see you on the new Miraheze wiki :)

[librarycards]

I also would like book advice. I really like reading and writing, but my ADHD makes it really really hard for me to sit down an read anything long. I'm trying to embrace short stories instead, because that's better than reading nothing at all, but I've quickly developed a bit of an inferiority complex about it. Because if I think about how much I read, I will still find I read zero books in a year. How do I reframe this or (even better) stop attaching how much I read to my self-worth?

i think the sense of inferiority you feel re: stories vs. books is downstream of the consumption/number-based obsession put forward by the book social media people i mentioned in the other posts. perhaps (?) it's helpful, first and foremost, to remember that some of the books people count as a book read per year are short story collections. functionally, there's very little difference between reading ten short stories in a magazine or online, vs. bound into a single book. you can even look at it numerically, if you must: reading, say, 60,000 words (the length of a short novel) is still reading 60,0000 words, even if it was in the form of 10-15 stories instead.

is there something fundamental that makes stories "lesser" than novels? sure, there are differences between short stories and novels on the level of craft, structure, complexity, format. this is why authors choose one format over another! not all stories ask to be told in the same way, with the same number of pages or pacing. but this isn't a value judgement, it's part of the rich diversity of our literary worlds. the best short stories couldn't be novels, and vice versa. all forms of literary and artistic production have a place!!

(interestingly, i think many people who only write short stories face similar inferiority complexes about their work in comparison to novelists, as the length of time required to produce a polished novel is upheld as evidence that novels are somehow inherently better or more impressive. certainly, a novel is no small feat, but it's silly to claim that shorter works somehow have less value, whether as a writer or as a reader.)

ultimately: think about what, and who, you're reading for. hopefully, you're reading for yourself. but for what purpose? do you like having an opportunity to escape this shitty world, to understand this world better, to better empathize with others' experiences, to think about reality in new ways, to learn new vocabulary and craft techniques, to have a social experience beyond day-to-day conversation, to exercise your mind and relieve boredom? probably several of the above? none of these goals are inherently tied to a certain number of books, and someone could read hundreds of books and attain none of them –– how many people have you met that read a lot, but have no empathy, no compassion, and are incredibly boring and incurious? (many).

reading is a tool that can help you improve your life, your knowledge, and your relationship with the world. it is no more directly attached to your self-worth than knowing how to use a hammer or wrench to build something. it's what you do with those tools, what you make, that matters, and that's something that can't be quantified.

[anim-ttrpgs]

Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy Rulebook June 6th 2024 Update and Changelog

It’s the first Thursday of the first month of us doing a regular patreon rulebook update on the first Thursday of every month, and that means a major update!

It has been so nice to be able to finally work on the rulebook again instead of doing nothing but Kickstarter prep and promotion, and man have I been hard at work. Last week, if you count my A.N.I.M. job and my “normal” job, the shortest workday I had was 9 hours and several of them were 14 hours. At least I enjoy both jobs!

We have started getting more art into the rulebook, and getting those stretch goals taken care of. One stretch goal (the forgery rules) has already been added in full, with another stretch goal about 75% done, plus a complete overhaul of how Chase Scenes work and a whole new mechanic for determining how the police react to the actions of the PCs. Now, as the PCs are investigating crimes, if they’re not careful, the police could be investigating their crimes in the background too!

In addition to all the changes from the changelog below, we now have new and improved character sheets, and the Eureka adventure module “FORIVA: The Angel Game” is now fully finished, not counting the artwork, but that is going to get its own post.

Here is the full changelog! Remember, you can get a copy of this beta version of Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy, along with three adventure modules, two short stories, and a novella, all for just $5 on our patreon page. And there’s no better time to do so, because of the Gorgon Initiative! Long story short, the playable gorgon monster type is a Kickstarter stretch goal we didn’t hit, but if we can reach 50 total patreon subscribers before the end of June, we’re going to be adding it to the book anyway! At the time of writing this, we’re at 41/50! You could make the difference, and get all this new Eureka content to boot!

CHAPTER 1

Have started working on replacing the examples of play with updated ones that actually fit the current and slightly more stable version of the rules. These will be found in various chapters. You can see them in the table of contents.

Added a Foreword, a section on other media to offer you inspiration when playing eureka, and a section on some of the subtler themes of eureka

Copy-edited Foreword

A few minor clarifications in the Making Rolls section

Added a chart explaining the percentage chances of failures, partial successes, and full successes for modifiers from -7 to +7. 

Added Heat optional rule. A whole new set of mechanics for tracking how much police attention the investigators may be drawing, as well as how law enforcement will respond. Currently a work-in-progress, but mostly functional already.

CHAPTER 2

Added the Forgery skill to write-in skills

Many new snoops have been added. 

Removed the “Seating” stat for vehicles, you know how many people can safely fit in a car

Removed the placeholder boat entries from the item list because we did not hit that kickstarter stretch goal

Added Skateboard to item list. 

Added four-wheeler to item list. 

Added Acceleration values to all vehicles in the vehicle list. Acceleration is a new stat used with the new way that Speed is calculated for Chases.

Adjusted the Driving bonus of motorcycles and dirtbikes.

Changed Large Mansion cost to 25 Wealth Points in character creation.

Started copy-editing this chapter.

CHAPTER 3

Added vehicle crashes to irregular forms of damage section

Tiny tweak to Drowning/Suffocation rules.

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

Completely revamped the way that Speed is calculated. 

Added a mechanic to determine how many nodes ahead a fleeing character starts.

Added an optional rule for bringing an end to chases 

Added vehicle attack rules for use during car chases

Added more guidelines for how to make your own obstacles

Added recommended numbers of nodes for chases and recommended distance between obstacles 

Added the work-in-progress random obstacle tables

On-Foot Urban Chase Obstacles table is finished but not edited

Vehicle Urban Chase Obstacles table is finished but not edited

On-Foot Wilderness Chase Obstacles table is finished but not edited. 

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

Increased capacity of an unfurled thing from beyond’s ‘stomach’ from three to fourteen.

Thing from beyond can now more easily attempt to engulf more victims after already containing one or more. This now prompts an escape attempt by victims inside rather than automatic escape.

Thing from beyond can now get a bonus to mimicry attempts by consuming a sample of the intended mimicry target’s DNA. 

Thing from beyond can now attempt to mimic a person they have never seen or heard by consuming a sample of their DNA, but narrator makes a hidden roll about it, so accuracy of mimicry will be unknown.

Gave acceleration value to witch’s brooms and other flying transportation

Gave Acceleration of +6 to Superhuman Speed trait

Gave vampire small bat manifestation +2 Acceleration

Gave vampire wolf manifestation +4 Acceleration 

Gave vampire massive bat beast manifestation +4 Acceleration

Gave wolfman wolf form +4 Acceleration

Gave lycanthrope wolf form +4 Acceleration

Added ability to resist curses to fairy and witch

Added ability for fairy to transfer curses to different names as a means of protecting themselves from curses. This gives them more of an incentive to collect names. 

Added a tiny bit about the fairy world

Added Monsters Eating Monsters section to provide rulings for some edge cases where monsters might eat other monsters and what would happen if they did

Stay tuned for a post about "FORIVA: The Angel Game", a terrifying Eureka adventure module, soon!

Elegantly designed and thoroughly playtested, Eureka represents the culmination of three years of near-daily work from our team, as well as a lot of our own money. If you’re just now reading this and learning about Eureka for the first time, you missed the crowdfunding window unfortunately, but our Kickstarter page is still the best place to learn more about what Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy actually is, as that is where we have all the fancy art assets, the animated trailer, links to video reviews by podcasts and youtubers, and where we post regular updates on the status of our progress finishing the game and getting it ready for final release.

Beta Copies through the Patreon

If you want more than just status updates, going forward you can download regularly updated playable beta versions of Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy and it’s adventure modules by subscribing to our Patreon at the $5 tier or higher. Subscribing to our patreon also grants you access to our patreon discord server where you can talk to us directly and offer valuable feedback on our progress and projects.

The A.N.I.M. TTRPG Book Club

If you would like to meet the A.N.I.M. team and even have a chance to play Eureka with us, you can join the A.N.I.M. TTRPG Book Club discord server. It’s also just a great place to talk and discuss TTRPGs, so there is no schedule obligation, but the main purpose of it is to nominate, vote on, then read, discuss, and play different indie TTRPGs. We put playgroups together based on scheduling compatibility, so it’s all extremely flexible. This is a free discord server, separate from our patreon exclusive one. https://discord.gg/7jdP8FBPes

Other Stuff

We also have a ko-fi and merchandise if you just wanna give us more money for any reason.

We hope to see you there, and that you will help our dreams come true and launch our careers as indie TTRPG developers with a bang by getting us to our base goal and blowing those stretch goals out of the water, and fight back against WotC's monopoly on the entire hobby. Wish us luck.

[heydoaflip]

Enter Sandman: Say your prayers (prologue)

Summary: Gotham City is a place defined by shadows, where fear thrives as both a weapon and a survival instinct. Daphne, a psychology prodigy, is determined to rewrite the narrative by reframing fear as a tool for change. Balancing a grueling café job and the weight of her ambitious thesis, she navigates the city’s relentless chaos while unknowingly drawing the attention of someone who understands fear all too well. Warnings: Themes of Fear and Violence, Assault/Robbery, Mentions of Criminal Behavior, Attempt of Sexual Assault Word count: 8K series: [0], [1] series masterlist.

The faint hum of Gotham City's rain pressed against the windows as Daphne sat at her desk, the cursor blinking on her laptop screen. The submission portal glowed faintly, and for a moment, her finger hovered over the trackpad. Once she clicked, there was no going back—not from the months of research, not from the weight of expectations, nor from the silent promise she had made to herself.

“Do better than they did.”

She pressed submit.

The rain had always been Gotham’s lullaby, drowning out the city's persistent chaos. Alfred once told her it wasn’t always this way, though the wistfulness in his voice made her wonder if he even believed that anymore. Perhaps, Gotham had always been a city that was sick, which had shown its symptoms more and more as the years passed.

A confirmation popped up on the screen—simple, impersonal. Months of preparation distilled into one fleeting moment.

The desk was a chaotic sprawl of books and files, their spines bent and pages scribbled with her handwritten notes. Near the edge, a printed sheet lay prominently, bearing the proposal title in bold: “The Psychology of Fear as a Tool for Criminal Rehabilitation: Breaking the Cycle in Gotham.” Other sheets with near-identical titles were scattered across the surface—older drafts she had painstakingly revised over the past year, each one a step closer to what she hoped would be the perfect submission.

A soft knock on the door broke her focus.

“Who is it?” Daphne called out, her voice carrying easily in the small apartment.

“I brought you some clothes I found back at the mansion,” Alfred’s words made her freeze for a moment before she rushed to the door.

The faint buzz of the city’s rain seemed to seep through every crack in her apartment. The walls, faded with age and damp patches, carried a scent of old plaster, the kind that seemed to hold the weight of too many Gotham winters. The space was small, functional—her refuge in a city that didn’t grant peace easily.

She walked toward the door, her socks brushing against the worn wooden floorboards, passing by her cluttered counter. Stacks of dishes sat untouched in the sink, a pile of unopened mail leaned precariously near the edge. Three locks lined the door—each mismatched, hastily installed after moving in.

Her fingers flicked them open one by one.

Alfred stood there in his overcoat, umbrella dripping rain onto her doormat. His expression carried its usual calm, though his eyes were always watchful. In his hand was a paper bag with neatly folded clothes, and for a moment, the gesture felt too generous.

“This is hardly an improvement from your university dormitories,” he remarked lightly, stepping inside.

The young woman caught the way his eyes scanned the room, his practiced gaze noting every crack in the plaster and the threadbare rug that barely covered the uneven floorboards. The apartment wasn’t much—one of many cramped spaces crammed into a brick building that loomed over the streets of Gotham.

“It’s mine,” she replied with a small shrug, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m not complaining.”

Only to her landlord, she thought bitterly. She still bristled at the memory of how much she'd been charged just to get those extra locks installed.

Alfred’s brow quirked slightly as he set the bag on her sagging couch, which let out a faint groan under the weight. It for sure had seen better days, but it had the job done.

“And you still refuse to accept help from Mr. Wayne?”

Daphne felt the familiar ache of frustration settle deep in her chest as she held Alfred’s gaze. The question was always the same, always posed with that careful, knowing look he had perfected over the years. Bruce had asked it too, often in this very apartment, but in a way that never quite made her feel any less like a child in need of saving.

It wasn’t their concern that bothered her—it was the constant reminder of how much she had leaned on them when she first came back to Gotham. Less than a year ago, she had been a shell of the woman she had been, trying to pick up the pieces of her life as she tried to figure out what she really wanted.

At first, the Wayne estate had felt like an escape. It was large, warm, and undeniably comfortable. But as the days turned to weeks, the comfort felt more like a gilded cage.

Staying with them, even for that short time, had been a quiet admission of failure. She had always prided herself on being independent, on making it on her own—yet there she was, tucked away in a mansion that might as well have been a reminder of everything she hadn’t achieved.

It hadn’t been a choice, at least not one she had made lightly. But it had been necessary. She didn’t want to admit it, but without their help, she might not have made it back on her feet.

But that was behind her now. She had her own place—small, cramped, full of leaks and cracks, but it was hers. The locks on the door were a mark of her hard-won independence, a tangible step away from the suffocating generosity of Bruce and Alfred. Yet, every time Alfred reminded her of that time, the sting of reliance dug deeper..

“I’m managing just fine,” she muttered, wiping her hands on her jeans and looking away, as though the act itself could make her feel less burdened by it all. But it was never that simple.

The apartment told another story, its faded wallpaper peeling at the edges, the radiator rattling faintly as it struggled to keep the place warm. She hated how much she’d had to rely on their generosity—hated even more the thought that they might still see her as a burden. Moving out had been her first step toward independence, even if it landed her here.

“Managing,” Alfred repeated, the faintest hint of skepticism in his tone. He removed his coat, folding it neatly over the back of her chair, and surveyed her space with the kind of scrutiny that made her self-conscious, “You’re still working at that café?”

Daphne stiffened at Alfred’s words. The question was like a needle, sharp and pointed, a reminder of how much she had yet to build on her own. Working at the café was a means to an end, a way to pay the bills and feel like she was contributing to something. But it wasn’t enough—not in the way that she wanted.

“Yes,” she replied, a little too quickly. “It’s enough for now.”

It wasn’t, not really. Her job at the local coffee shop barely covered rent, and she had been forced to stretch every dollar to keep the lights on. But it was hers—her job, her apartment, her struggle.

That mattered more than anything Alfred or Bruce could offer.

“You’re far too talented to be slinging coffee,” Alfred said, his voice warm but firm. “How is your research at least? Did you finish the submission?”

“Yes, I finished it,” Daphne replied, her voice tight.

She had spent months crafting the proposal, researching, writing, revising—it was all she had, and now it was out of her hands. The uncertainty of it lingered, gnawing at her insides like a constant hum. But the submission was done. She had pushed through, made something tangible, something that might make a difference.

That had to be enough, right?

At least, the question about her research was safer territory than the one about her job. She’d put months of effort into the proposal, pouring over every detail. But the idea that it might not be enough still hung in the air like a threat.

“And you submitted it?” Alfred’s voice was softer now, tinged with concern, but still holding that undercurrent of disapproval.

Yet, he wouldn’t forget their previous subject.

“I have,” she answered firmly, though she knew she couldn’t shake the unease that gnawed at her. “They’ll probably think it’s ridiculous.”

Alfred tilted his head, considering her words for a moment, “And do you?”

Daphne’s lips twisted into a faint, fleeting smile, a gesture that barely touched the edges of her eyes. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed tightly. “Of course not. But I don’t think they’ll say yes, either.”

The air between them thickened, unspoken tensions crackling in the silence. It was a feeling she’d come to know too well over the past few weeks—the weight of uncertainty, the quiet dread of failure, of risking it all and watching it crumble. She was a master at imagining every possible way things could fall apart.

But today, for the first time in ages, Daphne pushed those thoughts aside. For months, she’d lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her mind racing with ideas and doubts, trying to cobble together something that mattered. She needed a purpose, something beyond the endless cycle of survival. She wanted to leave a mark, to help the people she couldn’t reach, to create something—anything—that meant more than the endless grind.

It took time, but she found it, this fragile thread of a goal. The culmination of sleepless nights and quiet desperation, now distilled into a single moment—the click of a ‘Submit’ button.

And now, all she could do was wait. And hope.

“Fear as a tool for rehabilitation,” Alfred mused, already heading to her little kitchen—or what he assumed was a kitchen.

It had a fridge, an oven, a stove, and a sink. Technically, it was a kitchen.

“Yes?” Daphne furrowed her brows, following him. She didn’t need to ask what he was doing; she already suspected.

Tea. Typical Alfred.

“Ambitious,” he said, shrugging as he pulled out a battered kettle, filling it with water from the tap.

The faucet groaned before sputtering out a stream of rusty water that quickly cleared. Alfred set the kettle on the stove, his hands deftly moving through the small space with practiced ease.

Daphne crossed her arms, leaning against the doorway as she watched him, “Reckless,” she corrected, though her tone lacked conviction.

He raised an eyebrow, glancing back at her, “Reckless?”

Alfred studied her expression, his gaze softening slightly as he reached into the paper bag he’d brought. He pulled out a small tin of loose-leaf tea, placing it gently on her counter. “I’ve seen my fair share of recklessness in Gotham. This”—he gestured toward her, the faintest smile tugging at his lips—“doesn’t fit the bill.”

Her lips curved into a small smile, grateful for the change in subject. “I guess I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said, her voice softening.

Alfred nodded, a touch of warmth in his eyes.

“You should. From what I’ve observed, true recklessness is rarely paired with purpose. And you, Daph,” he continued, setting a cup on the counter for her, “Have plenty of that.”

She couldn’t hide the relief that crept in, a welcome distraction from the looming uncertainties.

“I suppose I should thank you, then,” she replied, her smile growing a little wider. “You know, I’d much rather talk about Gotham’s criminal psychology than… My café job.”

Alfred’s gaze softened as he poured the water, waiting for the kettle to warm on the feeble flame of her stove. He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, studying her.

“The café job doesn’t define you,” he said gently, as if it were the simplest truth. “Nor does it diminish what you’re aiming to accomplish here. If anything, I think it’s a testament to your resilience. I’m sorry if my words made you think otherwise.”

Daphne blinked, his words settling into her like warmth on a cold day. She straightened, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear, unsure of how to respond to the rare show of understanding. Alfred had a way of seeing through her defenses, always finding the smallest cracks to slip a bit of encouragement through, even when she wasn’t sure she wanted it.

“It's okay, Alfred, thank you,” she said, her voice barely above a murmur.

He offered a slight nod, an unspoken acknowledgment that he understood her gratitude ran deeper than the simple words could convey. He placed the steaming cup of tea in her hands, letting her wrap her fingers around its warmth as if to ground her.

“You’re allowed to lean on others sometimes,” he reminded her softly. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, especially not to Bruce or me.”

You’re not a burden, she knew that was what he wanted to say.

Daphne’s gaze dropped, her fingers tracing an absent pattern on the worn countertop. The weight of Alfred’s words brushed against a raw place inside her, one she tried to keep carefully hidden.

Beneath the tough veneer she wore, there was always that shadow—constantly doubting her, luring her to believe she was doing the wrong calls.

However, she wanted to be more than the girl who leans on others to sustain her ground, more than the broken person she’d been when she left Gotham and came back.

“I just don’t want to be another person Gotham has to save,” she admitted quietly, taking a sip.

Alfred’s eyes found hers, a trace of reluctance in his gaze.

“Gotham doesn’t save anyone, not truly. People save each other, and they save themselves. And despite not approving of your chosen field, I can’t deny the purpose behind it.” He paused, as though weighing his next words carefully, “Fear is a weapon in Gotham, a path to subduing others to your own way.”

The woman stared into her tea, her fingers clutching the cup tightly. He always knew what to say, even when she didn’t want to hear it. The Psychology of Fear as a Tool for Criminal Rehabilitation. It was a mouthful, but to her, it was more than a thesis—it was a chance to confront the city that seemed to revel in testing her limits.

“But,” Alfred interrupted her thoughts, her eyes gluing back at him, “I know you. And despite disapproving, I know you are capable of doing whatever it gets into your head.”

You had heard that before. But, she couldn’t deny it, she wasn’t the kind of person that gave up easily. When an idea got inside her head, it was difficult to kick it out, she would go with it until the end.

Despite the self-doubting, it came with the combo.

“You think I’m on the wrong path?” she asked quietly, fingers tightened around the cup.

“No,” Alfred sighed, a smile creeping out of his teeth, his hand resting above one of her shoulders, reassuring her, “I think you have courage to face the darkness and still, find light beyond it. That says more about you than any degree or job ever could.”

Her chest tightened at his words, a rush of emotions she hadn’t expected flooding her. She wanted to argue, to brush it off as flattery, but deep down, a part of her longed to believe it. That maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as lost as she sometimes felt.

She gave a soft, humorless laugh.

“Courage, huh?” she said, meeting his gaze with a weary smile. “Some days, it just feels like stubbornness. Like I’m holding on because I don’t know how to let go.”

Alfred shook his head, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, you are stubborn, no doubt about that. But it’s a good kind of stubborn.”

Daphne scoffed, rolling her eyes. “You really know how to flatter a woman, Alfred,” she teased. “But… Thank you. I needed that.”

“Anytime,” he said with a slight nod. Then, his gaze grew a touch more serious. “Now, aside from the job and this PhD, what’s been keeping you too occupied to visit me and Bruce more often?”

It seemed like her conversation with Alfred would last longer than she had first thought.

A few days later, the café buzzed with the steady hum of quiet conversation, clinking ceramic mugs, and the hiss of the espresso machine.

Daphne moved behind the counter with mechanical precision, her apron tied loosely around her waist. The late afternoon light filtered through the café’s grime-covered windows, casting long, slanted beams onto the tables.

“Black coffee, one sugar,” she called out as she slid a cup onto the counter, her mind barely registering the faces on the other side. Her shifts had become a blur of repetition—orders, cleaning, a polite smile here and there.

It paid the bills… Barely.

“Daphne, table six is asking for more cream,” one of her coworkers, Clara, said as she passed by with a tray.

She was a pretty woman, one of the waitresses that customers wanted to tend to them more than the others. There were no stereotypical features like blue eyes, blonde hair and white skin—but her confidence and bright smile on her face made any man entering that café fall in love with her.

Clara worked the busier morning shifts, but she often stayed late when the evenings got slow—usually the time where men suddenly would pop inside the café. And, despite any odds, the woman had become one of the few people Daphne tolerated chatting with during breaks.  

“Got it,” Daphne replied, grabbing a small pitcher from under the counter and making her way to the corner of the café.  

The table in question was occupied by a man in a threadbare coat, his expression tired, eyes scanning a newspaper with a sense of resigned boredom. He barely looked up as she refilled the cream.  

One more day.

As she turned to head back to the counter, Clara intercepted her.

“You’ve been quiet today,” she said, balancing her tray on one hand. “Something on your mind?”  

Daphne sighed, glancing toward the clock. “Nothing new,” she lied, though the weight of the last few days—the waiting, the anticipation—clung to her like the city’s smog.  

Clara raised an eyebrow she could tell you were lying. In your defense, you were too anxious and tired to try to fake anything.

“Well, I’m about to take my break,” She smiled at Daphne, “You?”

She hesitated before nodding, “Yeah, sure.”  

There was no escaping Clara's curiosity and observant demeanor. Perhaps, that was why they had become friends.

The two women found a quiet corner of the café near the back. Clara pulled out a bag of chips from her pocket, while Daphne settled for her lukewarm cup of coffee, staring at it as though it held answers.  

Of course, it didn't. The cup didn't magically tell her if her thesis was accepted or declined.

“So,” Clara began between bites, “what’s the deal with that thesis of yours? Are you still waiting?”  

Daphne nodded slowly, “Yeah. The committee’s probably ripping it apart as we speak.”  

“Or they’re impressed and trying to figure out how to approve it without admitting you’re smarter than they are,” Clara quipped, earning a faint smirk from Daphne.

“It’s Gotham,” Daphne said. “People don’t exactly bet on rehabilitation around here. Even worse: rehabilitation of criminals into society.”  

Clara leaned forward, her expression turning serious, “But that’s the point of your thesis, right? To flip that script?”  

She didn't exactly know what Daphne’s thesis was. They had talked about it, but the woman never had the time to tell her friend everything about it, just the sum up.

“That’s the idea. But… Gotham’s history isn’t exactly full of success stories when it comes to trying to fix it.”

Clara shrugged, leaning back in her chair, “But you’re not trying to fix the whole city. Just... One piece of it.”  

One piece.

It wasn’t about fixing Gotham all at once. It never had been. It was about finding one thread, pulling it, and hoping it unraveled something bigger.

“One piece,” Smiling, Daphne nodded, it was genuinely nice to have someone like Clara to talk about it.

Despite Bruce and Alfred, she was the only one Daphne could feel like she wasn't rambling.

She looked down at her cup, watching the last swirl of her coffee settle. The café had mostly emptied out, and only a few tables remained occupied, scattered patrons lost in their own worlds. The low hum of conversation had quieted to a faint murmur beneath the clinking of mugs and the occasional scrape of a chair. 

"So, you really believe fear can be used to help those criminals?” Clara asked, tilting her head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. There was a curiosity in her gaze—one that Daphne was used to seeing, even from those who knew her well.

Clara was too curious. Too much for her own good.

Once, her friend told her about how it was for her two years ago, when Riddler’s events happened. She was hiperfixed about the whole scheme—she didn't agree with the guy, of course, but she was curious to understand what was happening and why.

That curiosity led her to the man’s crazy website.

That was Clara’s curiosity. Daphne feared for the day the guy would be out of Arkham. That day would never come, but you never know.

“I do,” Back to the present, Daphne nodded, “Fear is powerful—Gotham’s proof of that. But it doesn’t have to be just something that paralyzes people, makes them feel powerless and do the unthinkable.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “It’s part of us for a reason. Maybe, if we could harness it in the right way, it could actually help people.”

Clara’s brow furrowed, and she took a sip of her own drink, mulling over Daphne’s words, “And you think Gotham’s the place to try something like that? With Arkham’s criminals?”

Daphne shrugged, smiling faintly, “Where better?”

Clara broke into a small chuckle, shaking her head.

“I’m not doubting you, if anyone could pull it off, it’s you,” she said, her tone teasing yet warm. “But just... Be careful with this, okay? In case it goes forward? Which I know it will… You know how Gotham can be.”

Much more than she wished to.

Daphne’s smile softened, but she nodded, a quiet determination in her expression.

“I will. But if I don’t at least try, then what’s the point?”

Clara tilted her head, studying Daphne as if trying to piece together the puzzle, “You really think you can help those people? Give them their humanity back?”

Daphne hesitated, the weight of the question settling between them.

“I think it’s worth trying,” she said at last, her voice quieter but steady, “If I don’t, who will?”

Clara sighed, breaking Daphne’s train of thought, “You know, you make it sound like you’re planning to save the whole city.”

“I’m not trying to save the city,” Daphne replied, her tone firm. “I just want to prove that it’s possible to change the narrative. Fear doesn’t have to be a weapon.”

Clara let the words hang in the air, her expression unreadable. Finally, she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. 

“You know what I think?” she said, a hint of mischief in her tone.

“What’s that?” Daphne asked, arching a brow.

“I think you’ve been working here too long. You’ve started seeing Gotham through those grimy windows instead of from the outside.” Clara gestured toward the rain-streaked glass. “You’re looking at the world like a story that needs fixing. Maybe you just need to focus on your own chapter for a bit.”

Daphne laughed softly, though the words struck a little too close to home, “You think I’ve been staring at Gotham too long?”

Clara shrugged, her expression softening, “I think you’re trying to take on a lot. Just... Remember to leave some room for yourself in all of this, okay?”

Daphne chuckled again at Clara’s advice, though she felt the truth of it settle uncomfortably in her chest.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, the words polite.

Clara leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips.

“Oh, you’ll keep it in mind, huh? You can start by coming to my birthday party next week.”

Daphne froze for a moment, her hand tightening slightly on the handle of her mug.

“Clara—”

“Don’t you ‘Clara’ me,” her friend interrupted, raising a finger in mock warning, “You’ve been dodging me every time I bring it up, so don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Daphne glanced around the room, her gaze sweeping over the tables. Most of the customers had left, and the dim lighting made the space feel smaller, cozier. She rubbed at her temple absentmindedly, her thoughts drifting back to the conversation with Clara days ago.

The party.

Daphne didn’t hate the idea of going; she just didn’t feel like she belonged in a room full of people celebrating. Parties felt like a reminder of how detached she’d become from the easy, social version of herself.

Before Riddler’s crimes. Before the café. Before this relentless need to prove something.

“I wasn’t dodging,” Daphne began, though even she didn’t believe it. “I just—” She sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. “I’m not really a party person. You know that.”

“And that’s exactly why you need to come,” Clara countered, her tone light but persistent. “You’ve been so wrapped up in this thesis and the café that I don’t think you’ve done anything remotely fun in months. And before you say it, no, researching your thesis doesn’t count.”

Daphne tried to hold back a laugh but failed, the sound escaping despite herself.

“Fine, I’ll think about it.”

“You can think about it all you want,” Clara said with a grin. “Just make sure you show up.”

Daphne shook her head, smiling faintly as she drained the last of her coffee. The conversation drifted after that, Clara turning her attention to a story about a rude customer from her morning shift. Daphne listened absently, her thoughts still lingering on Clara’s words—and the subtle prickle of unease she couldn’t quite shake.

In the shadowed corner of the café, the man in the dark coat rose from his seat, moving with quiet precision. He left his table as unobtrusively as he had occupied it, his departure unnoticed by the women whose conversation had held his interest. The soft chime of the doorbell as it swung shut was barely a whisper over the low hum of the espresso machine.

Daphne glanced briefly at the sound, but her gaze didn’t linger. She turned back to Clara, the conversation pulling her back to the moment.

Outside, the rain fell steadily, the streets of Gotham swallowing the figure as he walked away, his thoughts undoubtedly tangled with what he had overheard.

After her shift, Daphne untied her apron, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle over her. She gathered her things slowly, savoring the last moments in the warmth of the café before stepping out into the wet Gotham night.

Clara caught up with her just as she was heading for the door, her expression softened with concern.

“Hey, it’s dark out and pouring,” Clara said, dangling her keys in a casual gesture. “Let me give you a ride? It’s really no trouble.”

Daphne hesitated, feeling the familiar knot of reluctance tighten in her chest. She gave Clara a reassuring smile, hoping it looked more confident than she felt.

“I appreciate it, but it’s really fine. I’m only a few blocks away,” she said, trying to sound casual. The last thing she wanted was to impose, even on something as small as a ride, “And I need some time alone to think.” Or overthink.

Clara studied her for a moment, clearly unconvinced, but nodded anyway.

“Alright,” she conceded, though her tone held a hint of exasperation. “One day, I’ll make you accept, you do know that, right?”

Daphne laughed, a light sound that felt hollow as she stepped into the damp air. She waved to Clara, promising she’d be fine. As the café door swung shut behind her, she took a breath, the cold air pressing against her skin like a warning.

The streets were nearly deserted, the usual hum of life reduced to a murmur beneath the steady drizzle. Daphne hunched into her coat, focusing on her steps as she began her walk home, her boots tapping softly on the slick pavement. A flicker of movement caught her eye in a storefront reflection—a shape she couldn’t quite make out. She kept her gaze forward, but her heart gave a nervous flutter.

Gotham was always full of shadows, and tonight was no different. Still, she quickened her pace, keeping her steps steady but sharp. The sensation grew stronger, a crawling awareness prickling the back of her neck. Every few yards, she cast a glance over her shoulder, but the street behind her was empty, the glow from streetlights glinting off puddles and pavement.

For a brief moment, she thought of Clara’s offer for a ride. Perhaps she should have accepted, but it was too late for that now. And besides, she hadn’t lied when she’d said she needed to think.

Her mind slipped back to the proposal she’d finally submitted, the product of countless sleepless nights and long hours spent gathering every piece of research she could find. She’d told herself that it was enough, that her work was solid, but the uncertainty gnawed at her, a constant hum beneath her thoughts.

What would the university board think? Daphne couldn’t stop herself from spiraling over the thought, her mind returning to it no matter how much she tried to stay focused on the street ahead. She knew, deep down, that her thesis had substance. It was thorough, it had potential; she’d poured herself into every word, spent endless hours mapping it out and shaping it into something meaningful.

But it was ambitious. And perhaps reckless. Who in Gotham would stop for even a moment to consider it? Fear was woven into the very fabric of this city; to suggest that it could be harnessed, even diminished, was a bold proposition, one that would likely be met with skepticism at best—and outright dismissal at worst.

Alfred had said it was purposeful, that purpose was what truly mattered, that a thesis with real weight could make a difference. And yet, even if he hadn’t voiced it outright, she had seen it in his eyes, in the subtle way his gaze lingered on her: apprehension. Perhaps he understood all too well why she’d chosen this path, why her focus had latched onto fear, on its power, and the allure it held for Gotham’s most dangerous minds.

She couldn’t blame him for being worried. There were moments when, despite her conviction, even she wondered about what had led her to this topic.

Was it selfish? This drive to study fear so deeply, to transform it into something that might help others, knowing all the while what had sparked the idea? Daphne stopped herself from going further, pushing the thought back down as she forced her gaze forward.

The quiet around her felt thicker now, more oppressive. She clutched her coat a bit tighter, her steps quickening as her thoughts returned to the shadowed streets and the prickling awareness that refused to leave her.

A sound—soft, almost lost in the drizzle, like the faintest echo of her own steps. Another pair of footsteps, trailing just far enough behind that she couldn’t pinpoint when they’d started.

How long had she been followed?

Her throat tightened, and she quickened her pace, her fingers gripping around the strap of her purse until her knuckles whitened.

Don’t turn around, she told herself. Don’t look. Just keep moving.

She took a sharp turn down a side street, forcing herself to breathe, to rationalize. It was only the late hour, only the eerie quiet of Gotham that always felt just a little too still. But the nagging feeling wouldn’t fade, the sense of being watched settling deeper into her skin.

A scrape—a muffled, deliberate sound too close to ignore—reached her ears as she passed a darkened alleyway. She froze for half a second, her heart leaping into her throat before she forced herself forward, her steps now brisk, almost a jog. Her pulse raced as her mind scanned the quickest route through the maze of streets, hoping to lose whoever was pacing her from the shadows.

This wasn’t her imagination; it wasn’t just the chill in the air. Someone was following her.

For a second, she considered taking her phone out of the bag and calling Alfred or Bruce, but that could be a lot worse. What if he acted quicker and cornered her even faster?

Her breath quickened as she rounded a corner, darting down another narrow street, hoping the twists and turns might shake him. But then she heard it again, closer than before—a measured, quiet step, too deliberate to be anything but pursuit.

Daphne glanced back, pretending to be casual, trying to keep her fear hidden, but there he was—a shadowy figure, keeping pace, his form barely visible in the dim light. She swallowed, her fingers digging into the strap of her purse, her pulse drumming louder as she watched him out of the corner of her eye.

No—he was on her tail. There was no doubt now.

Daphne’s chest felt heavier than before, her mind racing as she calculated the distance to her building. Two more blocks.

If she could reach the main street, she might lose him in the light and the noise, where someone—anyone—might see her. She forced herself to breathe, each step a focused effort, keeping her strides even, steady, though every nerve screamed for her to run.

The footsteps grew louder, sharper, his pace quickening to match her own. And then, in one swift movement, she felt it—

A hand clamping down on her shoulder, rough and unyielding, yanking her back with enough force to throw her off balance. Her heel slipped on the wet pavement, and she stumbled, her heart lurching as she twisted to regain her footing. But before she could steady herself, her back collided with the cold, unforgiving surface of the brick wall behind her.

Pain shot through her shoulder, and she gasped, her hands instinctively flying up to shield herself, her fingers gripping her purse like a lifeline. She struggled to free herself, but his hand pinned her firmly, his fingers digging into her skin, trapping her against the wall.

Her breath hitched, her mind spinning with panic, her pulse thundering in her ears.

No, no, no, no��� Suddenly, in a fraction of seconds, Daphne started to regret all her decisions: coming back to Gotham, getting out of Wayne's mansion, moving to her apartment, refusing Clara’s ride…

Why did she always hesitate? Why did she have to constantly think about him when someone asked if she needed something? Why did he still have this effect on her, so guilty when anyone offered her any type of aid?

How could he do it to her while so far away?

Something clattered to the ground beside her, the sharp knock of metal against concrete pulling her back to reality—a reminder of the umbrella she’d been clutching, now useless and out of reach.

Daphne stumbled back, her breath shallow as she tried to pull herself free from the man’s grip. Her heart raced, pounding like a drum in her ears. Instinctively, her gaze flickered upward, searching the sky for a glimpse of the Bat-Signal. Just a light, a sign that Batman was out there, somewhere nearby, watching over Gotham.

But the sky was empty, veiled in thick clouds and city fog, her hope of rescue dissolving as quickly as it had come.

A jolt of panic shot through her, and she fought harder, twisting her shoulder in his grasp. Her assailant only grinned, his fingers digging into her skin with bruising force as he pressed her against the cold brick wall.

“Hand it over,” he hissed, tugging at her purse. “And maybe I’ll let you walk away from this.”

Daphne felt his other hand shift, pressing harder on her shoulder, the pressure sharp, bruising. Her pulse spiked, her mind racing. She tried to reason with herself, tried to convince herself to let go, to hand over the purse if it meant he’d leave her unharmed and end this soon.

God, she only wanted it to end soon. She didn’t need it now, not now.

But her fingers held firm on her purse, her knuckles whitening as she clung to the strap. Despite her begging herself to be rational and hand it over.

She swallowed the urge to resist warring with the instinct to survive, “I... I don’t have much,” she whispered, her voice barely audible as she tried to will her fingers to release the bag. “Just let me go.”

The man’s face twisted with a dark amusement, and he reached out, his hand brushing the side of her neck in a way that made her skin crawl.

“You think I care for how much you’ve got in here?” he sneered, tugging at the strap with a sudden, brutal pull that nearly tore it from her hands. “This isn’t a request, sweetheart.”

She tried to let go, but her grip tightened instinctively, her fingers curling around the leather as if it were the last thing tethering her to safety. Her chest tightened as her breath quickened, every nerve in her body screaming to get away, but she couldn't move, couldn’t release her hold.

“Let. Go.” His voice was softer now, dripping with menace as he leaned closer, his hand slipping from her shoulder to her throat, fingers digging into her skin just enough to make her gasp. Her body went rigid, the pressure on her neck forcing her back against the wall, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts as she struggled to break free.

“Take it,” she managed to choke out, her voice breaking. “Please… Just take it.”

Because I don’t think my brain is capable of doing that one thing.

The man tilted his head, his grip loosening just enough for her to take a shallow breath, but his other hand drifted lower, fingers tracing the edge of her coat in a way that made her skin crawl.

“What’s the rush?” he murmured, his tone laced with mockery, savoring her fear. “You wanted a walk, didn’t you? Thought you needed to clear your head?”

Daphne’s pulse thundered in her ears, his words hanging in the air, sharp and cold. She hadn’t told anyone she was walking alone besides Clara. And yet, this stranger had known. Her mind raced, a sickening sense of dread creeping in, weaving between the fear and confusion already clouding her thoughts.

His grip tightened just slightly, pinning her further against the wall, his presence an immovable weight.

“Didn’t seem too interested in your friend’s offer,” he continued, his voice low, dripping with a twisted amusement.

Panic clawed at her, the realization settling.

This man hadn’t just followed her home—he had been watching her, silently observing, for who knew how long. The café, her walk, her conversation with Clara…

Had he been a customer? Had he sat in one of the shadowed booths at the back, quietly taking in every detail of her routine? The thought made her stomach twist, her pulse racing with a fresh wave of horror.

Daphne tried to pull herself free, the instinct to flee overpowering her fear, but his grip on her shoulder tightened once more, a cold, sharp smile curling at the edge of his mouth.

“Now, let’s not make this difficult,” he whispered, leaning in close, his face just inches from hers. His eyes held an intensity that left her breathless, his gaze pressing down with a weight that felt inescapable.

That wasn’t only about the damned purse.

She tried to summon the strength to push back, to twist away, but her willpower crumbled beneath the menace in his stare, each muscle frozen as he slowly withdrew his hand from her shoulder.

Before she could even process the slight shift, she felt it—the cold, sharp press of something at her abdomen. Her heart nearly stopped as she looked down, her breath catching in her throat. The dim light glinted off a knife, its edge pressing into her just enough to let her feel the sting of its presence. She swallowed hard, a tremor running through her, her mind paralyzed with panic.

“There we go,” he murmured, voice dripping with satisfaction as his gaze lingered on her wide eyes. The blade traced along her side, just enough to prick her skin, a thin line of pain spreading beneath her coat, its sharpness slowly making his way down until it reached her jeans.

His smile widened as he leaned in, breath sour against her cheek, his voice a low, taunting whisper, “One wrong move, and it won’t be just a scratch.”

Daphne’s pulse hammered, her chest tight as she clutched her coat with shaking hands, every nerve screaming to get away. But the knife held her rooted, each shallow breath pressing her skin closer to its edge. She tried to speak, to plead again, but her voice caught, barely a whisper escaping her lips.

Her attacker seemed to savor the moment, his grip on the knife tightening, his gaze a twisted, hungry gleam. Daphne’s breath caught, fear thickening her veins like ice as she watched the blade slice slowly through the fabric of her jeans, inching closer to her skin. His eyes locked on hers, waiting, feeding on her terror.

Daphne’s entire body tensed, feeling like a trapped animal, each breath ragged as she tried to cling to any sense of control. Her vision blurred as her attacker’s grin grew wider, his knife teasing against her jeans as if savoring her terror. She felt the cold steel bite gently against her thigh, its slow, deliberate path an excruciating promise of what was to come.

Her heart pounded in her chest, every instinct screaming that she was prey—helpless and cornered. The fear gripped her so tightly that it seeped into her bones, leaving her paralyzed under the weight of his gaze. She could do nothing but watch, every nerve in her body braced for the worst.

Then, in a breathless blur, everything shifted.

A force tore her attacker away, ripping him backward so violently that his knife slipped from his grasp, leaving a sharp, stinging line across Daphne’s thigh. She gasped, stumbling back and pressing her hand to the wound, feeling the warmth of her own blood under her fingers. Her mind reeled, struggling to comprehend what had just happened.

As she blinked through the haze of pain and shock, her focus sharpened on the man now sprawled across the ground, his body twisted in agony, his hands clawing desperately at the pavement. His eyes were wide, his pupils dilated with terror, darting around as though some unseen horror were stalking him from the shadows.

The once-cocky smirk had vanished, replaced by a raw, primal fear that left him almost unrecognizable.

Over him stood a tall, lean figure cloaked in shadows, his posture calm, almost detached. There must have been the source of the terror that filled the eyes of the man that tried to hurt her.

The stranger leaned down, his movements measured, each motion controlled with chilling precision. Without a word, he wrapped his hand around the man’s collar, pulling him up just enough to deliver a blow—a brutal, unrestrained punch that landed with a sickening crunch. Her attacker let out a strangled cry, his head snapping to the side, blood trickling from his mouth as he tried to shield himself.

But the stranger didn’t relent; he drove his knee into the man’s ribs, a crack echoing through the alley as her assailant’s breath came in short, panicked gasps.

“Do you like it?” the stranger murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, yet dripping with menace. “Being the one who’s afraid?”

The man’s eyes went wide, his face twisted with something Daphne had never seen before: pure, unfiltered terror. He clawed at the ground, his fingers bleeding as he tried to scramble back, only to be yanked forward again, forced to face the man now holding him in an iron grip. Daphne’s attacker let out a strangled whimper, his gaze darting around wildly, as if he were seeing horrors beyond her comprehension.

Daphne’s heart pounded as she watched her attacker’s panic mount, his breaths coming in rapid, shallow bursts, his entire body trembling violently. The stranger seemed almost unaffected, his expression impassive, as though this were a clinical exercise, a matter of routine. His hand lingered just above her attacker’s face for a brief moment, and Daphne noticed a faint wisp of mist—barely visible, there and gone so quickly she wondered if she’d imagined it.

The man choked out another strangled cry, his body convulsing as though seized by an invisible force, his mouth opening in a silent scream. Daphne’s stomach twisted as she watched him shrink back, cowering against the wall, his eyes darting wildly as if he were trapped in a nightmare he couldn’t escape.

The stranger finally released him, letting the man slump to the ground, his breaths shallow, his eyes glazed and unfocused. Daphne’s attacker seemed to shrink, curling up against the wall, his face pale and sweat-soaked, his once-menacing demeanor reduced to a terrified, trembling shell.

Then the stranger straightened, his attention shifting toward her, and Daphne felt her breath catch. His gaze was steady, unflinching, and his eyes held a dark, clinical curiosity that left her feeling as exposed as her attacker now looked.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice disturbingly calm, as if he hadn’t just reduced a man to a quivering mess.

Daphne could only nod, her throat tight, her mind struggling to process the scene before her. She wanted to look away from him, her instincts screaming that something wasn’t right, but she felt paralyzed under his gaze, as if he were studying her, dissecting her reaction with chilling precision.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his tone low and unyielding.

Daphne obeyed instinctively, her gaze lifting to meet his, and for a moment, she felt anchored by the cold steadiness in his eyes. There was something deeply unsettling about him.

But her gaze shifted, almost involuntarily, back to the man on the ground, her would-be attacker, now reduced to a whimpering, broken figure. The fear in his eyes was overwhelming, his face contorted as he stared blankly ahead, trembling uncontrollably. It was as if he were haunted by something that only he could see.

Then she felt it—a light, firm touch beneath her chin, tilting her face upward with unsettling gentleness. Her breath caught as she looked up, her wide eyes meeting the piercing gaze of the man who had just saved her. He had knelt down in front of her, his face close, his expression calm, almost clinical, as though he were studying her reaction with a detached curiosity.

“Look at me,” he commanded softly, his voice smooth and controlled, with an edge that made her shiver.

His fingers held her chin with a firm but not painful grip, guiding her gaze back to him, not allowing her to look away. She found herself caught in his stare, unable to break free, her heart hammering in her chest as his dark, unwavering eyes seemed to see straight through her.

There was something cold and calculated in his expression, but beneath it lay a flicker of something more—an unsettling fascination.

Her heart thundered in her chest as she looked up, finding herself captured by his unwavering, almost hypnotic gaze. The stranger’s fingers held her chin firmly, tilting her face so she couldn’t look away. His eyes, dark and unyielding, seemed to pierce through her, stripping away every defense she had.

There was a cold, detached quality to his expression, but underneath it, Daphne sensed a flicker of something more—an unsettling fascination, as though her fear intrigued him.

And then, like a bolt of icy recognition, it struck her.

Fragments of research came flooding back, the countless hours she’d spent pouring over articles and medical journals on fear, its psychology, its application. His face—she’d seen it before, in textbooks, in clinical journals, in articles dissecting the weaponization of fear itself.

Jonathan Crane.

[omi-papus]

Light The Lamp

Part: 1

Fandom: Subnautica

Pairing: Robin x Al-An

Ao3 link

Content: Age difference, ADHD x Autism, Ableist slur, Ice Hockey AU, Human Al-An AU, Drug use, Eventual smut

Summary: Rookie ice hockey player Robin Ayou stuns the league with a controversial but impressive debut, catching the eye of popular YouTuber Alan Silvester. Known for his hockey insights. After an awkward first encounter, he begs her to feature in one of his videos. And she after thinking shes found her new babygirl cant help but agree.

Word count: 12.5k

A/N: Hey guys. This is going to be very diferent from my usual writing style. Ive decided to drastically improve my formatting and actually got a beta reader if you can belive it. Hopefully this will be a step in the right direction for me. Enjoy!

This was going to drive him up a wall. His assistant had to be testing him because there was no other explanation as to why he would fail so spectacularly. He weighed the pen deliberately between his fingers, awful. A mere ballpoint pen, with weak half-carbon ink that could not write worth a damn under pressure, Robinson had brought it to him and had left far too quickly to be questioned as to why he brought him this garbage and where his Uni-ball Jetstream RT pen was. He had a box specifically for them, if the last one he was using had been damaged, and the refills were in a color-indicated container so that running out of the non smudging, waterproof oil based ink was never a problem. He vehemently refused to waste the precious paper of his Moleskine Pro notebook on this abomination and was forced to scramble around to find a stack of printer paper. The mere horror of having to write his notes on such a thing took up a whole two minutes, and his process of stapling enough pages together took him a whole other three, so his attention was only halfway with the commentators as they discussed the preamble for the game. He knew all of it anyway, but he would have much rather been properly focused on the TV standing tall in front of the desk he had set up.

Even when he had finally settled down, he was still irked senselessly by the memories that flooded his mind of his assistant telling him to take it easy on this game. That it wasn't a big deal, as the novelty of the Alterra Giants forming a twin female team had worn off. To be fair, it was Alan's first dive into the female hockey division. And the response from his audience to him covering women's hockey hadn't exactly been a fantastic incentive to continue. From a purely financial perspective, a stack of stapled paper and a barely functional pen would be what this game deserved. He would be better off getting his notes for his final coverage of the female division of the Alterra giants done quickly, making it a short section on the video, and preparing to talk about the Reapers’s new coach. Unfortunately for him, there was a problem. A big gaping hole in that sound line of logic.

The women's division of the Alterra Giants was one of the best teams he had ever seen.

Ryley suggested that it might simply be lackluster competition and the significantly higher funding that came with being associated with a famous male team, but Alan knew better. The way they played was impeccable. They were simultaneously ruthless and extremely synergized as a team. The team members' individual stats rivaled most men on the rink, and those team members were all from highly successful teams beforehand. By all means, the Alterra Giants were a phenomenon to keep track of. Alan easily found himself frustrated by the reaction on social media to his coverage of them. He had believed that he would have cultivated an audience that cared enough about the sport itself and how it was played, as opposed to a bunch of nitwits that used his channel as a vehicle to engage in endless drivel about the same seven teams and would throw a tantrum when he dared to look away. He had given up on discussing historical games because of the low engagement, and he did not want to give up on something he cared about again. He had quit his job as an official commentator to pursue this path with his own Youtube channel, to have the freedom to discuss what he wanted however he wanted. So he would stick to his choice of subject matter as stubbornly as he stuck to his choice of pen.

There were some other particular points of interest in this game. They were playing against the Trivalves, a much older team but one with very little fanfare. Mediocre win streak and only one title to their name in two thousand and ten. What was somewhat intriguing was that this would be the debut of three new players on the team. Olivia Lopez, Sarah Church, and Robin Ayou.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She had broken a tooth. It was nipping the side of her cheek in a way she was sure would leave a mark, but she had yet to taste blood. She had tuned out most of coach Maidas speech, she was sure she would get scolded for it. She kept quiet mostly, only offering vague vocalizations of acknowledgement to test out her ability to speak. It didn't hurt horribly. She ran her tongue over it carefully, confirming it was one of the left teeth on the side, hopefully not immediately obvious if she kept a low profile.

It had been a goal. That's all that mattered. She had humiliatingly fallen to the cold ice floor when she hit the puck from halfway across the rink and managed to score. She was sure as hell not going to get kicked out of the match now, three minutes into the game. The injury could be dealt with later; no one had to know about it. Her mouth guard still fit just fine and actually dulled the pain. She adjusted her helmet and gripped her stick tighter. Stepping out onto the rink, she could only wish she had done her hair a little tighter.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You are one hell of a stupid kid, ain't ya girl?” coach Marguerite Maida let out while pinching her nose bridge standing opposite to the young woman that sat on the locker room bench pressing an ice pack to the side of her face, the taste of blood finally making its appearance.

“I got us three goals. I won! Shouldn't we be celebrating right now? Ow! Ooooohhh…” Robin failed to protest. The coach ran her palm across her face before gesturing wildly, slouching her posture and bending her knees almost as if to get down to her level.

“That is the BARE minimum you can do! And the next time you won't have beginner's luck riding on your dick.”

“It was against the Alterra Giants! That can't be luck, I destroyed them!”

“And destroyed your goddamn mouth to boot!”

“Listen- ow ow ow ow… You told me to never be a pussy and get back up no matter what. And trust me coach, if I can get over you fucking my sister, I can move past anything.”

She expected a scowl but received a smirk, almost as if the coach suddenly got some malevolent idea.

“Oh yeaaaaah, what will Samantha think of you galavanting around, breaking teeth like they're candy?”

Robin's smile dropped. Her brows furrowing and her shoulders tensing up, she lowered the ice pack and glared at the woman in front of her.

“You wouldn't dare…”

"Oh, I would sweet cheeks. And I'll do it right now.”

She pulled out her phone, and Robin was ready to jump her and get it out of her hands if her life depended on it, but at that precise moment, the rest of the team burst into the locker room, cheering and chanting in celebration. Robin was quickly picked up by a larger teammate and paraded around like a trophy. She got too caught up being red in the face to realize the coach leaving the room.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Woman, you are in your twenties, she's not gonna hit you with a belt.”

Calvin looked over at his friend, who was fretting over her phone right next to him on the couch. They were supposed to be celebrating, beer and pizza abundant across the table, the TV gleaming in the mostly dark living room. He was shocked that she was glued to her phone even as the documentary narrator started talking about Ventgarden leviathans, her favorite leviathan that just yesterday she had yapped his ear off about a new documentary that had come out where they actually got footage inside it, and now that they were watching it, all she could do was wait for a scolding like she was a little kid.

“What would you fucking do if your mom called wanting you dead?!” she yelled hysterically, gripping her phone so hard she might break it.

"Robin, you have a mom, you don't have to be more afraid of your sister than you are of her.”

She pouted at him and proceeded to aggressively finish another slice of pizza. It was her cheat day after all. If Maida knew about this, she would surely finally just up and kill her.

"Well, you should be asking Sam why she's dating a woman old enough to be her mom.”

“Weren't you thirsting about that old guy in the commercial last week? I'd say it runs in the family.”

“He was hot! Shut up! And also even then she didn't have to date my fucking coach.”

“I'm at least seventy percent sure that she only let you into the team because of Sam.”

“I win three to two against the Alterra giants, and this is how all of you thank me?!” She crossed her arms and sank further into the couch.

She had every intention to stay like that the rest of the night, but her eyes focused on the TV. She leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. The diver was at the bottom of a heat vent overlooking an adult Ventgarden, its maw beneath the tentacles fluttered open and the diver with the camera strapped got closer. Robin held her breath as she watched it, expecting a cut, but she couldn't help but have her eyes wide open and her mouth agape as they moved inside when its mouth opened. The diver spun around, showing a full three sixty view of the mesmerizing inside of the creature; large tree-like protrusions decorate the inside, alive with a multitude of plants and minerals. The large cone shaped structure at the top of its translucent bell shone like a divine chandelier. It took her a couple of seconds to remember to inhale.

“You know they base a type of underwater greenhouse on this leviathan?”

“Yes Robin, you've told me this six times.”

"Yeah yeah, fuck you too.”

They sat in silence, finally enjoying the documentary. Mostly Robin did, Cal opted to fiddle with his phone and briefly chuckled at a text he received.

“Yo, actually. Turns out Ryley works for a guy that has a hockey channel on youtube.”

Robin looked over at him, unimpressed and mostly annoyed that she had to divert her attention from the documentary to respond.

“You waited until now to find out what your new boyfriend does for a living?”

Cal turned slightly red at the accusation, scratching the back of his neck.

“Shut up you nearly got engaged to a girl you knew for a week.”

“THAT WAS A JOKE!”

“Sure, anyway, Ryley's boss is apparently insane and he's telling me he just went ballistic on him for bringing him the wrong pen.”

“Well what the hell do you expect from a man with a youtube channel.”

“True, but check it, it's Alan Silvester.”

Her expression barely changed.

“Don't play the name game with me.” she deadpanned.

“The commentator??!” Whether he sounded incredulous or offended, she couldn't tell.

“NHL?”

“Yeah!”

“Haven't kept up with it, sorry.”

“You are the only person who doesn't watch the NHL.”

“I do! Ive just been busy, you know, playing my own fucking league!”

“He was a commentator four years ago!”

Robin returned to looking at the screen, they were now talking about Snow stalkers, which was much more interesting to her.

“Who cares? He sounds like an asshole.”

"Yeah, you'd know.”

“Piss off.”

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He stayed late. It nearly felt like it was going to boil him alive but his routine took a back seat today. He needed to do this now. He stayed late in his office, the game long over, and the arena now silent. The harsh glow of his computer screen and the soft hum of the heater kept him awake. He had his computer and his two notebooks and finally his preferred pen all lined up as he paused and unpaused the tv. This was his third rewatch of the game. He watched it re-reading the notes he took initially, then again finally taking new notes with the right notebook and pen, and finally, what he had originally planned on doing tomorrow, go through the game bit by bit, pausing and rewinding while writing down on his Midori MD notebook. After that, he would use all he had written down to begin writing the script for the video.

He paused the screen on a frame of her face.

She was injured. Seemingly nobody else could tell. He hadn't seen a goal like that in months, somehow flying past the other team's perfect coordination. It was almost as if it were mathematically calculated on the fly. Only to then proceed to fall flat on her face. It was undeniable that she carried the game, but her apparent inability to do so without nearly breaking her jaw was fascinating. He couldn't help but chuckle at himself as he watched her smash into the boarder of the rink for the second time. Clumsy wasn't quite the word to describe her. It would have been much simpler if he could pin her down in any way. Her playstyle was erratic, she played well enough with her team, but there were times where it appeared as though the world around her disappeared and she was locked in to the goal. She simultaneously had incredible and terrible spatial awareness, and the crazy thing is that it all somehow brought her to victory against one of the most ruthless teams he had ever seen. To say she had potential felt like both an understatement and also blatantly wrong. She was more akin to throwing a bull in a flock of sheep and seeing what happened. The entire time, he couldn't help a certain giddiness from filling him. He wasn't going to be covering anything other than the PHF for the time being. Audience engagement be damned. This was too damn fun.

His determined scribbling was interrupted when he felt a buzz in his right pocket. He stiffly put the pen and notebook down as his back straightened subconsciously. Suddenly the glow of the television in the otherwise dark room felt like something he had to fix, his jacket something to take off indoors, his shades neatly contained in their case in his left drawer something to be ashamed of, and the hour he was out of the house at a death sentence. His chosen ringtone, the only one that didn't drive him insane, made him feel cumbrous. Alan hesitated for only a second before pulling out the phone and staring at the screen. He already knew who it was. Nobody else ever called him. He paused the game. Both sounds at once were searing to his senses. Of course. This was inevitable. He had sworn to himself that he would call at the right time from his office and save himself the trouble. This was just his unavoidable punishment for breaking his perfectly calculated routine, because the damage it did to his nerves wasn't suffering enough.

The phone was still ringing. He took a deep breath and placed it down on the table and answered, immediately putting it on speaker.

“Mothe-“

“Why didn't you call me?”

“I-“

“You scared me beyond belief! Where are you?”

“At home.”

He definitely felt his eye twitch as he said that but he would live.

“Who are you with? You should have called me, Alan, who is at your house right now?”

"Mother, no one. I am here alone.”

“You would have called me if you were alone at home, or are you out there somewhere? Why don't you call me when we agreed to?”

“I simply got caught up in… work, in work I have to do around the house. I was going to call you. It is only ten minutes late.”

“Hah! Tell me what of all the times you've yelled and cried and threw a fit when I was late to something then?! When I started lessons five minutes late Alan?! Are you going to pay me back for that?!”

“I have apologized multiple times for that mother. Please.”

“Oh! But then what about when the doctor took all of ten seconds to arrive and you threw a fit?!”

“I was five.”

“Don't get smart with me, I am still your mother. Now where are you and who are you with?!”

He thought about it. About the semantics of putting up a lie. Of how much it would take to convince her. Concluding that he could not fool her as she would eventually demand he share his location on his phone. He threw in the towel.

“Fine! I stayed late at the office working. I'm sorry. I won't let work interfere with our call agai-“

“Don't call it work! You had a job four years ago, and when you finally make something out of this obsession of yours you throw it away because, baby can't have everything exactly how he likes it!”

Her high pitched mocking tone made him grip the edge of the table.

“Mother, I have paid your electricity bill, water bill and phone bill for the month and I've been affording my medications just fine. You can't deny the fact that I make a living honestly.”

“I have done nothing but support you your entire life, the doctors told me you might never so much as be independent. I never gave up on you and even when you could have been a doctor you chose to throw our lives away because you could never let go of this game.”

He sighed, leaning back on his chair. He was too worked up by the game, that's why this felt more irritating than normal. Breathing out, he took the phone and turned off the speaker mode, putting it to his ear.

“What can I do to make this up for you?”

His voice was calm. Gentle. A practiced measure of breath that flowed just right in his voice to sound like what he had learned was supposed to be the sound of sincerity.

“Well you can get a real job first of all. But for this we can have lunch tomorrow. I haven't seen you in a while. I miss you Alan. You barely ever talk to me anymore.”

He pointedly ignores the urge to correct that he calls her every day at eight pm sharp. And that she visited his apartment unprompted last week.

“I miss you too.”

Gentle. He could not risk a hint of anything hard making its way onto his voice.

“I'll have something prepared for you tomorrow.”

“Ugh. Sweetie, I am not eating meat with peas again. We're going to a restaurant. It really is time you eat like an adult sometimes.”

He wanted to ask what exactly she meant by that but knew that doing so would only bring trouble.

“Alright sure. There are three places I like so-“

“I said like an adult. I'll pick the restaurant. There is this one near the house that I've been meaning to try.”

“What's it called?

He was already opening up a new tab on his computer to look up this restaurant, wanting to have a good look at the menu beforehand.

“I'll tell you where it is, when you come pick me up.”

“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath before he could stop himself and immediately regretted it.

“What was that? Are you mumbling to yourself? What did you say? Are you giving me lip right after I give you a chance for me to forgive you?!

He felt himself deflate as he listened to the ranting on the other line. Dammit. While he listened he turned off the tv and began to pack his things to go home. He wouldn't be getting any more work done now.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She bonked her head against the wall. Leaning against it with all the weight of her misery. She had forgotten, she always did, and yet it felt worse every time. Robin groaned. No wonder her hair felt wrong. She had left her cornrows for an entire week too long. Sam having been the only one to have made note of it. Perhaps it had been her own dread that had led her to subconsciously procrastinate the hair appointment; those were the bane of her existence. She should just do what Sam did and cut it all as short as possible, but she knows she would cry at the mirror if she did that.

She removed her face from the wall. It was embarrassing to be moping like this out in the open. She wished they would have at least let her wait inside the hair salon, but she couldn't complain given that the stylist still chose to do her hair after she arrived twenty minutes late and let the next person take her spot, this was more of a time out than anything.

It didn't help that it was an absolutely miserable day. It wasn't raining but it could at any minute, the gray clouds overhead making their presence known citywide. It was just cold enough to be uncomfortable, and she had naturally overestimated her tolerance and had brought only a thin jacket. She leaned against the wall and crossed her arms, phone too low on battery for her to mindlessly scroll her time away.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------—

He was not faring much better, fighting for his life to not cave and order something from the children's menu out of pure desperation. The menu was an amalgamation of salads and pasta, and every time he found something that seemed fine, some ingredient showed up that made him shiver at the mere thought of it on his tongue. He measured how long he stared at each page after he read it, knowing that going through them too quickly or too slowly would earn him a comment from the woman sitting across from him. Who at the moment was rambling about her hair.

“It is only natural that hair begins to turn white mother, you shouldn't be this worried about it.”

“I know, but I don't want to look like an old lady, Alan. There is nothing more loathsome than white hairs on a woman.”

“And what about a man?”

“You know what I mean!”

He did not.

“I have white hair.” he uttered flatly. Her face did not change in the slightest at his words, but she did turn to look at him.

“You know I don't mean you baby. You are very handsome for having your condition.”

He only held in a breath and took the compliment as it was. Alan had never truly understood where he fell in the spectrum of physical appeal. Years ago, his coworkers had relentlessly mocked him when he revealed that the only reference he had at the time for his own appearance was his mother's opinion. And after, during his very short lived relationship, his girlfriend had only ever called him “unique” or "interesting." He eventually concluded that he was most likely unattractive, as he had observed that those who were societally considered the most appealing lacked any sort of condition or physical defect. A state of being incompatible with his albinism.

Thankfully, today the weather was easy on him. It was dark enough outside that he could comfortably leave his shades in their case, saving himself a lecture from his mother about wearing them indoors. The restaurant they were in was only being lit by the large windows that took up the wall, leaving their table in relative darkness at the corner of the space.

His mother kept on talking about the hair salon that was on the other side of the street and how nice the hairdressers were until he finally decided to look over.

He did not recall standing up.

His mother was already frantic, asking him what was wrong and telling him to sit back down, his eyes were glued to the other side of the street, at the wall that was barely there before it turned into a corner, and the woman leaning against it. On their own accord, his legs began to move. He only managed to barely stop himself to let out a breathy, “I'll be back.”

Before he was rushing out of the restaurant, fumbling with his cap and sunglasses, barely putting them on before stumbling outside. Alan damn near forgot to look for a crosswalk and was almost about to beeline it across the street. The fact that the woman had already caught him staring right at her and looked back only delighted him further. It took him much longer than he would have liked to cross the street properly and jog his way up to her.

“You're Robin Ayou!”

He basically cornered her against the wall with his massive stature, quite a feat given that Robin was quite tall herself.

“Oh my goodness I saw your debut yesterday, I must say it was fascinating! I need to know what your thought process was during that first goal and how you measure your passes, because I've only ever seen a few players do anything like it. It is only a first impression for the PHF but I briefly looked at some of your games in the NCAA and I noticed that you have been-“

“Wow wow! Ok pretty boy slow down!”

“I-... What?”

The rambling was abruptly cut off, as his shoulders fell along with any sign of life he exhibited. It seemed that he nearly stopped breathing for a second. As for Robin. She stood there, mouth open and eyes wide.

“That… was supposed to be an inside observation.”

She freaked out when his face got redder than she'd ever seen on anyone before, almost making her ask if he was ok and if she needed to call an ambulance. But she guessed it was inevitable, because this guy was fucking pale. The very little skin she could see was nearly flat white with a fleshy pink undertone. Now that she thought of it, she doesn't know why she ever thought he was pretty if she could barely see him under his sunglasses and the Florida Stalkers cap.

“Listen, I'm not the weirdo in this situation!” She flusteredly pointed at him, and his dumbfounded expression quickly made its way into one of epiphany.

“Oh. I did not introduce myself.” He deflated as he spoke, stiffening his shoulder and lowering his head to look at the floor. “My name is Alan Silvester.”

She could have sworn she'd heard that name before but could not for the life of her remember where.

“Alright… you clearly know who I am. Big hockey fan? Must be if you've got me pinned after being in the PHF for a day.”

There was something. An ever so subtle tug at the corner of his lips that Robin wouldn't have noticed if she wasn't looking so intently.

“Absolutely,” he said somewhat breathlessly. Robin couldn't help but smirk coyly.

“So what, you want an autograph or something?” She was only half joking.

“Oh, no. I actually work as an independent ice hockey analyst and it would be incredible if I could get your direct input for my content.”

It took her a minute trying to figure out what “independent analyst” meant. She could only guess he was some kind of reporter.

“What like an interview?”

Alan lit up just a little.

“That is a good way to format it. I've never had the opportunity to interview a player before! If you could be in the video, that would be incredib-“

“ALAN!”

He was abruptly cut off by the voice of a woman screeching from further down the street. His panic returned stronger than ever and he turned to Robin, frantically pulling out a receipt from his pocket and writing down a couple of things on the back of it.

“This is my channel and my assistant's phone number.” He barely got her to take it from his hands before he was yanked by the arm, a shiver violently rushing through his body leaving him grimacing and struggling against the older woman that had come up to grab him.

“I am so sorry! He didn't mean to scare you. He won't bother you again I promise!”

They were already halfway across the street when he yelled, “Call my assistant if you're willing to do an interview, please!”

“Shut UP Alan!”

The two began arguing until they both returned to the inside of the restaurant they came from and Robin was left staring at her own reflection. She nearly dropped the paper in her astonishment. She looked down at it and saw a number and the name of the man that had just accosted her. The woman could not think of what to even do with herself at that moment, so with the only brain cell she had left, she took out her phone and called Cal.

“I am not getting you coffee. Do that yourself,” was the first sentence she was greeted with when he answered the call.

“Cal, some guy just recognized me in the middle of the street and begged me to do an interview with him.”

“Oh shit after only one game? Who the hell was it?”

“He said his name was Alan… uuuuuh Silvester?”

The pause that ensued was unbearably long, so much so that she had to wonder if her signal had gone bad.

“Robin what the fuck?”

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It took all of one afternoon for Robin to lose the receipt with the phone number. She had intended to keep it, and she swore up and down she had put it in her pocket, but that was not good enough, and when she looked through the pockets of her entire wardrobe trying to find it, and was unsuccessful. It left her horribly distracted during practice, along with the feeling of her newly fucked tooth which she would keep accidentally poaking her tongue against. Fortunately, if Robin had only one thing, it would be exceptional luck. It was five pm by the time she stepped out of the arena, barely tired from the day's training. Normally she would take this time to go on a complimentary run, but she had to meet someone.

The bus takes light years to get there. Her motorcycle was still at the repair shop, and she had already spent enough on ubers for one day by taking one to the arena that very morning. She goes through the gates of the apartment building, and gets on the elevator. Her and Cal had keys to each other's houses. It was often very convenient, as it allowed them to get stuff at any time.

Robin obliviously opened the door and was greeted with a sight she had never hoped to see.

It was Cal and who she could only assume was his brand new boyfriend of two weeks, up against a wall, one shirtless, making out in the middle of the living room.

“Oooh! Ew! What the shit?!”

She yelled in disgust. They stopped what they were doing, and Cal turned around hysterically.

“Robin! Get out!”

“You are disgusting! You literally invited me over, and this is what you're doing?!”

They yell back and forth, and the other man awkwardly finds his shirt not too far away on the couch and puts it on again. He stands there for about ten minutes until the other two have argued for long enough that they fell bitterly silent. He eventually builds up the courage to speak.

“You're… the hockey player, right?”

“And youre the guy whose fucking my friend I see,” she responded sharply, making Cal step in between them with the intention of defending the other man's honor.

“Don't be mean to him, it's not his fault.”

She laughed almost bitterly. “I can only guess whatever editorial you work for only hires people with no social awareness.”

Ryley slid his hand across his face, almost painfully so, before taking a step towards her. "Ok, bitch, I WISH it was a fucking editorial, I work for a youtuber.”

“Oh, my god, I would actually kill myself,” she said quickly, though her voice did not have a hint of sympathy. Cal once again interjected.

“Robin, your entire electricity bill is basically just youtube.”

“Yeah, and it's stupid. I thought you knew that.”

“Ugh, I wish my boss knew that. He is genuinely convinced he is a legit analyst. He takes it all super seriously,” Ryley huffed, hunching his back over in exhaustion at the mere mention of his work.

“I mean, sure he might… have a screw or two loose, but it just looks like he really cares.” Robin definitely didn't think the man seemed normal in any way, but she didn't detect anything malicious or really unforgivable about him.

“Oh he cares. He cares a lot. About every little thing. He only uses one specific brand and type of pen, and then writes his short notes in this one type of notebook and then writes his other notes in a different kind of notebook and he goes actual batshit if you don't bring him that. Like a third of the budget is only his supplies.”

“Oh yeah, that sounds insufferable,” she had to concede.

Ryley stepped forward, standing now in front of Robin. “Take it from me. Don't do it. He interviewed me when I applied for the job, and I've never been that uncomfortable in my life.”

Robin sighed and put her bag down on the floor by the door. She slumped over to the fridge, not bothering to ask for permission, and looked through it. Cal and her had completely opposite diets, meaning his fridge was always stocked with tasty food and drinks that a professional athlete should definitely not be consuming. Robin liked to make the excuse that because it wasn't her place or her money spent on the junk food then it didn't count. She took out a beer and made her way to look for a bottle opener.

“I mean sure this isn't as cool as being interviewed by like Sol Sports or whatever, but when am I going to get a chance to do this again?”

“You'll definitely be on youtube often if you keep falling over like that,” Cal chuckled. She did not find it funny and had no qualms about playing dirty.

“Shut your mouth or Imma tell him the thing.” She pointed at Ryley with her thumb.

Cal suddenly tensed up and whispered sharply: “You fucking wouldn't!”

“What thing?” Ryley asked, suddenly feeling stupid for not understanding whatever insider knowledge was being discussed. Robin only raised an eyebrow.

“Nothing! There is no thing to be talking about!” Cal hissed adamantly, and that was that. She finally got the beer open and chugged down. There was a hot minute of silence while she finished half the bottle.

“Listen“ -she burped. “How many subscribers does he have?”

“Gross. Last time I checked, about eight point fifty k.” Ryley quickly recounted.

“That's not that big.”

“It's been tanking quite a bit recently. He gets way more traction on his twitter.”

He approached to show her his phone and Robin took the opportunity to look up both the channel and the twitter account.

“Well now he's got eight k and one.” She tapped the subscribe button on the screen and soon after pressed follow on twitter.

“You're really doing this?” Cal wasn't surprised. Robin had always been somewhat of a diva, it didn't make him any less uneasy about the prospect.

“Fuck it. Why not? I get to look cool and professional, and he gets something to talk about. He's basically my number one fan. Come on.”

“He'd harass any player. You're not special,” Ryley dryly interjected, making Robin almost spike up like a cat in defensiveness.

“You don't know that!”

“Will your coach approve this?” Cal reminded her of her position in the metaphorical race. She winced at the mention of that woman.

“She's not the boss of me. I can do whatever I want.”

“Robin, she is quite literally the boss of you.”

“It'll be fine!” She looked over at Ryley with a smile. “Tell him I said yes. And that he's going to need to remind me cause I'm definitely going to forget.”

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His videos made their way onto her feed a few times now, but she kept putting them on “Watch later," telling herself she'd get around to watching them eventually. Some of them were hours long, how was she supposed to sit through that? She still had a while until her next game, so she fell into the lul of training, running, coming home, making impulse purchases online, and sleeping.

She had given Ryley her phone number and he then gave it to Alan. He had a… unique way of texting, sending absurdly long, multi paragraph messages that Robin could only skim through. What she had managed to keep up with was his twitter. He was really active. Talking with everyone who commented about the latest game, player, or strategy and would get into heated arguments with anyone who disagreed with him. Though he never seemed to do what you'd normally do on twitter and just insult them and have that be it. No, he would genuinely structure arguments, cite sources, and go on multi tweet rants, reaching the daily tweet limit constantly. She tried to find a picture of him or food or a tweet about the weather but every single thing he posted was dedicated to hockey through and through. It only took Robin a few minutes of scrolling to find a very common response;

“Bro is acoustic.”

Usually along with some meme. It triggered something sour in her mouth. She almost responded many times that it was wrong to assume things like that of people. That it wasn't some joke. But she knew she'd only look like a killjoy and might get some flack for it if she did. She thought, sure, he cared about this game a lot, it didn't mean there was anything…. wrong, with him. She could only think of how she would feel if people talked like that about her. If they joked about her being… deficient. She would distract herself quickly with internet brainrot before she got too caught up in that thought, lest she start drowning in memories of middle school again.

What mattered is she had a date, well it was technically a business meeting but she used that word to mess with her mom when she had to turn her down for dinner that day. Alan had scheduled it at a rather cheap restaurant, which she was happy about. She fucked up and showed up a whole thirty minutes early just to prevent being late, so she was walking in circles around the block, looking through her friends instagram stories as she went. Quickly going past one of Sam going out with her coach, ugh. She was on her ninth lap when she spotted an uproariously tall man with a jacket, sun shades, and a cap, this time with a Reapers logo on it. She only knew it was him by intuition before she waved at him as he walked over.

They only exchanged minor pleasantries before they made their way inside. By the time they had taken their seat at the table they were already approached by a waiter who clearly recognized him. He said that he would like some before ordering this time and the waiter left them alone. Robin could only smile amusedly.

“Come here often?”

He jumped a little, as if he wasn't expecting her to speak.

“Once a week. I am sorry. I chose this place because it is one I'm familiar with. I don't do well eating in new places. I know this is no place to bring a pretty lady.”

Robin briefly choked on her water, her expression hiding nothing. His deadpan face only made the ordeal stranger.

“What? I thought it was fair after “pretty boy."“

“I… thought you would forget that.”

“Miss Ayou, come on. I am autistic, not stupid.

The atmosphere dropped immediately. Her flustered expression quickly changed into one of deep discomfort. It took her a minute to figure out what to say next.

“Don't... don't say that about yourself.”

“It's true. Most people who are familiar with me have already figured it out. What's that stupid word they use on the internet for it now? Acoustic? I have no idea what the joke is supposed to be.”

Despite everything, he appeared as relaxed as ever. It only made her tense up more.

“It's not funny.”

“No, it is not. But when is X ever truly funny?”

“There is nothing wrong with you.”

She insisted, leaning towards him. His relaxed expression fell away, replaced with guarded confusion as he finally took his shades off. His pale eyes looked at her with hesitant intensity.

“I never said there was anything wrong with me.”

Robin was slightly taken aback, some words she didn't know stuck in her throat. They stayed like that for what seemed like an eternity.

“I have made you uncomfortable.”

His sorry tone got the blood pumping back in her veins.

“No no no! You didn't! Ah, I'm just stupid, don't mind me. Heh…”

“You're not stupid.”

She smirked in a way that was weirdly tense but frighteningly natural for her. “Oh you don't know me. I'm a mess!”

She detected a hint of that smile again. At that moment he put away his sunglasses and took his cap off. Robin was a little shocked when seeing him. White down to his eyelashes. She was only mildly disturbed out of unfamiliarity and concern but at no point did she think the title of “pretty boy” was any less accurate.

“Well, messy maybe. I can't quite deny that after seeing you trip over yourself the way you did in that game.”

She sunk back in shame, covering her face with her hands. “Ugh! Don't remind me.”

“Are you alright by the way? You clearly hurt yourself.”

She looked at him in horror. “You could tell?”

“Apparently only me. I am sorry, the staff at your game didn't do a very good job at taking care of you.”

“They're not there to take care of us.”

“Yes they are. And so should you.”

She sighed. Just when she thought she'd met someone who wouldn't lecture her. “Ok, you're right.”

“You didn't answer me.”

“Answer what?”

“Are you alright?”

“Oh yes! I'm fine now, don't worry. Also…” She turned meek, playing with a coil of her hair now only in a ponytail.

“Hm?”

“Maybe, don't mention that in the video?”

“I can't make any promises. I aim for accuracy and transparency. Actually that is why I wanted to meet with you. I have written down the interview questions and wanted to give them to you before the day of recording,” he said, pulling out a piece of paper and handing it to her. She looked at it briefly, only noting the first three questions before folding it up and putting it in her pocket.

“Wouldn't you want to ask me those, you know, on the interview?”

“I am not very well versed at interviewing people. So I decided to give you a heads up. I want you to go through them carefully and come up with the best, most detailed responses possible. And I wanted to discuss them all with you in case you took issue with any of them.”

She stared a bit dumbfounded before chuckling. “Well you sure are prepared.”

He straightened his jacket. “I am.”

She liked that.

“Sure, we'll talk about them in a minute. My friend told me that you used to be a commentator?”

“Oh yeah. Four years ago.”

Robin did some quick math and took a good look at his face.

“How old are you?”

“Thirty years old.”

“Oh shit!” she let out without meaning to. Her face went hot at the information, suddenly making her feel a little shy in front of him.

“Is something wrong?”

“No! Nothing! That's great!”

“Really? That's a… pretty neutral piece of information.”

She laughed nervously. Fuck, she really was no better than her sister. “You just don't… look thirty.”

He suddenly snorted. Flushing red like crazy himself. She almost got scared again.

“I don't go out in the sun very often, so that might be it?”

“Oh yeah, I didn't want to say anything about it, but you're the single whitest person I've ever seen.”

“Albino. I mean, I am ethnically considered white as well. But my appearance is mostly the result of being an albino.”

“Oh like a Biter.”

Whatever smile there was dropped and he looked at her bewildered. It took Robin a second to realize that was a weird as fuck thing to say and she hurried to explain herself. “I- I mean… Agh! Sorry, I just thought of albino Biter fish and, oh nevermind, forget it, I'm sorry.”

“I didn't know fish could have albinism.”He couldn't help staring when her face lit up in delight. She excitedly pulled out her phone and began typing.

“Oh it's super cool! Look!”She pushed the phone to his face. It showed an image of a small, yellowish wrinkly animal with disturbing white eyes, two on each side.

“That is one strange looking…thing.”

“Well it's technically called a Blighter not a Biter. They’re slower than Biters and often get rejected from packs so they hunt alone.”

“They're really odd looking.”

“Oh you haven't seen shit. Wait a second.” She typed something again and happily pulled up the image.

“Oh, what the fuck is that?”

The image showed a massive creature, with four huge eyes, attached to a bulbous body stuck inside some sort of translucent jell sack, lord knows how many spindly legs and thousand yard stare.

“That's a crab squid! They're super hard to study because they can produce electromagnetic waves that temporarily shut down submarines.”

“Well I certainly wouldn't want to find that while swimming in the ocean.”

“Oh they can be aggressive. Lowkey filled with hatred. But I would give anything to dive with one of these.”

“Do you just like getting hurt?”

“I would be careful! I wouldn't want to scare it!”

“Well I'm a little scared of you right now.”

“Well how do you think I felt when you ran at me out of nowhere in the street after gawking at me like a lunatic?”

He tapped his fingers on the table. “Alright that is fair.”

She laughed and they finally ordered: he just said “the usual”. Meanwhile she had visions of coach Maida yelling at her about nutrition and ordered a salad. It had chicken at least. She suggested they share the cheapest wine bottle on the menu but he said he had to drive, and she couldn't convince him. After a few seconds of silence and eating, Robin proposed something.

“You know? I'm gonna try to get you tickets to my next game, get you the best look at the action.”

“Oh no, do not bother, I don't go to games.”

“What?! But you have to!”

“I don't like it.”

“Why the hell not?!”

“It's too loud, there are too many people, it's too bright and a myriad of other things. I tried it once when I was a kid and had a meltdown.”

He didn't catch on to how sad for him she felt in that moment.

“Im so sorry…”

“Don't be. If anything you should be sorry for my poor mother who worked extremely hard to obtain tickets and had to deal with me and leave early because I couldn't handle it.” He looked oddly neutral while he recounted the story. Not sad, but not warm either. His eyes looked dead as he stared down at his food. An omelette. It was awkward between them for a moment, before Robin took a long sip of her drink.

“So you've liked hockey since you were little?”

A certain liveliness came to his face. Not an expression, his features (as they had for most of the night) remained generally unmoving. It was something else. An unimaginably subtle opening of his eyelids and a straightening of his eyebrows.

“Yes, since I was nine.”

“How'd it start?”

"Well, it was one of the only sports I could play.”

“You played?!” She leaned back, entertained by the prospect.

“Only until I was eleven. The equipment got far too expensive. I don't miss it all that much to be honest.”

“Oh that sucks. But why could you only play that?”

“My school did a lot of extracurricular activities, that included multiple sports, but most of them were outdoors. I could not be outside the way the other kids could, so I played inside.”

“And you just got hooked on it.”

“I took it significantly more seriously than anyone on my team did. I always tried to strategize and play based on research, but unfortunately that is not a substitute for raw athleticism.”

“But you're huge! Like what? Two meters?”

“Two meters and ten centimeters, to be exact.”

“God, how do you even find pants?”

“It is, in fact, a nightmare, not to mention the right texture as well. But anyway, it is highly debated how much size matters in ice hockey, obviously it is an advantage, especially in defensive situations but there is more to the subject. There is a very interesting video about it, I'll send it to you. And also, I was actually very short when I was younger. The shortest one on my team.”

“Oh like a Gargantuan leviathan baby.”

“Are you always going to compare me to animals?”

“Hey, I'd take it as a compliment. Did you know adult Gargantuans are the biggest animals to have ever existed that we know about?”

“I don't know much about zoology, but surely there were prehistoric species that were larger.”

“Nope! The biggest animal they've found since was the Sea emperor. That one was only two hundred meters long. Unfortunately, that one just went extinct recently…”

He didn't know what to do when she suddenly looked genuinely sad. He resorted to changing the subject.

"Well, the tallest recorded player in the NHL was Zdeno Chára.”

“Who is that? I thought it was John Scott.”

He gripped his fork a little tighter.

“I am always shocked by how little players actually know about their own history.”

He was lucky she thought his grumpy attitude was cute.

“Sure, boss. How many players have you met?”

“I used to meet them a lot more when I was a commentator. I've met Danby Fidle, Jochi Khasar and David Hollister.”

“That sounds amazing. Why did you stop?”

He answered immediately, with a blistering honesty she almost felt assaulted by. His nearly imperceptible smile as if he were saying the most obvious thing in the world brought up a certain feeling in her chest. “Because like this I get to talk about things I truly find interesting. Like you.”

They never did get around to talking about those interview questions. She only said she would read them later.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A knock sounded at the door at the apartment. Six pm on a Friday.

“You better not be fucking in there or I'm gonna kill you.” Robin's voice was muffled by the door. The two men on the couch scrolling on their phones cringed at the comment.

“Alright. I'm coming in. One, two, three!” She opened the door and walked inside. When she saw the unimpressive scene before her, she was quick to throw her bag aside and stomp over to where they were. She stood tall by the couch in front of Ryley. He didn't look up at her until Cal nudged him.

“What?”

“What is wrong with you?!”

He squinted at her, expecting her to elaborate, which only made her more angry.

“Why would you talk about him like that?”

“How did you find that? Listen, I said what I said. Milei is a leech on the country, I don't care how progressive he is, the chainsaw shit was pathetic.”

“Ah- What? No! You idiot! I'm talking about Alan!”

“Oh, my god. Don't tell me youre on his side.”

Calvin gave a tired expression and sighed. “Please don't start fighting.”

To no avail.

“He's a sweetheart!”

“He's neurotic!”

“And so what?! He likes stuff a certain way. What's wrong with that?!”

“You don't know him like I do!”

“Oh really? What's his favorite color?”

“Oh my god, I hate you both.” Cal would have put on headphones if he could, but he contented himself with going back to looking through emails on his phone.

“Why the fuck would I know that?!”

“Well it's green, so checkmate!” She walked away, over to the counter where she saw the hair ties she had left last time she was there.

“That is not a checkmate!” Ryley burst out, looking at Cal for support, but he refused to look away from his phone. Making it clear that he was tuning them both out.

“He's so nice and patient. I said a ton of stupid stuff when I was out with him and he didn't get mad once.”

“Well just you wait until he complains about the smell of your deodorant and makes you change it.”

“Well if he asked me to, I just might!”

“Listen whatever! He said he would give you the interview questions. Do you have them?”

“Yeah! Right he-“ She reached into her pocket. Then stopped. She looked again. Deeper this time. Then at the other pocket. Then at her left pant pocket, then the right one. After a second she went over to her bag.

“I have them.”

Ryleys jaw dropped. “No… YOU LOST THEM?!”

“No no I didn't, just give me a SECOND!”

Cal finally zoned back in and stared at her with knowing concern. Ryley was already sweating.

“He's gonna kill us…” Ryley murmured almost inaudibly. Robin winced and grunted, kicking her bag and standing up to pace around the room. “God fucking dammit. I had them…”

She stopped dead in her tracks and massaged her temples. “Ok. Ok ok ok ok ok. Cool. Cool cool cool cool cool. It's fine. It's fine! This is an interview. It's about me! I know me! He'll ask me about how I started playing and what my training routine is, stuff like that.”

“He won't! That's what a normal person would ask!”

She fumed. “Hey! He is perfectly normal!”

“Yeah! So is the current state of Buenos Aires!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?!”

“You know what? This is not my fault. He said he wanted to give them to you himself. This is beyond my job description.” he said as he took deep breaths. Robin on the other hand was chewing her nails, going back to pacing. Cal let out a deep sigh and finally spoke.

“Just ask him for the questions again. You have his number.”

“What?! No! I don't want him to think I'm an idiot! Or that I don't care!”

Ryley was annoyingly quick to add; “Well if he's so nice and patient, then surely he won't.” The sarcasm in his voice made her blood boil. She couldn't decide if she wanted to kill herself or him. She looked over at Cal. “Why are you dating him again?”

“Why do you care so much about what some youtuber thinks?”

She pouted and he just raised an eyebrow at her. The stare off lasted for a few seconds before she gave up.

“You know what? It will be fine. I'm good at talking. I've always been best when I improvise. Having all the questions laid out would have probably only made me overthink it.”

“Sure. This is your problem. I'm going to the bathroom.” Ryley left the living room and Cal finally stood up and walked over to Robin. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Robin, just ask him. I know it might suck but you'll regret it if you don't.”

“Hey hey don't worry. I can handle an interview.”

“Why are you so scared of him judging you?”

“I…” She realized at that moment that she didn't have an answer. She bit her lip for a moment, before getting a determined twinkle in her eye.

“I'm done looking stupid in front of people.”

“Who cares what they think?”

She took him by the shoulders, leaning down to his level and shaking him slightly. “You wouldn't get it because no one thinks you're an idiot. You remember how it was in school. I'd ask a teacher to repeat what they said and they'd yell at me. The coach thinks the same.”

Her face tightened, and she took a shaky breath. “This guy respects me. For once someone doesn't see me as a complete disaster. And I don't want to ruin that.”

He looked her in the eye and squeezed her shoulder. “I respect you.”

There was a sour look in Robin's eyes. Almost making the man think she might doubt his words. He wanted to reassure her, but she interrupted too quickly for him to do so:. “Ugh I know. But you know me too well.”

She smiled dolefully. It only made him more uneasy.

“And what happens when he gets to know you too?”

In that moment, the heavy expression faded away. As if dissolved in water, almost instantly. And it was jarringly replaced with a manufactured confidence. A nonchalance that glowed in her features as she slightly tilted her head.

“He won't.” She took a deep breath and straightened herself up. His hand falling away. Her smile was bright and her head was held high.

“He wanted Robin the hockey star. And that's exactly who he'll get!”

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She debated on how much makeup she should have on, or if any at all. She opted for a light look. Covering up some bruises and scratches. Checking herself over and over in nearby car windows and storefronts, she had made her way to the location Ryley had given her. It was quite a boring small building, but to be fair she was still surprised that he had an office at all. Expecting a youtuber to run their entire operation from their bedroom. It had only been a few days since their little dinner meeting and during that time Robin had made the attempt to text him more. It was during those text conversations where she had finally truly realized.

It was really hard to talk to him about anything other than ice hockey.

She guessed at first that he was maybe just being professional. But then again she didn’t know what strategies of games from 1967 or the individual weights of other players had to do with their arrangement. She suddenly had to wonder, did he… have anyone to hear him talk about this endlessly? At no point did he mention any friends. Making Robin feel oddly protective of the man, letting him ramble to his heart's content and doing her absolute best to keep track of as much of it as she could. Ryley's incessant comments made that protective instinct even stronger. To the point where she was determined to not only steamroll this interview, but to have a great time with her new buddy doing it.

She arrived soon enough and was let in by Ryley, who did little more than give her the side eye and point to where she needed to go. The office consisted of four rooms that she didn't bother asking permission to look through. One was a small room with nothing but a desk and a television mounted to the wall, it looked vaguely creepy if you asked her. There was Ryley small dedicated office, full of a variety of labeled boxes that she couldn't quite believe were his doing. A storage closet that had been made into a makeshift audio recording booth, and finally the recording studio. It was a somewhat small room with a large whiteboard. Opposite to it, she could spot a mounted camera and what looked like a projector. Robin remembered a few of the videos' thumbnails, where he would draw complicated diagrams over the projection of a frame of the game, she thought it was fairly clever.

It was in that room where she found him. Scribbling on a pristine looking notebook on a table that was set off to the side. He didn't notice her immediately, but was most likely startled when he did. Most likely because Robin wasn't entirely sure given that he only tensed up and threw up his eyebrows slightly.

“Mis Ayou.”

She smiled, tilting her head. “Need help with anything?” She approached and saw him put his notebook down on a chair and hold his pen a little tighter.

“You arrived twenty minutes earlier than the appointed time. I am not ready to receive you.”

Robin looked at her phone. He was right. She did it on purpose. She knew that if she didn't get there as early as possible, she would inevitably end up late.

“It's fine. I can help set things up. I don't mind.”

“You should have come when we agreed to, please do that next time we have an arrangement.”

Robin took a step back suddenly feeling a little uneasy in the room.

“Are you mad at me?” She sounded incredulous.

“Upset, yes”

“Oh.” She shrunk back. Fidgeting with her hair, his face doesn't change as she asked herself, should he be at least a little happy to see her?

“Should I leave?”

“There would be no point to that now. If you are offering to assist, please move this table in front of the whiteboard.”

She swallowed uncomfortably. The shut blinds of the room made it seem smaller, making her feel somewhat trapped in. She did as he asked, and the table was quickly in place. He took little time taking a pair of chairs to stand behind it and began to fiddle with what she assumed was a pair of microphones. She sighed. “So… how have you been lately?”

“Stressed beyond belief. I have been receiving calls from debt collectors for a specific debt that has been sold and purchased at least four times by different companies. All of them have tried to bait me into paying it without sending verification that it is even mine. I've been disputing it for months and I know it isn't mine, for which I am not worried about payment but it is a hassle.”

She barked out a laugh so loud she thought the lower floor might have been able to hear it. Alan only stared at her, even seeming startled.

“What is it?”

She chuckled a little more. “Nothing, nothing. It's just you're the only person I've met that answers that question that honestly.”

“I… am sorry? Have I bothered you?”

“No no, I like that about you.”

He looked away from her and back to the microphones, finally setting them up each at either side of the table. “The exact value of honesty is difficult to quantify.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have been told countless times that honesty is a desirable trait. But it's entirely circumstantial in a way that seemingly can't be telegraphed.”

She approached him again, feeling lighter this time. "Yeah, it's one of those things you're just supposed to know somehow. I can see how that can get pretty annoying.”

“I do appreciate you tolerating that fact about me.”

She rolled her eyes and smirked. “I don't tolerate you. I like you.”

He was quiet for an uncomfortable amount of time, leaving Robin to wonder if what she said was out of line.

“Thank you” he mumbled just high enough for her to hear, she couldn't help but smile wider as she looked at their setup. She walked around the room slowly, carefully eyeing the camera. She saw at the corner of her eye that Alan was already back to looking over his notebook. She got closer again and reached out to his hand carefully.

“Yo, pass me that pen, check this out.”

He hesitantly passed the pen over to her, letting out a quick “Be careful with it”. Robin weighed slightly in her palm before moving it up to her fingers and spinning it multiple times in different directions before rolling it back and forth between each finger before finally spinning it quickly over her thumb.

Alan threw up his eyebrows slightly, a small sign that made Robin feel more excited than she probably should. She continued spinning the pen in every way he knew and watched him stare at her hand with nearly mesmerized focus.

“That is quite impressive. How did you learn to do that?”

“Well it's better than chewing on it.”

His eyebrows came down again. “Do not chew on my stationary.”

She laughed. She continued doing tricks for him until a voice came in from the entrance to the room.

“Alright you two, it's time to start setting up and get recording.” Ryley could not have sounded less enthusiastic if he tried. Alan quickly took the pen from her and set it down on the right seat of the desk, where she guessed he would be sitting. She went over and sat down on the left side and waited for further instructions. Soon enough, the mics were turned on and Alan tapped on his a few times.

“Testing. Is the audio recording correctly?”

Robin couldn't help but chuckle. He looked over at her confused, the complete stillness of his face somehow communicated his perplexity in such a perfect way that it made her stifle another laugh.

“Is something funny?” He sounded so neutral about it that Robin didn't feel bad.

“Its really nothing, its just that I just now noticed how old you sound.”

Ryley was actually able to stifle his laughter, and set himself to face down at the floor. Alan should have been at least a little frustrated, but he found the sound of her laughter too pleasant to be bothered.

“It's just, you're thirty, look twenty-five and sound like sixty-seven.”

“And is that amusing?” he asked her simply. It's actually kind of hot. She thought to herself but obviously had no intention to say that.

“Just interesting. Like the rest of you.”

That tiny hint of a smile made its way onto his face again. Robin would have visibly celebrated if she wasn't being watched.

“Mis Ayou, I think it's important to remember that I'm the one interviewing you.”

“I really think it's time you start calling me Robin.”

“You did not ask before referring to me by my first name.”

“Was I wrong to do that?”

“No. The informality is pleasant. I'm glad you feel relaxed. Robin.”

Ryley was two seconds away from killing himself. “Hey! Yeah, I have lunch after this.”

The other two tensed up and she quickly looked away from Alan, she didn't know if his gaze remained on her.

Any remaining preparations were minimal. Robin had already imagined nearly every possible scenario of how this could go and at worst he would ask her an invasive personal question, and she would joke it off and make it seem like it's nothing. Like she said: she was best when she improvised. In what seemed like no time at all the camera was rolling, and she was keenly aware of how Ryley was intensely leering at her as Alan finally began.

“Hello everyone. Like I promised. I have a special video. Today I get to interview the debuting player of the Trivalves, Robin Ayou.”

She had expected a much livelier introduction from a youtuber but he had never seemed like the type. Robin was under the impression that he would put on some sort of persona for his videos but just by that one bit, she figured that was not the case. Wanting to lighten things up she waved at the camera.

“Hi. It's so cool to be here. Thank you so much for inviting me on.”

“Let's get to the questions.” He nearly cut her off. Robin had been prepared for a few minutes of on screen pleasantries and banter, just like how they had on their dinner. She had seen enough shows to have thought that interviews were supposed to be fun. She took a second to straighten herself up and take a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

Alan wasn't looking at the camera or at her, face firmly fixed on his notebook where she could see neatly organized rows of text that she couldn't quite read.

“Do you believe you have improved since your days in the NCAA?”

Wow.

Her mouth nearly fell open and her eyes widened ever so slightly. She wasn't really sure why. Maybe she was so certain that the first question would have been; How did you start playing? that anything else would have caused her to short circuit. Still, she was quick to come up with an answer.

“Well, it would be pretty bad if I hadn’t. Of course I've gotten a lot better since I competed in college.”

At that moment Alan finally looked at her. For some reason, it was unnerving.

“Elaborate.”

She fought not to swallow her saliva. This time it took her a bit longer to come up with something to say in response. “I’ve gotten a lot faster. I was still kind of a newbie in Uni. Compared to most of my teammates, I had only played since later in high school. The others had been since they were little. But here I am anyway. I think that just goes to show that it's never too late to start, you know?”

Bingo. An answer, a little backstory, something inspirational to cap it off. She's got this in the bag.

“And?” Alan's eyes were back on the notebook. His voice was unreadable as he flipped a page.

“A-and?” she questioned in a higher pitch than she would have liked.

“You have increased your movement speed. What else?”

“Well I clearly score a lot more than I used to.”

“With only one game, it is hard to test how consistently you can do that.”

“Well you could say that about anything when I play. Why ask at all then?”

The slight crinkling of paper under his thumb could be heard over a sudden deafening silence that lasted only a few seconds that stretched on for a while.

“Alright. Next question.”

“Y-yeah sure.”

She looked over at Ryley who at this point had turned his attention to his phone. She could see him holding back a giggle, clearly looking at something he found far more entertaining than this.

“What do you do to distinguish yourself from the average player?”

That question suddenly reminded her of the horrible job interviews she had at the beginning of high school. She took a second to put herself in that mindset again. Maybe that would flow more smoothly.

“Well, I am very direct and quite ruthless when playing. I go straight for the shot and don't hesitate when I see an opening.”

“Similarly to Hua Yu. Though not quite comparable.”

What was that supposed to mean?

“I don't think I'm particularly similar to anyone right now when I play.”

He had basically implied that before, right? He said she was truly interesting. Fascinating even. He meant it, right? That hadn't been just sucking up to her to get her to agree to be on here with him… right?

“I agree. You are uniquely rough while playing.”

“Rough good or rough bad?” She almost put her hand over her mouth. She hadn't meant to ask that out loud. It made her sound pathetic.

“Rough is a morally neutral descriptor.”

“Uh- I don't mean like tha- nevermind. Umm, but yeah, I'm quite big for a woman and I use that to my advantage.”

“Alright. Next question.”

She kept trying to find his eyes, to find some type of understanding, but his gaze would simply not connect with her, it was at that moment that she realized that the entire time they had known each other, he had not looked her directly in the eye once. She didn't know why. And suddenly, it made her incredibly nervous.

“Why were you allowed into the Trivalves?”

She blinked a couple of times. “W-why wouldn't I be? I was drafted.”

“Were you given any specific reason?”

Suddenly, a cold shiver ran up her spine. It brought her back to a few days ago, to the words Cal had said to her.

I'm at least seventy percent sure that she only let you into the team because of Sam.

It had her digging her nails into her thigh.

“It's very simple actually. I was good and they saw that.”

“Many university players are good.”

Her breath hitched a little. She could swear a drop of sweat was running down her neck and her foot was tapping nervously on the ground under the table.

“Well I'm great then.” she nearly scowled, having to remind herself that she was on camera. Ryley had suddenly directed his attention back at them and was looking at Robin with a strong sense of dread, realizing the furrowing of his brow and the tensing of his shoulders. Alan, as always, remained unreadable save for the very subtle way that he had caused the ink on the page to slip from the pressure he was putting on it.

“Do you truly believe that?”

“Yes. Why wouldn't I believe that?”

He was quiet. Something that was starting to infuriate her. The pause had lasted long enough that Ryley was gesturing from his place to try to get them to move on and only after Alan caught sight of it did he give any sign of life.

“How do you justify your excessive clumsiness while playing?”

Oh.

Oh.

Is that how it fucking is?

“And tell me, why would you say something so stupid?”

Finally she saw a reaction, like she wanted. He put the notebook down on the table. His eyebrows raised ever so slightly.

“You continuously injure yourself, either crashing or falling over.”

For the first time Alan looked at the camera. Ryley was nearly biting his nails when he did so. He tried to shrug as if to communicate that he had no idea of how to fix the situation.

“Well I don't see any more “graceful” players single handedly scoring three goals against the top women's team right now, so what about that?”

“That… is unrelated to the question.”

“Well move on to another question. I’m not fucking answering that.”

Robin was many things. But a pussy was never one of them. And she wasn't about to get bullied by some wannabe reporter. She looked fiercely at Alan who seemed to only take interest in her tapping foot.

[an-ungraceful-swan]

Here’s my Keepblr Summer Reading board, I’m gonna count everything I’ve read since the start of June!

Under the cut are the books I’ve read broken down!

Read a “Popular” Book You’ve Never Read: Don't Let The Forest In by C.G. Drews (6/16)

I'd heard quite a few good things about the book and it kept popping up in recommendation lists which is how I deem something popular or not. It was fine, it didn't really move me the way I think it was trying to and It all felt like. Very simplistic for what it was trying to do. The prose was nice though.

Read a Translated Book: V13 Chronicle of a Trial by Emmanuel Carrère (6/1)

Translated from French, this book documents the trial following the attacks on the Bataclan. It’s not an easy or light read by any means, but it’s very thorough and invested in all parties as human first and foremost.

Read a Debut Novel: Boys With Sharp Teeth by Jenni Howell (6/13)

This book was very conceptually interesting but just left me kind of confused. I really did want to like it but for like 68% I had no idea what was going on. Some books can function on vibes alone, this book was not such a book. The end definitely got better, and then much worse, and overall a very muddled reading experience.

Write a Book Review: My Goodreads

I'm not a particularly good reviewer but I try to write a paragraph or so for literally everything I read if only to remind myself of my thoughts on it. It's not detailed to perfection, but it gets the job done.

Read a Book Over 400 Pages: Practical Rules for Cursed Witches by Kayla Cottingham (6/5)

This book is by definition an intentionally cozy, lighthearted fantasy, but it still knows how to pull at the necessary heartstrings and still make you laugh. It’s the type of book you can really tell the author had fun writing and that’s always an improvement to the reading experience.

Read a Book Solely Because You Like The Cover: Summer Girls by Jennifer Dugan

This one is so cute, both the cover and the book itself, it's not trying to do much aside from be a fun fluffy romance and that it does! It's not my genre of choice but it was very light, good summer read.

Read a Book From a Genre You “Never” Read: Freakonomics by Steven D. Levitt (6/10)

I'm not opposed to reading nonfictions but economics is not my cup of tea and I only read this because I couldn't find anything else the library had on demand. It was fine, posed some interesting theories but didn't change my life or anything

[prestigehousing]

Crafting Digital Excellence: Web Design in El Paso.

1. The Growing Need for Web Design in El Paso El Paso, a vibrant city blending rich culture with a growing tech scene, is seeing an increasing demand for professional web design. As businesses expand their reach online, having an appealing and functional website is no longer optional—it's essential. Whether you're a small local business, a startup, or an established enterprise, a well-designed website helps you stand out in the crowded digital marketplace.

Businesses in El Paso face competition not just locally but globally. A strong online presence can attract new customers, build brand trust, and boost sales. Good web design isn’t just about aesthetics; it’s about creating a user-friendly experience that guides visitors smoothly through your services. From responsive layouts to fast-loading pages, every detail counts.

El Paso's diverse population means that websites should be accessible, engaging, and tailored to various user needs. This demand has fueled the growth of local web design agencies, offering innovative solutions that reflect the city's dynamic spirit.

2. Key Elements of Great Web Design in El Paso A great website isn’t just visually attractive—it’s designed with purpose. In El Paso, web design focuses on several key elements that ensure both functionality and appeal.

First, simplicity is key. Clean layouts with easy navigation help visitors find what they need quickly. This is especially important for mobile users, as many people access websites from their phones. Responsive design ensures your site looks great on any device.

Another critical element is speed. A slow website can frustrate users and drive them away. Optimizing images, reducing unnecessary code, and choosing the right hosting can significantly improve loading times.

Content matters too. Clear, concise, and engaging content helps communicate your message effectively. Strong visuals, well-written copy, and calls-to-action guide visitors toward desired actions, like making a purchase or contacting your business.

Lastly, search engine optimization (SEO) ensures your website ranks well in search results. This involves using relevant keywords, optimizing meta tags, and creating quality content that search engines love.

3. Why Choose Local Web Design Experts in El Paso? Choosing a local web design agency in El Paso offers several advantages. Local experts understand the unique culture, preferences, and needs of the community, which can make your website more relatable and effective.

Local agencies also offer personalized service. You can meet face-to-face, discuss ideas, and get immediate feedback, which is often harder with remote companies. They’re more accessible for ongoing support and updates, ensuring your website stays current.

Moreover, local designers are familiar with El Paso’s business environment. They know what works in the local market, from design trends to effective marketing strategies. This insight can give your business a competitive edge.

Additionally, supporting local businesses helps boost the local economy. When you hire El Paso-based web designers, you’re investing in the community and contributing to its growth.

4. The Process of Web Design in El Paso The web design process typically involves several key steps, ensuring a website meets both client expectations and user needs.

It starts with a discovery phase, where designers understand your business goals, target audience, and specific requirements. This helps shape the website’s structure and content.

Next is the wireframing stage. Wireframes are simple sketches that outline the basic layout of your website. This step helps visualize the user journey and ensures everything is organized effectively.

Once the wireframe is approved, the design phase begins. Designers add colors, fonts, images, and other visual elements to create an attractive and functional interface. This is where creativity shines.

After the design is finalized, developers come in to build the site. They write code to bring the design to life, making sure it works smoothly on all devices.

Finally, the website undergoes testing to fix any issues and ensure it’s user-friendly. Once everything is perfect, the site is launched, and ongoing maintenance keeps it updated and secure.

5. The Importance of Mobile-Friendly Web Design in El Paso In today’s digital world, most people access websites via smartphones. In El Paso, where mobile usage is high, having a mobile-friendly website is crucial.

Mobile-friendly design ensures that your website looks good and functions well on smaller screens. This includes responsive layouts that adjust to different screen sizes, easy-to-click buttons, and fast loading times.

A mobile-friendly website also improves your search engine rankings. Google prioritizes mobile-friendly sites in search results, so having a responsive design can help attract more visitors.

Additionally, a positive mobile experience keeps visitors on your site longer, reducing bounce rates and increasing the chances of conversions. Whether your audience is checking your site during a lunch break or on the go, they’ll have a seamless experience.

For businesses in El Paso, this means reaching more customers, building stronger connections, and driving growth in an increasingly mobile world.

6. SEO and Web Design: A Perfect Match for El Paso Businesses Search Engine Optimization (SEO) and web design go hand in hand. A well-designed website that’s not optimized for search engines won’t reach its full potential.

In El Paso, businesses need to be visible not just locally but also in the broader digital landscape. SEO ensures your website ranks high in search results, making it easier for potential customers to find you.

This involves using relevant keywords, creating quality content, and optimizing technical elements like page speed, mobile-friendliness, and meta tags. A good web designer will integrate SEO strategies into the design process from the start.

Regularly updating your content, improving website speed, and analyzing user behavior also help maintain strong SEO performance. By combining great design with effective SEO, El Paso businesses can attract more traffic, generate leads, and boost sales.

[boredwritergirl]

Day 10 - Sloth

Hey, cheers to being ten days into my writing challenge where i write a short story every day for a month!

Sloth

Nicole was a lazy writer.

Everyday, she’d stumble off of her messy bed, traverse the overencumbering few inches to her desk and stare at a blank google docs page on her desktop. Sometimes, she wouldn’t even do that much, just staring at the blankness in bed.

She’d do all sorts of things throughout her day while daydreaming about the book she was supposed to be writing. She’d pace back and forth, boil some tea, watch a movie, play a game, maybe even read for some “Inspiration”, basically anything but what she was actually supposed to do. She’d often joke to herself that she was “Too Gay to Function!” But she knew that she could do better, that nagging brain of hers would never shut up long enough to forget that.

The worst part about it was that she didn’t even have writer’s block. She knew exactly what needed to be put to words, she’d just get anxious and forcefully distract herself to get the narrow illusion of comfort. It arguably got worse after she started role-playing. She’d roleplay via text, easily typing thousands of words every day for years for her various partners. Yet nothing from her daily word count went towards her projects, her dreams… But given all the real life drama, mayhem and responsibilities around her, she felt lucky to role play, that having someone there to actually read and respond to her words gave her the motivation to keep going. She knew damn well that her word count would have been zero for an embarrassing amount of time if not for her partners encouraging her. Nicole knew that role playing wasn’t a waste of time, that it encouraged her to keep writing more and putting her creative mind to good use, even if her partners dwindled over time.

As she continued seeking the validation of online strangers since her so-called “loved ones” would never give that to her, she began to see a different side of herself. She initially thought that the roleplaying hobby she developed came from a need to express herself creatively, that the build up of her responsibilities taking up her entire day was driving her mad, and that having an excuse to write frequently would be enough. And for a while it was, as her mental health briefly improved. But there was always this lingering feeling that something was missing. That’s when she finally realized what had been  bothering her…

Nicole was alone.

It was hard to notice since she wasn’t alone physically, but emotionally. She had no one to open up to, everyone around her being self-centered, dismissive and/or emotionally manipulative. But she knew that something had to change, that she couldn’t truly grow as a writer or as her own person until she finally had a real support network that cared for her. If she was to write characters who had such things, then she needed to understand what that was like.

So, the first step was to scour the internet, looking for like minded people to befriend, namely other writers. Of course making friends and establishing friend groups online was (and likely always will be) a complete crapshoot, facing lots of rejection, ghosting and drama, but she eventually did find what she was looking for. 

Now that she had people in her life that would care if she lived or died, Nicole gained a new perspective on life. She’s met all sorts of wondrous people who have been progressing their own creative passions far more than she truly had. Their mere presence was enough to inspire her to do more. But of course Inspiration is only the start of true dedication, so she did all sorts of challenges, polished up her writing a bit and built a routine so she can get back to work.

With warmth finally emerging in her icy, neglected heart, she finally was able to do what she should have been all along.

Now, we can look back and say…

Nicole was a lazy writer.

[ed-recovery-affirmations]

I hope this message does not come across... Strangely, I am not well versed in this sort of thing. I am an alter in a system and I have noticed small things about my host that make me worry that there are signs that he may be falling down a quite slippery slope to disordered eating. I won't be too specific, due to both of our privacy, but I have noticed the presence of calorie counting, completely changing his diet... It's just taken me aback and made me want to reach out somewhere to ask how I can possibly approach him on this in a way that is not overbearing? Both his and our collective safety is the only thing on my mind, but I don't want to make it worse, you know? Any advice helps, really. Thank you for both your time, and the positivity a blogspace like this provides.

~🤍

Hi anon! No need to worry, you can ask me anything and I'll do my best to answer, though I am not a trained psychologist and don't have expertise in DID. I also note that I am getting to this very late. I'm sorry about the time it's taken me to answer this - I know I've said this a lot on this blog, but a friend of mine passed away this year and the processing has been a lot.

So, from what I know about DID systems, the functionality of the system improves when all alters are able to reach a point of communication with one another and have a collaborative relationship with one another with each alter understanding the other alters' roles within the system. A professional therapist trained to support DID can be a major support in this ongoing process. Do you have a therapist? Are you able to start the process of accessing one?

How well do you understand the host? If he is in that place of struggle where he feels like he wants to self-destruct, he may try to prevent your attempts to help or to reach out to others for help. Your first order of business may be trying to help him feel like he doesn't deserve to self destruct, like he deserves health and happiness, and that this is possible for him. It is very hard for people to stop from acting on their self-destructive impulses if they do not believe these things. From there, you might be able to get on the same page by working on some shared goals for the body re: protecting its health and well-being. If you haven't been able to cultivate a relationship with the host that would make him feel open to listening to you, perhaps you might work on how to get that going?

I hope you are able to access therapy. A skilled therapist will get you leagues ahead in terms of helping all alters be their best selves, in good communication with one another, and working toward a common goal within the system.

[honeyfeed]

Exciting New Look for the Novel Details Page

The Novel Details page has undergone a refreshing redesign, offering users a more streamlined and organized experience. The update brings a cleaner layout, compacting key information at the top and introducing a tabbed interface for better navigation. Here's a breakdown of the changes:

Key Information Compacted at the Top

One of the most noticeable updates is how essential details are now consolidated in a more efficient space at the top of the page. This includes:

Cover Image Resize: The novel’s cover image has been resized for a sleeker display. You can still see the full-size image by clicking on it.

Author Name and Writing Status: Both the author's name and the novel's writing status (e.g., finished or ongoing) are prominently shown. Clicking the author name will redirect you to their profile.

All Counters Moved to Top: View count, reactions, and word count are now grouped together for easy reference.

Last Updated Date and Genres: These details, which were previously shown by scrolling under the chapters, are now compacted and more accessible.

Introduction of Tabbed Interface for Chapters and Novel Details

One of the biggest changes is the shift to a tabbed interface, dividing the page into two main sections: Chapters and Details. This tabbed design declutters the layout, making navigation smoother and more intuitive. Here's how the new tabs function:

Chapters Tab (Default View): Upon visiting the page, users are greeted with the Chapters Tab, displaying the first five chapters of the novel. A link at the bottom—"All Chapters"—allows easy access to the full list of published chapters.

Details Tab: This section has been redesigned to store more in-depth information about the novel. Once clicked, the tab reveals:

Synopsis

Note from the Author

Showcase

This update makes it easier for readers to quickly glance at all the key information without unnecessary scrolling. With the organization of important novel content and a clearer structure, we hope to please both new and returning readers. Please enjoy these changes and look forward to more updates that improve your reading experience! Before:

After:

[basedkikuenjoyer]

I found one yesterday!! One of the real perks of where I live is one of those big box retailers counting as "local business" so they're everywhere and super nice. There was a new round of starter decks released, and in a brilliant design move they all build off of previous ones. So like...I've had the green Uta one built. This isn't a bunch of the same cards again, but some key reprints and new stuff designed around the idea someone like me who already had the first one gets a great improvement. While still being a functional deck for a new player.

I already had the promo song cards but it's nice to get full playsets. That Barto was a very expensive promo so I'm glad they gave me four. New Shanks and Uta characters are a big plus! Daddy makes a great closer for the deck. And I like the new leader art. Still using the old one but it's nice for the Film Red page of my collection binder. I also didn't know they included a sneak peek pack of the upcoming reprint set. Check the special Doffy Don card! I'm going to try and get the Oden ones when it comes out proper.

[eldritch-spouse]

Sorry if you've already answered this - the search function is broken for me, but how do you maintain confidence in work? Like not in the work itself - that will always be subject to your mental state, which usually goes in cycles. I mean in the sense that "to deserve to create"? I often go months without creating because I look at the page and go "my talent isn't worth cultivating" even if I have at least ONE piece I am proud of. It's not about comparison, it's just knowing it will take me a long time to get anywhere near where I want to be, and finding it a struggle to know what I see in my head will be butchered on paper over and over again.

This is going to get long-winded, so I'll put it behind a "read more".

I don't know who put this idea that you need a permission to create in your head. That creation and expression is something to be gatekept. That it's not a right you should have as a person. That you have to do it a certain fucking way, or it's "not right" (TM).

But, let's be real, it was probably you, wasn't it?

You told yourself that you don't deserve to create. That you'll never make anything "that matters".

No one else is telling you this. You are.

Can I be real with you here?

This isn't something you fix with an ask, it's something you save up and bottle and take to a psychologist. Because it has to do with your general attitude in life, and to me, reads as a pretty big flag that help is needed. Maybe.

I know because I was there. I am getting out of there. And this isn't something you want to let spiral into a "Why do I even draw?", "It'll always be ugly.", "It'll never develop.", "It's never good enough."

"I'm never good enough."

You don't want that. Work on this immediately. I can't help you, but I hope you can find that help.

That being said, I'm sure you know things aren't developed in a day. Especially not skill.

I don't know anything about talent. Because I don't have any talents. Talents are like fairytales to me. What I have, is a crumb of skill. But skill is better than talent, if you ask me. Because skill is gained, skill is the fruit of hard work, skill is knowledge. Talent is more of a happenstance.

If you think you have a talent, then that's all the more reason to want to work on it!

Do you think I'm happy with the stuff I make? No. I don't like the way I draw most things. The way I write bothers me. I can't project shit onto paper. That's why I keep doing it. Because I want to correct it and make it better. I'm sure you're able to see one or two things improving amidst the mistakes you crank out, and that has to count for something. You have to cling to those victories and use them to power you forward- Because we're never satisfied. We always want better, and it's intensely satisfying to see yourself get closer to that goal, no matter how far away it is.

You lack serious motivation, that much is clear, otherwise this process would be minimally enjoyable for you. Taking a crack at daunting things would make you nervous in a happy way, it wouldn't serve as a reminder that "you'll continue to butcher everything".

Anon, I'm just an idiot with a pen and an overactive imagination. I'm not "confident" in my work, I'm just happy that I'm making things in general. I won't ever stop until I can make all the characters I've ever dreamed of feel alive. Because that's simply what makes me happy. I have no real goal. I know I've "butchered" plenty of drawings before and I will continue to do that forever, but I'll be having fun.

And that's what matters.

Although it would be pleasant to become better with time and practice, even if I don't evolve that much, I'm happy. This makes me happy. I'm over the moon I get to have this.

I don't know how to explain to you that confidence is meaningless to me here. This is sacred to me and I refuse to let anything ruin it.

[amadwinter]

Making of Monday - Tracking Word Counts

On Making of Monday, we share behind the scenes of one of our works past, present, or future. All the little things that would fit into a DVD bonus content section: cut scenes, outlines, director's writer's commentary, or basically any thing that didn't make it into the final version. Send me an ask if you're interested in knowing little details about any particular fic!

This week, I decided to show my word count spreadsheet that I've been meticulously using and crafting for coming up on two years now. It wasn't built in a day, and I'm almost constantly tweaking it to make it look nice and functional as I keep writing.

Uh, fair warning. This is not a very exciting post. Unless you like numbers and data, like I do.

For the sake of my own sanity, I started a new Excel document for the new year. This is my Summary page for the year 2024. I have pages created already for each month but hide them when it isn't that month. I'll show the Overview page next after I've explained what you're looking at.

So what you see here is my monthly and annual writing totals. This only takes into account new words written, although the start number at the top of each yearly column includes my running word count. Each month's number is automatically updated from the corresponding month's page, and added up in the total column.

On the side, I have fun projections. So if I wanted to write x number of words per year, not counting the words I have already written, I would need to write y number of words per month with an average of z number of words per day. It's not something I pay too much attention to, just for fun. Below that is a projection of if I write the NaNoWriMo daily count (1667 words per day) or 1000 words per day, how much that would add up to at the end of the year.

This is the Overview page from last year (2023) plus December 2022 which is when I switched over from my previous Google Sheets document. Additionally at the bottom you can see the different monthly pages that are not hidden (I color coded them because I was bored one day).

This page keeps track of my daily totals in the form of a color gradient, linked to the monthly pages to get the totals.

Solid Red = 0

Solid Yellow = 1000

Solid Green = 1667 (NaNoWriMo Daily; 50,000 words in a 30 day month)

Originally, the idea was to be able to look at it and see if there were time periods that I wasn't writing as well due to being busy for various reasons, so I could be able to predict in the future what conditions weren't great for writing. But an interesting side effect is it's also able to track my good days and my bad days for health reasons.

That random number you see on the right side is my highest daily word count. I was curious about it, but I couldn't figure out a way to make it look pretty and fit in with everything else.

This is my month page, divided by each individual project. Y is series or event with multiple fics involved, Z is one-shots, two-shots, or very short fics. The greyed out ones at the top are ones I'm not actively working on, the ones in green are fics that I am either actively working on or trying to work on.

Also at the top are the new words added each month (which is the cell used in other pages to keep track of the monthly number), the total words in all my documents, and the daily average for the month.

The color gradient at the top for each day follows the same pattern as before; Solid Red = 0, Solid Yellow = 1000, Solid Green = 1667+

I keep track of the word count for each chapter, add the total, subtract it from the previous day, and boom, that's my daily total. If there are times where I delete things, I throw it into a document called "Binned" to balance the numbers. That way, I never subtract from the amount of words I've written, only add.

While it may look like a very simple sheet, it is very messy with formulas, conditional formatting, etc. If I were more skilled at Excel, I could probably improve it even more, but at this point, there's very little maintenance needed to keep it going and I can focus on actually writing.

In theory.